“Miss Dobbs—Maisie—would you like to stay for tea? You must be gasping for a cup, and something to eat.”
“Come on in, miss—we’ve been on the road for a few hours now,” added Billy.
Maisie shook her head. If she were to secure accommodation for the night, she should make haste to find her way back to a guesthouse she had noted as they drove through Whitchurch. “I should be getting along—I’ve to settle a room for the night.”
“You can stay here on the farm, Miss Dobbs,” said Doreen’s aunt as she emerged from the house wiping her hands on a tea cloth, and introduced herself as “Aunt Millicent,” as if everyone referred to her as “aunt” whether related or not. “They run a bed-and-breakfast up at the house, you know. The farmer’s wife, Mrs. Keep, puts up a very good spread of a morning.”
Realizing she had little choice—the group’s faces were wreathed in smiles of welcome and all but dictated her next move—Maisie inclined her head and accepted the referral. “I’ll nip along to see Mrs. Keep now.” She consulted her watch. “And then I might have just enough time to go back into Whitchurch before it gets dark.” She turned to Billy. “I want to find out where Joe was staying, have a word with the landlady. I’ve got his last address.”
“Right you are, miss.” Billy nodded, acknowledging Maisie’s tactful decline of tea. By the time she had seen Mrs. Keep, it was likely that Doreen would be in a state of distress, for Billy would have recounted what he knew of the battles raging on the other side of the Channel, and the fact that there were plans being made to evacuate the army. Maisie wondered if being privy to classified information in advance of the general population was as useful as it appeared at first blush. And she found herself wishing she had placed a call to Dr. Elsbeth Masters, the doctor of psychiatry to whom she had referred Doreen years before in the wake of little Lizzie Beale’s death. Although Billy’s wife was stronger, this news of what was happening in France might distress her to the point of relapse. But Billy was with her, so at least she had someone there to share the weight of her deepest fears—and they had come through so much together.
Mrs. Keep was as good as her name. She kept a tidy house, neat accommodation and a fair price for a room, which looked out over the kitchen garden and beyond to a field with cattle grazing, and a hill flanked by a stand of oaks in the far distance. At ease in the small room with sloping beamed ceilings, Maisie closed her eyes as she stood in front of the diamond-paned window. An image of the restful landscape before her seemed etched behind her lids, as if it were a photographic negative. But she could not linger and give way to fatigue. After paying Mrs. Keep for one night, she left the house to search for a Mrs. Digby, who apparently took in lodgers—including the young Joe Coombes.
Mrs. Digby resided in a house on the Winchester Road, not far from the River Test and the old silk mill. Billy had told her something of the town during the drive down from London, informing her that the silk mill was built in 1815, but that silk only began to be made two years later, when a silk manufacturer from London bought the property. The mill had garnered some prestigious clients, and more recently Billy had been told by a local that not only was the mill continuing to make silk for shirting and legal gowns, and for the company started by Thomas Burberry, but was also weaving silk for the insulation of electrical cables. It appeared the machine of war was in operation everywhere.
Maisie had been directed to the house by the landlord of a local pub—it seemed there was a pub on almost every corner of the small town—and according to the plaque above the door of the three-storey residence, it had been built in 1790. It appeared somewhat down at heel, and for the time being had probably been saved from complete collapse by ivy leaching into every crevice of the brickwork—though that same ivy could well be the culprit undermining the mortar. Maisie knocked at the door, and when there was no answer, knocked again. No one came. She stood back and looked up at the windows, then back at the door—and only then noticed a bell pull to the right, partially obscured by creeping vine. She took the rusty cast-iron handle and gave it a good tug. This time she did not have to wait long for a response to her summons.
“All right, all right. I’m coming. What’s the rush? That’s what I want to know.” A woman’s voice, husky, interrupted by a throaty cough, grew louder on the other side of the door. “I’m here, just a minute.” The yapping of a small dog inspired a scolding, and another round of coughing before the door was opened. “Yes? What can I do for you?”
Maisie estimated Mrs. Digby to be about fifty years of age, though she appeared to be doing all she could to combat the years. Dressed in a silk kimono over a pair of silk pajamas—both had seen better days, and perhaps not much in the way of laundry soap in recent weeks, or months—Digby was heavily made up, with copious amounts of powder and rouge. Maisie wondered if the woman had been on the stage, for the texture of the cosmetics reminded her of those used by Priscilla’s youngest son, Tarquin, when he had been given the role of Peter Pan in the school pantomime. Regarding Mrs. Digby, Maisie remembered Douglas Partridge looking down at his son and inquiring whether he had put on the makeup with a trowel, it was so thick. The woman’s eyes were bright blue, rimmed by long, thick lashes that could only be false. She held a petite white dog under her arm and jigged it up and down, as if it were a babe on her hip to be soothed. Maisie thought the dog looked more like a powder puff with eyes, nose, tongue and teeth, than something reliably canine.
“Mrs. Digby?”
The woman seemed to assess Maisie from head to toe, then smirked and raised an eyebrow, as if to have found the subject wanting. “And who wants to know?”
Maisie reached into her pocket and brought out a calling card. She handed it to Mrs. Digby, who held out a liver-spotted hand with be-ringed fingers, her nails manicured to show bright red polish to best effect. She took the card.
“Psychologist and investigator, eh? And you want to investigate me?”
Maisie shook her head. “No, Mrs. Digby. I’m here informally on behalf of very good friends of mine—their son was lodging with you, and they haven’t heard from him in a week or so, and of course they are worried.”
“You must mean Freddie. Or was it Len? I’ve only got the ladies now—three WAAFs stationed at the RAF base. Mind you—when the lads were here, it was all above board—men on the top floor, women on the floor just above mine. I don’t want any funny business going on under my roof.”
“Then you didn’t let a room to Joe Coombes?” asked Maisie.
The woman flapped a free hand. “Oh Joe. Little Joey. I almost forgot him—mind you, easy to do as he was a quiet one.”
“Was?”
“They moved on over a week ago—probably why his people haven’t heard from him.”
“I thought the men were still working in the area—at the airfield.”
Digby repositioned the dog on her hip. “Well, there’s more than one airfield within striking distance, and not many places left to lodge, what with all the WAAFs and they say we’ll have land girls coming in before too long. Not that the young ladies are easier—leaving their knickers and stockings to drip all over the floor when they’ve washed them out in the sink. And the noise they make when they’re getting ready to go out of an evening—I can hardly think. It’s like a herd of elephants above my head.” She paused. “No, there were three of them, the lads, and they moved out. . . .” The woman’s words seemed to fade, and she glanced at the ground, frowning.
“What is it?” said Maisie.
Digby shook her head. “Probably nothing. But that boy was having terrible headaches. I mean, the other boys had headaches too—I put it down to the fact that they liked to go down the pub of an evening. But with young Joe it was bad—he asked me for a powder once or twice, and I could see he was hurting. Then all of a sudden they were giving notice—the big lad, Freddie, came to see me, said they were moving out. And that was that.”
“When was the last time you saw Joe Coombes, Mrs. Digby???
?
The woman stared over Maisie’s head and squinted, as if the answer might lie amid the trees on the other side of the road. “I reckon it was the day before they left. They were generally off to work before it’s my time to get up of a morning—they knew how to make themselves a breakfast, and as long as I don’t come down to a pile of dirty plates and cups in the sink, I let my lodgers look after themselves. Then that one came back to say they’d moved on, but he didn’t give an address. He brought the van and collected their belongings. Not that they had much. A small kit bag each, and that was it—I’ve seen evacuees turn up in the town with more. I know the lads were all working for a London firm, painting and decorating, that sort of trade. And I knew it was to do with airfields, so I assume they were doing up the officers’ mess at each place, something like that. I’d been paid up until the end of next month, so I was all right.”
“And they didn’t give you an address for forwarding post?” asked Maisie.
“No. Joe was the only one to get any letters in any case. Just a minute.” Digby held up a finger and walked back into the house. Maisie peered through the open doorway. A staircase swept up from a narrow hall, which had been painted red with a blue border, and a paper chain of dusty Union Jack flags hung in a shallow curve from the picture rail. A mirror was situated above a hall table where post had been spread out. Still holding the white dog on her hip, Digby held each letter up to her face, revealing a need for reading glasses, and a disposition too vain to admit it. Having placed the envelopes back on the table, she looked up into the mirror and squinted to check her reflection before turning back to the door.
“I could have sworn there was post for Joe. Perhaps Freddie took it for him. Anyway, he’ll be about somewhere with those other lads, at an airfield. Now, if you don’t mind, I can’t spend all afternoon jawing away like this.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Digby.” Maisie turned to leave, but held out her hand and pressed it against the door. “Oh—just one more question, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes?” Digby sighed the word, elongating it to signal her impatience.
“Did Joe ever have any visitors?”
“Visitors?” Digby shook her head. “I don’t hold with my lodgers having visitors—I like to know who’s under my roof.” She patted the dog, who was fidgeting, racing his little legs as if running in midair. She leaned down to put him on the ground and began speaking again as she once more stood up to her full height, by which time the dog had run to the back of the house, as if to attempt escape from his mistress. “But it’s funny you should ask, because someone came to the house asking for Joe Coombes. Tall, stringy sort of fellow—about thirty, perhaps younger. He was well turned out, I remember that—very tidy, nice tie, good shoes, well polished. I thought he might be family—not that it was any of my business. I told him that Mr. Coombes had moved on with the rest of the crew.” Digby placed her hand over her mouth, and whispered through her fingers. “There I am telling you all this, and forgetting what I should have remembered when that man was stood where you are now. I was told not to say anything to anyone about the lads. It was part of the contract—not a real contract, not paper, like a solicitor would give you. It was verbal—the man who booked the lodgings said that on no account must I say anything about the lads to anyone who asked, and I was to tell them if anyone came with questions or to visit. He was official, I reckon, from the government. That painting business must be making a pretty penny, if someone up in London is going to that sort of trouble.” The kimono had slipped off one shoulder, revealing more of the woman’s undergarments than modesty might allow. “Oh, now look at me—just as well it’s you standing there, and not Sid Watkins from the ironmongers along the street. All eyes and hands, him.” And with her final comment, she nodded by way of departure and closed the door.
Maisie remained in front of the door for a moment before walking back out onto the Winchester Road to collect her motor car. She wondered how the men working for Yates fared in the countryside—Hampshire had not been their first stop, and it would not be their last. Most airfields were situated in rural areas, and the painters were, in general, city men who had grown up on the streets, not close to fields and farms. She wondered if, at the end of a long day, perhaps feeling less than well, given the circumstances of the job gleaned so far, the local pubs might have offered the only place for the young men to relax. On the one hand, that might have given Joe a sense of being at home, or it might have presented him with a dilemma—too much like home.
Pulling up alongside a telephone kiosk, Maisie took the opportunity to place a call to Brenda, who would be at the Dower House, the home bequeathed to Maisie years earlier by her mentor, Dr. Maurice Blanche. Brenda and Maisie’s father stayed during the week to care for Anna, the evacuee girl who had been billeted with them. Maisie drove down from London on a Thursday or Friday, returning to her flat in Holland Park on Monday morning, though if she were not busy it had become easy to linger for one more day. Sometimes two.
“The doctor’s been,” said Brenda. “She came over poorly and was running a temperature and he says it’s definitely measles. The poor little mite is really under the weather. Doctor Stringer says it will run its course, but he said a few of the children locally have gone down with it a lot harder than he’s seen before. He reckons the little ones take on more than we think they do, so they’re—what did he say? Oh yes—vulnerable. Mind you, he’s young—got all these new-fangled ideas. He told me he wanted to join up in the medical corps, but couldn’t on account of his limp—had polio as a boy and reckons he’s a lucky one because he didn’t end up in a wheelchair.”
Maisie knew that when her stepmother began to talk without stopping, it was generally because she was worried.
“I’ll come home as soon as I can—let’s see how she is tomorrow. Is everything else all right?”
“I was getting to everything else—the doctor also says that the outbreak of measles will get worse if they start a second evacuation. There’s all those children who went back to London—like those boys who were here—and what with Germany going into Holland and Belgium, and now France, they’re closer to an invasion, so the boys could come back to us, you never know. The new billeting officer came around today to check on Anna, so I told her she wasn’t to be bringing any more children to the house until little Anna was well over the measles.”
Maisie put her hand to her forehead. “Oh, poor Anna. Do you need any extra help?”
“A child lying quiet in her bed isn’t a nuisance. The Ministry of Health inspector is though.”
“What do you mean?” Maisie knew the Ministry of Health had jurisdiction over orphaned children, and a certain level of influence over where they should be placed. While she had documents signed by Anna’s grandmother before the elderly woman succumbed to a respiratory disease, her guardianship of the child could still be challenged. However, Maisie’s solicitor had considered the guardianship documents to be solid—at least until the war was over.
“She was checking on the evacuees, and knew about Anna’s situation, so she was just asking questions about any plans to place her with a family. She didn’t want to see her—she only found out about the measles outbreak when she arrived at the school, so she wasn’t exactly keen to get close to any children. More’s the pity because I’ve heard a few things about those poor little tykes over at Turner’s Farm. They say old Jim Turner has his evacuees out working at five in the morning, before they go to school, and as soon as they’re home, they’re working again. I told the billeting officer about it, but all she could say was that they were a good family and the children did not seem ill-treated. I felt like telling her to put her glasses on!”
Maisie consulted her watch, and was about to speak when Brenda began again.
“Your father and I take it all in our stride, and Anna is no trouble—even as ill as she is. Emma won’t leave her side, and even Jook has been up the stairs to sit in the room, and you know how that dog is with
your father. If dogs could get measles, those two hounds would be down with it too by now. Anyway, one more thing—your friend Priscilla has been on the telephone. Wants to know where you are. She says it’s important.”
Chapter 4
It was Maisie’s understanding, having spoken to one of the farm workers before she made her way back to Whitchurch, that there were several air force stations within a few miles of the farm. When she considered the reasons for such a cluster, two factors came to mind. The first was proximity to the coast, and the ports of Southampton and Portsmouth. Second was the land itself and the flight path bombers might take in the direction of towns to the northeast and to London, though airfields in the southeast—such as Tangmere, Kenley, Hawkinge, and Biggin Hill—were situated to protect the capital.
More questions queued up to be answered. Why did Yates not know the exact whereabouts of the crew? Most likely they did, but the fact that they were working on a government contract meant that secrecy was of the utmost importance—she could not expect them to have spoken freely to Billy. He could, after all, have been a spy—and hadn’t the whole country been warned about the possibility of Nazi spies lurking among the general population, camouflaged by—perhaps—a British education and friendly demeanor or being a good neighbor? But what about Joe? Was his desire to be his own man overriding an ever more serious health condition? A young lad of fifteen might not consider it urgent—perhaps the headaches were easy to brush off. And who was his visitor?
Maisie’s thoughts darted from one question to the next, as if she had skimmed a stone across the realm of possibilities, and was now watching ripples of suspicion form around the contours of information she had gathered so far. She checked her watch again—a wristwatch given to her by her late husband, James Compton—and looked up at the darkening sky. One more telephone call before she made her way back to the farm. She dialed the operator, gave the number, placed the requisite number of coins in the slot, and waited until she could hear the ring, and then a voice on the line.