At the station, they were met by the station master, who led them out beyond the platform. Looking both ways, he waved them across the lines to the other side, then behind a series of red brick buildings coated in smoke dust.
“It’s very dirty back here, madam, so watch yourself,” said the station master.
Soon they stopped at a place where brick walls rose up on two sides—one tall enough to reach the street above, and the other joining railway buildings. Maisie thought it was like being in a three-sided brick box, a cul-de-sac for trains. Turning around from the buffers toward the open side, she could follow the weed-clogged line to where it joined a main line, with the signal box in the distance. Even on a warm day it was a cold, dark place.
“I’ll stand over there, Inspector, so you can go about your business. Just shout if you need me, though I know you’ve got my statement,” said the station master.
“Much obliged to you. We shan’t be here long.” Murphy beckoned to Maisie as the stationmaster walked along the line a short way.
A train passed along another line, punching out steam as it slowed for the platform. The stationmaster took out his watch, checked the time and nodded to himself. He kept the watch at the ready, studying the platform from his vantage point, waiting for the whistle to blow and the train to begin the onward journey.
Murphy didn’t begin speaking again until the train departed. Maisie wiped a few smuts of damp coal dust from her jacket.
“Can you imagine working in a railway station?” commented Murphy. “You’d be forever washing your clothes!” He shook his head, then turned and walked farther along the short disused stretch of line. “Just along here.”
Chalk marked the spot where Joe Coombes’ body had been found. Maisie knelt down and ran her fingers along the cast iron railway line.
“Was there much blood?”
“Not as much as you might have thought,” said Murphy. “But we were hampered by all this muck around here—and whatever it was that Dr. Clark found in his brain matter.”
“I don’t think that would have affected blood flow when he fell.” She looked up at Murphy. “If he fell.”
“All the other indicators are there, that he fell from that wall,” said Murphy, pushing back his hat and scratching his head. He continued as Maisie looked up at the wall. “In the dark it might not have looked like a long way down—he probably thought it was only a couple of feet.”
“Have you searched the area around here?” asked Maisie.
“With a fine-tooth comb.”
She nodded, coming to her feet. “Inspector, would you mind if I spent just a couple of minutes here alone. I’d just like to think a bit, and have another poke around.”
Murphy nodded and turned to join the station master. Maisie remained in place until he was some yards away, then she knelt down again, this time placing both hands firmly on the railway line. She closed her eyes and imagined the Joe she remembered, the happy-go-lucky lad she would see walking along Warren Street toward the pub where his family lived above the business. She modulated her breathing.
“Come on, Joe. Give me a clue. What happened to you?”
The pain did not come on slowly—instead it was as if she had been struck by a piece of iron as hard as that she was now clutching to retain her balance while kneeling. She gasped and raised one hand to the back of her head, feeling as if she were in a dark, narrow thoroughfare. She could hear water running. Or could she? The sensation lasted only two or three seconds, but it had taken her breath away. She opened her eyes, and began searching the ground between the railway lines, brushing debris from the black creosoted wooden sleepers, picking through the rocks between them. She poked here and there with her fingers, sure—though she knew not why—that she would find something.
“All right, Miss Dobbs?” Murphy called to her.
“Just another minute, Inspector. I’ll be ready soon.”
She stood up and looked down. To one side she saw a stick, which she picked up and used to move stones and gravel. Then it caught her eye—a glint as the sun emerged from behind a cloud. She knelt again, using her fingers to pull out a small metal disc from between two pebbles. She turned it in her fingers and read the word engraved upon it. Magni. Magni, the Norse god of strength. It was meant for Joe’s pup. She wrapped her fingers around the disc, and came to her feet. Was there any meaning in her finding the small round of silver metal? Or did Joe simply want his dog to have the name on his collar lest he be lost, and the disc had fallen out of his pocket as he fell? Or was he clutching it, for the comfort, and perhaps in the hope that he might live? She looked at the name again, and turned the disc. Joe Coombes, Moorwood Farm. It appeared Hutchins was right—Joe had never intended to go home.
This time she was not followed on the journey back to London. As tempted as she was to go directly to Chelstone, there were other matters to attend to. The first was Priscilla. Though it was evening by the time she arrived in Holland Park, she went to her friend’s house first.
When Maisie was shown into the drawing room, she found Priscilla sipping a gin and tonic and smoking a cigarette, which was pressed into the long holder she had favored since she first began flirting with tobacco in her late teens.
“At last!” said Priscilla, coming to her feet. Still holding her cocktail and cigarette, she fanned her arms out to each side so as not to burn Maisie or spill her drink, and pressed her cheek to Maisie’s.
“Sit down, Pris, before you lose your G and T,” said Maisie.
“Want one?”
“Small—more tonic, less gin. Thank you.” Maisie took a seat at the opposite end of the chesterfield while Priscilla poured a drink for Maisie and refreshed her own.
“We’ve been cast into the ambulance driver failure pit, you know. I made a point of telephoning to tell our supervisor that due to personal reasons—my son is missing, possibly on a boat going back and forth to Dunkirk, and that you are in pursuit of the truth, as always—we would not be at drill this week, and next week looks dodgy.”
“What did he say.”
“Let’s just leave it that we’re still on the roster, by the skin of our teeth. They need us, Maisie, but they need us back soon.”
Maisie nodded and sipped her drink, then looked at Priscilla, who had taken her place on the chesterfield.
“It was bloody dreadful, Maisie. I know we shouldn’t have been there, and it was a nightmare, but I had to go. There were men coming off those boats who looked as if they had seen into the jaws of hell. They were utterly exhausted, filthy, many emaciated and yet they were holding up the wounded.” She raised her free hand to her eyes, as if to banish the images, then continued. “But to a man they were doing their best to remain of good heart—raising a smile as they said thank you for a blanket and a cup of tea. I had to go there just to find out, Maisie, and then it was clear we had to leave—there were so many people there, and most seemed to have a job and know what they were doing. We were just in the way. Douglas has been my rock, and Billy’s miracle gave me hope—no one could believe it happened. It was heartbreaking, Maisie, seeing him try to run, stumbling toward his boy—and it might not even have been him. It could have been an hallucination driven by hope. To be honest, at first I thought Billy was imagining it, because they all looked the same. Tired beyond measure, relieved, streaked with oil—and so many coming off the ships with that long stare, as if there was nothing but emptiness behind the eyes. We used to see it in France, didn’t we? When men came back down the line from the front. The doctors called it the ten-thousand-yard stare.” She looked down at her drink, turned toward the ashtray on a side table, and extinguished the cigarette. “Bloody things. I know I must smell like a chimney at times. I should give them up.”
“Priscilla,” said Maisie.
“Yes?”
“I think Tim and Gordon will come back into Rye. I just feel they will set a course for home, and home means Rye—it’s where they sealed their friendship while sailing, a
nd the place they know.”
“According to Gordon’s father—before he left for France in his other launch—he was told that no boats were officially sent from Rye to Dunkirk. Mind you, we know of one, don’t we? I can’t see them out on the ocean wave this long for a pleasure sail, can you? And this could go on for days. Days! If I know my boy, he won’t come back before he’s done what he set out to do. Stubborn since the day he was born, that one. Tom’s a gentleman, Tarquin is tractable and Tim is bloody stubborn. My mother said she had to watch my middle brother more than the others.” Priscilla rested her head back on the chesterfield.
“Trust in Tim, Priscilla. Trust in him. He will be home. I know it.” She took a breath and exhaled, reaching for Priscilla’s hand. “And anyway, Anna said so.”
“Oh, I would trust that girl of yours before I would put my faith in anyone else I’ve met, and that’s no exaggeration.” She looked at her now empty glass, then at Maisie. “I’m going to telephone the coastguard again and get on their nerves. I’ve sent Tarquin off to stay with a school friend to take his mind off his brother and his mother, and Douglas is up to his eyes with work at the ministry, which is good for him—if he’s writing about this bloody disaster making it seem all very under control, then it gives him hope.” She sighed. “When shall we go to Rye, Maisie?”
“Not yet. But I think soon. Perhaps you’d all like to come to Chelstone at the end of the week—get away from London.”
“Might be a good idea,” said Priscilla. “By the way, forgive me, I should have asked—any news from the inimitable Mr. Klein?”
“A few stumbling blocks.”
“Like life. One bloody stumbling block after the other,” said Priscilla. “Oh hell, I’m having another drink.”
The following day Maisie stood outside Faraday House in the City at a quarter to twelve, and waited. The Faraday Buildings housed not only the General Post Office headquarters, as well as international and government telephone exchanges, but was also known to be an alternative fortification for the government, should Whitehall come under attack. The outside was packed with sandbags several layers deep, and it seemed to Maisie that it was almost as if she were waiting for insects to start leaving their nest, ants running out of the mound.
She checked her watch. At noon a stream of women began emerging from the building, some in groups, others on their own. It was lunchtime, a break in a long day spent staring at a switchboard, connecting people across the country, the world, across London and—for Vivian Coombes—from one highly confidential government office to another.
Half-past twelve. No Vivian, but it seemed to Maisie that the women took staggered breaks, and there were also shift changes. Quarter to one. One o’clock. At two minutes past one, Vivian Coombes emerged from beyond the wall of sandbags, and looked up at the sky. As she walked toward her, Maisie noticed how well she was dressed—a powder blue skirt, white blouse, navy-blue jacket and matching navy-blue shoes and bag. She carried her gas mask over the same shoulder as the bag, and her hat was a pale blue with navy band. She called out to her as she came closer.
“Hello Vivian—what a coincidence! I just left a meeting and was passing when I saw you.”
“Oh, Miss Dobbs—I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“That happens when you see someone away from the place where you usually expect to see them. Takes you aback. Are you on your lunch hour?”
“Lunch half hour if I’m lucky, you mean!” said Coombes. “There’s a big cafeteria at the top of the building, but it’s nice to get a bit of fresh air, so I come out for a walk sometimes—bring a sandwich from home, or just have a cup of tea somewhere.”
“There’s a Kardomah not far from here—may I buy you a sandwich and cup of tea?”
The young woman consulted her watch. “All right then. But I’ve to be back by half-past.”
The entrance to the Kardomah coffee house was packed with sandbags from top to bottom, with the word KARDOMAH the only indication that the narrow doorway led through to the café. It was busy, but they found two seats together. Vivian checked her watch again. Maisie ordered tea and sandwiches for two.
“What I’d really like, to tell you the truth, is a bacon sandwich—makes me wonder when it’s all going to come off ration,” said Coombes. She looked around the café, and raised a hand to acknowledge a couple of fellow telephonists.
Maisie knew she had not much time, so she broached the subject sooner than she might otherwise have done.
“Vivian, it’s fortuitous I saw you—I’d like to ask a couple of questions about Joe.”
The young woman looked at Maisie. “I hope you’re not going to make me cry—I can’t go back in there with big red eyes. The supervisor takes a dim view of a poor appearance.”
“I don’t think so, Vivian—but I’m trying to get to the truth about Joe’s death, and I believe you want me to find out, don’t you?”
Maisie noticed the slight delay in Coombes’ reply, as if she were weighing the meaning of Maisie’s words.
“Yes, we’re all wanting to know, my family and me.”
“Good. First of all, did you know Joe wanted to leave his apprenticeship? He had a very specific job in mind that he wanted to take up instead.”
“Dad said he had a stupid idea about becoming a shepherd, if that’s what you mean. My brothers can come up with cockeyed ideas at times.”
“Joe was quite serious. He had a pup ready to train—did you know that?”
Vivian Coombes rolled her eyes. “No, I didn’t, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Your other brother, Archie—he looks after the family to some extent, doesn’t he?”
“What do you mean? Looks after?” Coombes straightened her shoulders. She folded her arms, and leaned back, taking herself out of the sphere of her interrogator’s influence—Maisie knew this was the first move of the defensive person. She pulled her chair closer to Coombes.
“I meant that he seems to be a good lad—he works away from home, but he clearly earns a fair wage, and I understand he makes sure his family benefit from it too.”
“We all look after one other. Archie and me, we were always close—Joe was our little brother.”
“Then you must know Teddy Wickham.”
There was a slight hesitation before Coombes responded. “Of course I do—he was always over at the pub, when we were younger. Him and Archie are good mates.”
Maisie held Vivian’s gaze. “They still keep in touch then—has Archie visited Teddy?”
The young woman shrugged. “I dunno.” Another glance at her watch. Another sip of tea and bite of the sandwich.
“What do you know about a man named Jimmy Robertson.”
Her color heightened, Joe Coombes’ sister picked up her cup again, and took another sip. She lifted her wrist to look at her watch.
“I only know what’s in the papers—if that’s the Jimmy Robertson you mean. From the Robertson family.” She set down the cup. “I’ve got to get back now—my supervisor will be after me if I’m late.”
“I’ll walk with you. I’ve a couple more things you can help me with.”
“All right. If you want.”
They emerged from the coffee shop and, almost by instinct, both looked up at the barrage balloon floating above their heads.
“I don’t think them things are going to stop old Hitler, do you?” said Coombes.
“Fortunately, there’s the air force, the army and the navy between him and us,” said Maisie.
“Not much army and they’re keeping back the air force because they’ll need every man they’ve got up there when the invasion starts—you should have my job, you’d know what’s going on.”
“Yes, I suppose I would.” The two women fell into step toward the Faraday Buildings. Maisie took the opportunity to ask another question. “You must hear quite a lot, and you have a weight of information on your shoulders that you have to keep secret. It can’t be easy, can it?”
“You
just have to forget it and connect the next call. I’m on the government exchanges, and I’m younger than others in my room, so I have to do as well or better than them. Or I’ll be back connecting women crying about their husbands to their sisters.”
“I’m sure you must be privy to some quite emotional revelations. Oh, and of course here you’re not far from the Bank of England too—I expect those calls come through your exchange, money being so important to the country, to the government.”
“We get all sorts of calls, like I said.”
They had reached the entrance to the Faraday Buildings. Maisie looked up at the structure, and then at Vivian Coombes.
“You’ve done well to secure a good position here, Vivian.”
“I had to work for it, Miss Dobbs. The civil service exams, memorizing exchanges, learning correct enunciation, all that sort of thing—and then you have to be tall. They only take you if you’re over five feet six, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to reach the top jacks on the board.” She looked at the top of Maisie’s head, as if to assess her height. “You’d be all right for this job, being as you’re tall too.”
Maisie smiled. “Perhaps we can talk again, Vivian—you probably know so much about Joe that would be helpful, and I know it’s difficult to discuss it because the shock of his death is still very raw.”
Coombes’ eyes filled with tears. “I just never thought it would come to this, that’s all.”
“What do you mean, Vivian? That it would never come to what?”
She shrugged, composing herself. “That it would never come to it that Joe would be the first of us to go. That’s all. Because he was the youngest. He shouldn’t have been first. Now then—I’ve got to get back to work. Bye.”