“I’m going to see if Able has gone to India for the tea, and I’m going to accidentally leave this report here on my desk. Lean to one side while you’re being nosy, won’t you—I don’t want my blokes out there seeing a civilian woman letting her curiosity get the better of her because I’ve been silly enough not to put confidential reports in a safe place.”
Caldwell left the room, closing the door behind him. As Maisie shifted her chair and reached for the folder, she heard his voice boom across the office. “Anyone know where Able has managed to lose himself this time?”
She took out her notebook and began to transcribe the most pertinent points from the reports. Though the case had not been written off by Scotland Yard, it appeared it wasn’t exactly open to new information. She closed the file, placed it on the desk in front of Caldwell’s chair, and turned to leave. Opening the door into the office where Caldwell’s men worked, she saw the detective walking towards her, weaving in between the desks.
“You’re going to have to get a cup of char at a caff on the Strand, Miss Dobbs. Able is probably lost in a corridor somewhere. Sorry I couldn’t help you any further. But always nice to see you.”
As Maisie was thanking Caldwell, Able hurried towards them. He was bearing a tray laden with two cups of tea and a packet of digestive biscuits. “I ran around looking for some biscuits, fresh, not all limp from the heat. It took me longer than I thought.”
“Miss Dobbs is just leaving, Able. I’ll take the tea—you show her out. I could do with two cups anyway.”
As Maisie made her way towards the underground railway at Charing Cross, she reflected on the notes she’d taken in Caldwell’s office, in particular a page detailing the type of weapon used to kill Frederick Addens. According to the report, it was a Ruby pistol. She was not an arms expert, but she knew the Ruby was used widely by forces from different countries during the Great War, and that it was popular with the French and Belgian armies. And she had seen many carried by soldiers in Spain. On the one hand, the gun was plentiful, so it was not surprising that one might find its way into circulation in England. It had its faults, but she remembered that as she took one away from a wounded soldier in Spain, he’d called after her to tell her to keep the gun so that she could protect herself. The weapon, he added, could be used by anyone, even a novice.
While Sandra typed a report and invoice for another client, Maisie considered how she might broach the subject of her assistant’s health—she was looking for a means to encourage Sandra to take care, not to push herself. The trick was to begin the conversation without letting on that she suspected Sandra was pregnant. She was just about to speak when the telephone rang. Sandra reached for the receiver, and recited, “Fitzroy five-three-two-o,” the new number assigned to the line when Maisie leased the office again.
“Oh, yes, good afternoon, Your Ladyship,” said Sandra to the caller. “Yes . . . indeed. I’ll pass you over.”
Maisie looked up at Sandra, who mouthed “Lady Rowan” as she leaned forward with the receiver.
“Hello, Rowan, how are you?” said Maisie. She had for the past year become used to addressing her mother-in-law by her Christian name.
“Beside myself, my dear. Just beside myself. We have evacuees, and I am not sure what to do with them. I mean, I know what to do with them, but we have two boys, very boisterous, and I think Cook is about to walk out.”
“I see. Not to worry.” Maisie had an immediate grasp of the situation. “I believe I know who can deal with this problem. Have the boys started school yet?”
“Their teacher is billeted nearby, and they’ve been given rooms to hold classes in the village hall until the local schoolchildren are evacuated—ridiculously, the local school are evacuating to Wales, which seems utterly unbelievable to me. Julian says it’s because we’re on a strategic path to London, whatever that means—and if there’s danger, why on earth London children are considered more expendable than the local children is beyond me. To add to our chaos, apparently the billeting officer is bringing a little girl who no one else wants, for some reason, and no one seems to know her name—I fear a monster might be arriving on my doorstep. Then of course they will all have to move anyway—a couple of military liaison people came from the Canadian embassy to Chelstone today to discuss officers being billeted here at the house. It transpires there is to be an encampment just outside the village. Of course, one doesn’t mind at all—but the children will have to be rebilleted, and all this moving around must be terribly upsetting for them, so no wonder they’re being awfully difficult. Having had a growing boy myself, I am certainly a match for them—you know me, I will not brook nonsense—but it’s the staff. They are not used to this sort of . . . sort of wild behavior around the house.”