“Partridge residence.”
Maisie pressed button “A” to release the coins and begin the call. “Elinor—Elinor, I recognized your lovely Welsh lilt. Is Mrs. Partridge at home?”
“Oh hello, Miss Dobbs—I mean, Your Ladysh—”
Maisie cut off the boys’ nanny before she completed the little-used title bestowed upon Maisie on the day of her marriage to James.
“I have to be quick, Elinor—I’m in a telephone kiosk in Hampshire, and I only have a few coins on me. Is Mrs. Partridge there?”
“You just missed her. She’s taken the boys—Tim and Tarquin—out for supper.”
“Is anything wrong? I received a message that she was out of sorts.”
“It’s Tim—giving her a bit of trouble again. As you know, he’s not been quite the same since Tom joined the air force, and he can’t seem to wait until he gets his turn when he comes of an age to be called up. Too keen to join the navy, that one. But it won’t be long, the way things are going—and more likely, he’ll have to go where they put him, which might be right into the army.”
“He does seem to be causing Mrs. Partridge some grief, and he has a sharp tongue on him when he likes, I know that.”
“He’s too much like his mother—quick with the wit, but it can cut like a knife when he wants it to. Between us, she doesn’t like it because she knows where he gets it from.”
“Oh dear. I’ll be back in London soon—tomorrow afternoon, hopefully—and I can usually get Tim to wind his neck in.”
“He listens to you, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie was anxious to end the call, but was curious too.
“And what are you doing back in London, Elinor? I thought you were being sent somewhere with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry.”
“Oh, a couple of days’ leave, and some, you know, special training.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Hmmm. Must go now, Miss Dobbs. Bye!”
“Bye Elin—” Maisie pulled the telephone receiver away from her ear and held onto it for a second before returning it to the cradle. Elinor could be a bit of a chatterbox, so it was not like her to end a telephone conversation first. Indeed, Priscilla had once observed that in the midst of a conversation with Elinor one felt rather like an insect caught on sticky flypaper. The boys no longer needed a nanny, but she was so beloved, the family couldn’t imagine letting her go.
After war was declared, Elinor had enlisted for service. During her years living with the family in France, she had acquired an admirable proficiency with the French language, and now thought she might be able to use her skill in war work. Priscilla and Douglas made her promise she would come “home” whenever she was on leave—her room was kept ready for her return, and she had her own key
Maisie left the telephone kiosk and returned to her motor car. The late May sun was now low in the sky, and darkness would come quickly. As she passed the cottage occupied by Doreen’s aunt, she noticed the drawn blackout curtains, so not even a sliver of light could be seen.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re back, Miss Dobbs.” Mrs. Keep was wiping her hands on her apron as Maisie gave a quick knock at the back door of the farmhouse before turning the door handle to enter. “That road is a bit bumpy and I was worried you’d lose your way if it got too dark.”
“Not to worry, Mrs. Keep—I don’t like driving without a light to guide me, so I kept my eye on the time.” As she spoke, Mrs. Keep turned away from her and lifted the corner of her apron to her eyes. “Mrs. Keep—is everything all right? Aren’t you feeling well?”
The woman turned to Maisie. “It’s the news. They think we don’t know what they’re talking about, the way they give it out. But most of us have lived through one war and we know the newspapers and the wireless people are using words that mean other things. The army is in retreat in France—they told us three days ago that the Germans had broken through allied lines, and now they’re reminding us that they did the same in March 1918, and we still won the war. They’re not saying, but I reckon our boys will get stuck—and they’re telling us about it a bit at a time so when the truth really comes out, no one is shocked. That’s what my Bill thinks, and he was in the army.”
“Oh, Mrs. Keep—you must stand tall, remain strong.”
“Oh I know and we are strong. But we’ve two boys and we think they must be in the thick of it—we don’t know for definite, and it’s not as if you can ask the army. Bill’s just gone out to check the sheep—we’re lambing now, you know. Really, he wants to get out of the house, away from the waiting.”
Maisie stepped to stand at the woman’s side, and put an arm around her shoulders. With her free hand she pulled back a chair from the table and seated the farmer’s wife, passing a handkerchief taken from her pocket. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Mrs. Keep nodded her thanks. “I don’t know what to think,” she said. “You bring up your sons on the farm, out in the country. And you think they’re safe, that the worst that might happen to them is something horrible with the threshing machine. I mean, I lost my brother in the last war, and you think to yourself, no, it can’t happen again, not like the last time. But look at it—look at us. We’re all at it again, fighting each other. It looks like Holland, Belgium, and Luxembourg are going down to the Nazis, and now France.” She paused, watching as Maisie warmed the teapot before adding tea and boiling water. “Mind you, they say the air force will be going out to protect our soldiers. And the navy. It’ll be all hands on deck—everyone pulling together, you watch.” She sat up, her spine straight, her shoulders back, as if she were convincing herself of the best outcome. “They didn’t break us the last time, and they won’t this time—mark my words.”
Yet Maisie felt something snap within her. Priscilla’s eldest son had joined the RAF only months earlier and was now flying, although he was not considered ready for aerial combat. But would that matter in an emergency? Mrs. Keep was right—all hands on deck might be a naval term, yet it extended to those who fought in the air and on the land, as well as the sea. Billy’s son, Priscilla’s son, Mrs. Keep’s boys—it seemed everyone had something to lose, though at that very moment, more than anything, Maisie wanted only to be at Chelstone, drawn back by a feeling that her place was by the bedside of a sick child, one not her own, but entrusted to her care.
Maisie returned to the telephone kiosk after leaving the farm early the following morning. She placed a call to Chelstone Manor and asked to speak to Lord Julian Compton. Her father-in-law had contacts at the War Office—among other sources that had proven helpful to Maisie over the years.
“Maisie, my dear—how are you?” Lord Julian’s voice had changed of late, and not for the first time, Maisie heard his age in the ragged edges around each word spoken.
“Very well, Lord Julian—I’m down in Hampshire, in Whitchurch actually.”
“Oh, you’re in the money then!”
Maisie laughed, assuming the elderly man was joking, and perhaps thought that, because she was not in London, she must be on holiday in the country. She continued. “I wonder if you could help me—I’d like to know how many RAF stations there are in the county. Could I get my hands on a list of them?”
“Tricky one, as they’re building more, especially in that area. There’s about twenty-three, twenty-four, I would imagine—or there will be once they’re all operational.”
“How many?” Maisie was shocked. “In one county?”
“And if you’re looking at proximity, you’re not far from Wiltshire, and there’s more there, and of course, in Dorset, and so on. I was just talking to a War Office colleague yesterday, former RAF man—he’d come down to pay a visit to the Canadian officers billeted here at Chelstone—and he was telling me they should have hundreds more airfields operational within months. Getting ready to meet the Luftwaffe on their own terms, I would imagine—that’s certainly what our boys are doing at the moment.”
Maisie had never known Lord Julian to be so forthcoming. He had
always been helpful, yet measured in his responses. Perhaps it was because she was family now, united in grief over the loss of their only son. Over the years, Lord Julian and his wife, Rowan, had come to love her, and she had come to love them in return.
“That explains something—I’m looking into the apparent disappearance of a young apprentice painter and decorator. The business he works for landed a government contract to paint air stations with a special emulsion, a fire retardant, so they’ve been going from place to place spending a good amount of time in each location and painting every building, inside and out.”
“There will be plenty of work for them, without doubt. And you say he’s missing?”
“At the moment it might be more accurate to say ‘not accounted for’ by his parents. He could well just be ill and in bed at his lodgings and doesn’t want them to know—he’s had headaches ever since he started the work. Apparently the emulsion has a heavy vapor.”
“Hmmm, yes. Fire retardant—definitely needed on those buildings. They’ll be in the line of attack.”
There was a second’s hiatus in the conversation.
“Lord Julian—the war is close now, isn’t it?”
“It was always close, my dear—close isn’t simply a question of distance. The threat of war has been lingering over our heads since Adolf Hitler came to power. It was only a matter of time before we reached this point—but I don’t think we could ever have foreseen having hundreds of thousands of our men at such peril almost beyond our reach. The RAF is moving farther into France to ward off the Luftwaffe—trying to give us a chance.” Lord Julian cleared his throat. “Anyway—look, I can get you a list of all the RAF stations in Hampshire. Apart from the ports, it must be considered somewhat safe—after all, if it’s good enough for the Bank of England. . . .” The gravely voice tapered off.
“I don’t understand—” Maisie fingered a coin, ready to press into the slot should more money be required for the call.
“Their operations were moved to the county—after all, you cannot have the country’s financial arm at risk in the City, not with its proximity to the Thames and the docks. And it’s not a surprising choice, after all, they print the money down there, so it’s considered safe enough. That’s why I said you were in the money—I’m not terribly good at quips though.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Lord Julian.”
“I suppose it’s a well-kept open secret. As well as the odd brewery, and of course silk, and agriculture, the place you’re in is known for printing money. It’s not all done in London, you know, and as much as Rowan seems to believe otherwise every time she goes to Harrods, I can tell you I do not have a press in the cellar!”
Maisie laughed along with her late husband’s father, and reiterated that she would indeed find that list of airfields useful—in the meantime, she asked if he might know the nearest RAF station to Whitchurch.
“Oh, there’s a few—let me think. Middle and Nether Wallop aren’t far away, though Middle Wallop is for the training of new pilots—perhaps your friend’s son will be sent there soon. Probably you’d want to go to Andover—again, it’s mainly used for training and they have a couple of bomber squadrons there, and a maintenance division. Yes, I would imagine Andover would have been high on the list for any fire-retardant work.”
As the pips sounded to indicate more coins were needed, she heard Lord Julian call out, “Must dash now, Maisie.” And he was gone.
She exited the telephone kiosk and stood for some moments, thinking. How could she ever find the painting crew? They could be anywhere in the county—they could even have moved on to Dorset—so she would have to return to make a concerted effort to find Joe Coombes. Indeed, he might have already been in touch with his parents once more. She was about to step toward the Alvis when she stopped, turned around, and entered the telephone kiosk again. She had managed to obtain more change from Mrs. Keep that morning, but calls to London were not cheap. This next call, however, might cost her nothing, if it were accepted. She picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the operator.
“I’d like to place a reverse charge call please,” said Maisie. “To Whitehall one-two, one-two. Tell them it’s Maisie Dobbs calling urgently for Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell.”
She waited, nibbling at a hangnail on her little finger. She could hear the conversation back and forth between the operator and her counterpart at Scotland Yard, and then waited until she heard a familiar voice. “Tell her I’ll accept the bloody charges, though I’ll live to regret it, knowing that one.”
“Caldwell?” said Maisie.
“All right, what is it?” Caldwell was brusque, but Maisie could hear something else in his voice—as if he were smiling, enjoying a certain pleasure in the fact that she had called him, and it could only be because she needed his assistance.
“Hello Detective Chief Inspector. I wonder if you could give me a hand with something.”
“I’ve already helped you out with the price of this call. Now what?”
“I’m much obliged to you for your generosity, Inspector—but I wonder if you would be so kind as to call whoever is your main liaison person in Hampshire, in the police force. I’m investigating the case of a London boy who’s been working in these parts but hasn’t been in touch with his parents for a while, and—”
“Oh blimmin’ heck—you want me to ask Spud Murphy down there in Basingstoke if he’s been nannying a boy lately?”
“Not quite. I want to know if . . . well, I want to know if the remains of a fifteen-year-old lad—mousy hair, about five feet nine inches, freckles on his nose, medium build, no other distinguishing marks that I know of—has been found and not been identified.”
“What makes you think the boy could be dead.”
Maisie felt a shiver of sensation as if someone had run an icicle across her neck. “I just want to rule it out as a possibility.”
“And where can I get hold of you, Your Ladyship?”
She sighed. Caldwell could never resist any chance to get under her skin. “I’m returning to London today—I would hope to be there by late afternoon, all being well. But if I can, I’ll stop somewhere and call in from a kiosk—plans might change, after all.”
“Make sure you’ve got some money on you next time, won’t you.”
“Thank you, Inspector Caldwell.”
Maisie replaced the telephone receiver and left the kiosk. She climbed into the Alvis, and after consulting the map and the number of motor spirit coupons she had with her, she set off. She hoped to find someone who not only knew where the Yates crew were going next, but also would be prepared to tell her.
There was an element of being in another part of the country that Maisie enjoyed. Driving along main roads and country lanes, she looked out at the landscape beyond, at the way fields were laid out that was different from the Kentish farmland she knew so well. Passing through villages and hamlets, she compared houses of stone and slate with the weatherboard cottages lining the main thoroughfare through the village of Chelstone, or the brick terrace houses of the railway towns she looked out upon during her train journeys to and from London. Soon she was approaching Andover, and took little time in locating the airfield. As she expected, her first stop—perhaps her only stop—was the guardhouse, where she was asked to state her business by a military policeman, who came out to discover the purpose of her visit.
“I wonder if you might be able to help me,” said Maisie. “I’m looking for someone who can tell me if the painting crew is still here at Andover, or even in the area if they’ve moved on. You probably saw them—from Yates and Sons in London. They’re applying a fire retardant to the buildings. My friend’s son is among them—he’s a young apprentice—and they fear he’s ill and needs to return to his home.” She passed a calling card and her identity card through the open window of the Alvis. The guard flipped from one card to the next. “As you can see,” added Maisie, “I’m an investigator, and as I was in the area on a person
al matter, I said I would try to find out how he is.”
The guard looked around at his fellow serviceman, who was now standing outside the guardhouse.
“Call the ops room—ask Captain Michaels if he can come down, would you? Unexpected visitor. Civilian.”
“Oh, and if you would like additional confirmation of my identity, you can call Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell of Scotland Yard.”
“Just pull over there, Miss Dobbs. You won’t have to wait long.”
Five minutes later a motorbike approached the other side of the gate, its rider clad in a leather jacket over a distinctive blue-gray uniform. He cut the engine, removed the leather jacket, pulled a cap from a pannier at the side of his motorbike, and approached the guard. Maisie saw the guard pass her identity and calling cards to the officer, who seemed to raise an eyebrow as he looked at Maisie and—she thought—made some sort of joke when he turned back to the men, as the two guards laughed in response. He stepped across to her motor car.
“Miss Dobbs—Captain Michaels.” He touched his cap by way of greeting. “You’re interested in the painting crews.”
“Crews? I am only interested in one crew—as you probably know, they’re working at airfields around the country, applying a type of fire retardant. It has quite a distinctive, unpleasant odor, so I am sure if they’ve been here, you would have smelled it in every room.”
He nodded, studying her calling card and identity card again.
“I told the guard, you can place a call to Scotland Yard, if you—”
Michaels, who Maisie estimated to be a good six feet tall, leaned toward the window, resting his right hand on the roof of the Alvis. “That won’t be necessary. Your possible arrival here was already noted and clearance given to allow you to enter—friends in high places, eh?” His look was one of amused disdain.