18
WHENEVER A THIN BROWN envelope dropped through the letterbox at No. 27, Maisie assumed it was from Bristol Grammar School, and would probably be another bill for Harry’s tuition fees, plus any ‘extras’, as the Bristol Municipal Charities liked to describe them.
She always called into the bank on the way home to deposit the day’s takings in the business account and her share of the tips in a separate account, described as ‘Harry’s’, hoping that at the end of each quarter she would have enough to cover the next bill from BGS.
Maisie ripped open the envelope, and, although she couldn’t read every word of the letter, recognized the signature and, above it, the figures ￡37 10s. It was going to be a close-run thing, but after Mr Holcombe had read Harry’s latest report to her, she had to agree with him: it was proving to be a good investment.
‘Mind you,’ Mr Holcombe had warned her, ‘the outgoings aren’t going to be any less when the time comes for him to leave school.’
‘Why not?’ Maisie asked. ‘He shouldn’t find it hard to get a job after all that education, and then he can start paying his own bills.’
Mr Holcombe shook his head sadly, as if one of his less attentive pupils had failed to grasp a point. ‘I’m rather hoping that when he leaves Bristol, he’ll want to go up to Oxford and read English.’
‘And how long will that take?’ asked Maisie.
‘Three, possibly four years.’
‘He should have read an awful lot of English by then.’
‘Certainly enough to get a job.’
Maisie laughed. ‘Perhaps he’ll end up a schoolmaster like you.’
‘He’s not like me,’ said Mr Holcombe. ‘If I had to guess, he’ll end up as a writer.’
‘Can you make a living as a writer?’
‘Certainly, if you’re successful. But if that doesn’t work out, you could be right – he might end up a schoolmaster like me.’
‘I’d like that,’ Maisie said, missing the irony.
She placed the envelope in her bag. When she called into the bank after work that afternoon, she would have to make sure there was at least ￡37 10s in Harry’s account before she could consider writing out a cheque for the full amount. Only the bank makes money when you’re overdrawn, Patrick had told her. The school had occasionally given her two or three weeks’ grace in the past, but Patrick had explained that, like the tea shop, they would also have to balance their books at the end of each term.
Maisie didn’t have long to wait for her tram, and once she had taken her seat, her thoughts returned to Patrick. She would never admit to anyone, even her mother, how much she missed him.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a fire engine overtaking the tram. Some of the passengers stared out of the window to follow its progress. Once it was out of sight, Maisie turned her attention to Tilly’s. Since she’d sacked Bob Burrows, the bank manager had reported that the tea shop had begun to make a steady profit each month, and might even break Miss Tilly’s record of ￡112 10s by the end of the year, which would allow Maisie to start paying back some of the ￡500 loan. There might even be enough left over to buy a new pair of shoes for Harry.
Maisie got off the tram at the end of Victoria Street. As she made her way across Bedminster Bridge, she checked her watch, his first present, and once again thought about her son. Seven thirty-two: she would have more than enough time to open the tea shop and be ready to serve her first customer by eight. It always pleased her to find a little queue waiting on the pavement as she turned the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open’.
Just before she reached the High Street, another fire engine shot past, and she could now see a plume of black smoke rising high into the sky. But it wasn’t until she turned into Broad Street that her heart began to beat faster. The three fire engines and a police car were parked in a semi-circle outside Tilly’s.
Maisie began to run.
‘No, no, it can’t be Tilly’s,’ she shouted, and then she spotted several members of her staff standing in a group on the other side of the road. One of them was crying. Maisie was only a few yards from where the front door used to be when a policeman stepped in her path and prevented her from going any further.
‘But I’m the owner!’ she protested as she stared in disbelief at the smoking embers of what had once been the most popular tea shop in the city. Her eyes watered and she began to cough as the thick black smoke enveloped her. She stared at the charred remains of the once gleaming counter, while a layer of ash covered the floor where the chairs and tables with their spotless white tablecloths had stood when she’d locked up the previous evening.
‘I’m very sorry, madam,’ said the policeman, ‘but for your own safety I must ask you to join your staff on the other side of the road.’
Maisie turned her back on Tilly’s and reluctantly began to cross the road. Before she reached the other side, she saw him standing on the edge of the crowd. The moment their eyes met, he turned and walked away.
Detective Inspector Blakemore opened his notebook and looked across the table at the suspect.
‘Can you tell me where you were at around three o’clock this morning, Mrs Clifton?’
‘I was at home in bed,’ Maisie replied.
‘Is there anyone who can verify that?’
‘If by that, Detective Inspector, you mean was anyone in bed with me at the time, the answer is no. Why do you ask?’
The policeman made a note, which gave him a little more time to think. Then he said, ‘I’m trying to find out if anyone else was involved.’
‘Involved in what?’ asked Maisie.
‘Arson,’ he replied, watching her carefully.
‘But who would want to burn down Tilly’s?’ Maisie demanded.
‘I was rather hoping you might be able to assist me on that point,’ said Blakemore. He paused, hoping Mrs Clifton would add something that she would later regret. But she said nothing.
Detective Inspector Blakemore couldn’t make up his mind if Mrs Clifton was a very cool customer, or simply naive. He knew one person who would be able to answer that question.