“Did you notice anything different in your father’s behavior in the weeks or days before his life was taken? Anything at all?”
Dottie Addens shook her head, a smile grazing the edges of her lips. “‘Before his life was taken.’ That’s rich—as if someone just came by and calmly took the life out of him, leaving only a shell. No pain, no terror, nothing unsanitary, just ran off with his soul. No, Miss Dobbs—before my father’s brains were shot out of his head across the pavement, I hadn’t noticed a thing. He was as kind as always, as considerate and funny as always, and as tired as always.”
Maisie was quick to respond. “Any more tired, perhaps, than usual?”
Dottie Addens shrugged, the vertical lines between her eyes gathering. “He might have been. But then, he did a tiring job, and it’s been hot. He always said his job was harder in summer than in winter, and it’s been a sultry few weeks.”
“Granted.” Maisie paused. “You know, Dottie, if you want to channel that anger—and believe me, I know the destructive power of anger—then let your eyes and ears work for me. If you think back on anything—anything—different about your father’s actions, mood, or behavior, then come to me. Nothing is so small as to be insignificant.”
“I’ve got to help my mother now.”
Dottie Addens held Maisie’s gaze for a second, then closed the door, leaving Maisie on the doorstep.
Maisie stepped away from the house, but before setting off in the direction of the underground station, she looked back and considered the many houses that seemed so ordinary on the outside—yet inside their shells lingered untold human sadness. “May they know peace,” she whispered, and went on her way.
The Crown and Anchor, not one hundred yards from Frederick Addens’ house, looked less than inviting. Maisie knew, though, that she should take the opportunity to talk to the landlord. It was clearly what her father would have called a “drinking pub”—rough around the edges, one where the women would be welcome in the saloon bar but not in the public bar; different entrances for different sorts. Even before she opened the door with the stained-glass window etched with the words “Saloon Bar,” she could smell the blended aroma of beer and smoke.
She stepped inside. There was no one in the bar, though she could hear conversation coming from the public bar; the two were divided by a narrow wall and double doors, which would be opened to allow a bigger celebration—the winning of a football match, or a wedding party.
“Help you, miss?” asked the landlord as he mopped along the shining wooden bar with a damp cloth.
“A shandy, please, sir.”
“Right you are, miss.”
As Maisie stood watching the landlord, beads of sweat across his balding head, his sleeves rolled up and an apron tied across his middle, she considered her conversation with Enid and Dorothy Addens. That Dorothy Addens was a protective and loving daughter was without question. That Dorothy idolized her father was evident. But there was something; a flicker of emotion Maisie had seen in her eyes, not only when she was questioning her mother, but when Dottie shut the door as Maisie left the house. It was barely visible, like a dust mote caught in a sunbeam, a feeling that the daughter had some knowledge about her father that she was keeping to herself.
“There you are, miss. That’ll wet your whistle.”
Maisie reached into her bag for her purse and paid for the shandy. She took a sip and declared it just what she needed. “I wonder if I could ask you a question or two about one of your customers.” She took a card from her bag and laid it before the landlord, adding, “I work independently and I am helping a friend of Mr. Addens—a friend from long ago who is not happy about the length of time it’s taking to find out who was responsible for his death.”
The man took up her card and squinted at her name. “Bloody eyes—can’t see a thing without my glasses, and my glasses are never where I want them.”
“My name’s Maisie Dobbs. I’m an investigator. Would you mind very much if I asked you a couple of questions?” She took another sip of the lukewarm shandy.
“Let me just make sure the rabble next door are topped up. The men in there all came off a shift an hour ago, and one of them’s getting hitched—well, he says he is. I’ll believe it if I ever see him walk up the aisle!”