Frankie Dobbs laughed when Maisie described the situation at Chelstone Manor. “Not to worry, love,” he assured Maisie. “I’ll sort out the boys and Lady Rowan. They’re just boys who need the law laying down without anyone losing their temper. And we’ll take care of the little half-pint until they find out where she belongs.”
“Thanks, Dad—I knew I could depend on you. But take care, won’t you?”
“Oh, I will—it’ll perk me up a bit, setting the lads right. Once they’ve learned to muck out the stables and groom a horse, they’ll wind their necks in. Nothing like a big horse to sort out a big mouth! And at least there will be no cavalry coming round to take the horses this time, not like it was before. Perjured myself, I did, to keep those horses.”
“I know—remember, I was the one who had to whip up the egg whites so it looked as if we had horses going down with a terrible disease and foaming at the mouth!” Maisie heard her father laugh, and laughed with him. She told him that she would see him on Thursday, and replaced the receiver before calling Billy and Sandra into her office. Soon they were seated alongside the table by the window with the case map pinned out, and Maisie recounted the events of her morning.
“So, he was murdered by what they’re calling a Ruby,” said Billy. “What I want to know is, how they can be sure that’s what it was? After all, the Ruby is really a copy of a Browning. Mind you, them ballistics boys know their job, so the likes of me won’t argue with them.” He paused, shaking his head. “But I don’t know, it’s not as if there are a lot of guns about, not on the streets. Knives, yes, and there’s no shortage of thieves circulating, but they’re more likely to have a knuckle-duster or a flick knife—from what I’ve seen in my time, anyway.”
“I’m doubtful about the theory that it was a particularly aggressive theft—unless the thief was a novice and more fearful than a seasoned criminal. There were no other markings on the body, only the gunshot wounds. None of it sits well at the moment.” Maisie paused. “Billy, what about Addens’ workmates?”
Billy flicked open his notebook. “First of all, the police were right—he’d just been paid, had been given his wage packet, and the other lads saw him put it in his back pocket.” He tapped on the notebook with a pencil. “But he still had another few hours of work to go—he’d taken on some overtime, what with all the extra trains coming and going, due to the . . . due to the war.” Billy cleared his throat. “So they’d all wondered what he was doing going off outside the station.”
“That point never emerged in the notes held at Scotland Yard,” said Maisie.
“Could he have gone for a smoke? To get some fresh air, or—”
Billy laughed, cutting Sandra off. “Fresh air at St. Pancras, Sandra? He’d have a long walk for that, clear out to Yorkshire!”
“Did anyone see him leave?” asked Maisie.
“None of his mates that I met.”
“According to Addens’ wife, and to notes I saw at Scotland Yard, he had a good friend by the name of Mike Elliot. Did you come across him?”
“No, but I’ll find him,” said Billy.
“What about newspaper boys outside the station?” said Sandra. “They see more than anyone, I think.”
Billy blushed—he’d made an obvious omission. Sandra raised an eyebrow, as if enjoying revenge for his comment about fresh air.
“Good point,” said Maisie. “Billy, could you go back tomorrow and talk to the tea ladies, to the newspaper boys, anyone regularly outside or who notices people coming and going.” She added notes in red wax crayon to the case map.
“Sandra, how about you—anything of interest?”
“I found out about several refugee associations, and it seems that a Frederick Addens registered with one, but must have gone to another for assistance, as they only had minimal information. Apparently he’d arrived as a young man—just a boy, really. According to their records, there had been an older brother and a father in Belgium, both in the infantry and killed in the war. Addens escaped Belgium with his mother. She caught pneumonia on the journey and died in hospital—in Folkestone—not long afterwards. So the lad was on his own. They knew he had been working for the railways in Belgium, so that’s probably how he managed to get a job on the railway here as an apprentice engineer. I did a bit more calling round, and managed to talk to someone in the office on the Southern Railway, and she kindly went into their old records. It turns out that Enid had been a conductor on the trains, so he probably met her there.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Maisie, tapping a pencil on the table. “I don’t like these important missing details—they might not be crucial, but still, I like to have as many cards on the table as possible.”
“The railways wouldn’t have kept running during the war if it hadn’t been for the women who worked on the trains, and the young apprentices,” said Sandra. “That probably kept Addens in a job, and out of our army.”