Two minutes later, Addens returned, opening the door as Maisie was looking up at the barrage balloons overhead. “They’re an eyesore, aren’t they?”
“Horrible. But I suppose they make us all a bit safer,” said Maisie.
“They didn’t keep my dad safe, did they?” Addens’ tone was sharp, then softened. “Sorry, Miss Dobbs—it was Miss Dobbs, wasn’t it? We’re all very upset around here. My mother’s had a terrible time of it, what with my brother joining the army to top off everything else. Come in. She said she’ll see you. But please don’t stay long—she’s very tired.”
“Of course.”
Maisie followed Dorothy Addens along a passageway into the kitchen at the back of the house. From the doors to the right, leading to a parlor and dining room, to the kitchen overlooking a narrow garden planted with vegetables, the house was like so many she had visited, and like thousands in towns across the country. They had been built to meet the demand for housing during the exodus of workers from the country in the middle of the last century: people beckoned by a promise of opportunity as the boom in industry powered by steam, steel, and petrol seemed poised to render agriculture yesterday’s business. Each house in Larkin Street comprised three floors, and Maisie suspected the top-floor rooms might be rented to lodgers.
“Mum, this is Miss Dobbs.” Dorothy Addens pulled out a seat for Maisie and took the chair next to her mother, who sat with her elbows on the oilcloth cover spread across the table, twisting a handkerchief over and over in her hands.
With a gray, lined face and hair scraped back into a bun at the base of her neck, Enid Addens could well have passed for a grandmother. Maisie remembered seeing her own reflection in a mirror after James was killed, and she wondered now if she had appeared so worn, so beaten by circumstance.
Frederick Addens’ widow looked up at Maisie. “You know my husband?”
Maisie noticed how Enid had used the present tense. The knowledge that her husband was dead had not yet seeped into the deepest part of her heart. Speaking of him as no longer being in her world likely felt akin to a knife thrust into her chest. Maisie coughed, laying a hand against the fabric of her jacket, close to her own heart—the cough had deflected attention from the pain she felt when she observed the woman’s distress. She did not want to slip.
“I know someone who has asked me to look into the circumstances of your husband’s passing, Mrs. Addens.” Maisie opened her bag, took out a calling card, and placed it in front of the woman. “I am by training an investigator. I assist my clients in situations where questions remain regarding something untoward that has happened. My client is from Belgium, and wants to ensure the person responsible for your husband’s death is found, and so came to me.”
“Someone killed my father, Miss Dobbs—if the police can’t find out who did it, then how can you? Eh? I don’t want you coming here to upset my mother, even if you have the best of intentions.”
Enid Addens laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Now then, Dottie. You’re the one getting upset. I’d like to hear what the lady has to say. Be a good girl and put the kettle on—make us all a nice cup of tea.”
Dorothy Addens scraped back her chair and stepped across to the stove.
“And open that back door, love,” added her mother. “What with this weather and that stove, it’s like a bakehouse in here.”
“It is close, isn’t it, Mrs. Addens? Would you mind if I took off my hat and jacket?” asked Maisie.
“Not at all, please—we don’t stand on ceremony in this house.” Enid looked up at Maisie, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t know what will become of us, without Fred.”
Maisie took a breath. Yes, she would entrust the woman with something of herself. She would touch her hand, tell her a little about her past, encourage the sharing of a confidence.
“I know what it is to lose your husband, Mrs. Addens. My husband was killed a few years ago. It takes time to recover yourself—and I still grieve for him.”
Enid’s stare seemed to dare Maisie to look away, as if she were measuring the depth of Maisie’s sadness to see if it matched her own. In time she spoke again. “So, you’re an investigator and you want to find out who killed my husband. I will answer your questions as best I can. Dottie, bring the tea and you sit down too—your memory’s better than mine.” She looked up at her daughter as Dottie placed cups of tea in front of her mother and Maisie. Enid turned to Maisie. “She’ll be back to work tomorrow—she’s already taken too much time off on account of me. We need the money, though the railway had a whip-round for us, so we won’t be short for a while, and my son will be sending money home.”