“I did, yes.” She began picking at a hangnail, oblivious to the nervousness it revealed. “I was a conductress, checking tickets, that sort of thing. I liked it. I wasn’t stuck in one place, and I was earning money. I’d been putting away as much as I could so I could get married, for my dress and for bits and pieces for our house, if we could get one. But my fiancé was killed, in France.” She shrugged. “Anyway, after a time I met Frederick, and we began walking out. His English was all right—I mean, I could understand him—but it became a lot better once we were courting, because I couldn’t speak his language, so he had to learn mine properly. The children can still speak his language, Dorothy more than her brother. You see, when they were nippers, we had this agreement, that I would only speak to them in English and Frederick would only speak to them in French. He said that was what his family spoke when he was a boy, though Dottie says it wasn’t French like they speak in Paris. Anyway, I’m going on a bit too much.” She folded her arms again.
“Mrs. Addens, this is not an easy question to ask, and it will be a difficult question to answer as it might seem too intrusive, however, given my task—which is to find your husband’s killer—I have to think of all the reasons why he might have been killed, over and above the money in his pocket.” Maisie noticed the woman visibly appear to retreat inside herself, moving to one side and folding her arms even tighter, as if she wanted to encircle her own body. But she continued. “You mentioned that times were difficult for you, in terms of money. I know your husband brought in a fair wage—he was a skilled man—but it occurred to me that, since they left school, your grown children must be contributing to the household’s costs. I know I brought my father money when I was first working in service, and—”
“You? You worked in service?” Enid Addens leaned forward. “You, an educated woman, worked in service?”
Maisie nodded. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Look at your daughter—she left school but continued her education. She has willpower.” She regretted the off-the-cuff remark, as it had deflected attention from her question—but on the other hand, the woman’s surprise might work in her favor. “What I wanted to know was whether your husband might have had money worries. I know some people fret about money even when there is no good reason, but did you and your husband have cause for concern?”
“No cause for concern. We know most people take money from their grown children towards their keep, but we only took a little. Dottie has to be nicely turned out for work—after all, you can’t have a scruffy librarian. And our son always liked to look smart too. That’s how you get on, looking like the people who are better off than you, so you can earn more than them one day. My Frederick worked hard for the family, and I worked hard here to look after us all. That’s how it was. And we always put some by, so we could get away down to the coast in summertime, and put good food on the table, and not scrimp and scrape for a decent Christmas dinner. Of course, I’ll depend upon them more now—my son will send money home, and Dottie will give up a bit more. And like I said yesterday, Frederick’s workmates have had a collection for us, and there’s been someone round from the railway too. We’ll have to be careful with what we’ve got, but we’re used to that.”
Maisie nodded. “I want to ask you one question again—was your husband fearful at all in the weeks or days before he died? Did he seem troubled?”
“No. He was his usual self. Happy. Content. Hardworking. Of course he’d agreed to the overtime, but he would always take it on if the opportunity was there—and it was often there, with the railway.”
Maisie noticed the woman look at the clock on a shelf above the stove, and she in turn consulted her watch. “If you think of anything else—even something that seems small, insignificant, please let me know. You can send a card, or if you wish to telephone me, here’s my number. There’s a telephone kiosk just down the road, I noticed.” Maisie passed a card across the table.
“I think Dottie took the card you left the other day, so I’ll keep this. But there won’t be anything to tell. Nothing at all. My Frederick didn’t know who killed him—so it’s all down to the police, and I suppose you too, to find out who did.”
Chapter 5
Maisie had just reached the front door to her office when a tall young man of twenty-five or twenty-six approached. He was of slender build, and Maisie thought he was the same height as her late husband, about six feet two inches. His light-brown hair held sun-bleached streaks, as if he had been sailing in fine weather, and the blue of his eyes was of such a pale shade, it was as if they were almost transparent. He wore a charcoal-gray suit of light wool, a white shirt, and a black tie, and his shoes were plain and polished.
He bowed his head briefly by way of greeting. “Excuse me, but might you be Miss Dobbs?”
“Indeed I am—how may I help you?”