She lifted the telephone receiver and placed a call to Priscilla’s home.
“Thank goodness—I thought you’d gone off on a ship again, never to return,” said Priscilla. “You live less than one hundred yards along the road, and it’s all I can do to gain the attention of my best friend in my hour of need.”
“Rather dramatic, Pris, don’t you think?” offered Maisie. “Sorry—I’ve been busy.”
“Well, just so you know everything happening under this roof, I’ll start with the good news. Tarquin is staying out of trouble, which is more than I can say for the other two, and even, perhaps, my dear husband.” Priscilla’s voice cracked, evidence of her emotional state.
“Start with Thomas—I know he’s at the heart of this, Priscilla.”
“He’s gone and joined the RAF. We all knew it was coming—he just couldn’t resist it, could he? Instead of applying to university, perhaps to study something like, oh, I don’t know—let’s say something boringly safe, such as philosophy, politics, and economics—he applied to Cranwell, the air force college in Lincolnshire, for officer training. And he’s just old enough to be accepted, but thankfully not old enough to fly in a real battle, though we both know how so-called rules are broken, don’t we? Anyway, the good news is that he will be there for a while, at least until next summer, I hope! I confess, my mind went a bit blank as soon as he told us, so the details might be woolly.”
Maisie could hear Priscilla’s breathing quicken, and suspected the mood in the Partridge household was far more volatile than her friend would reveal in a telephone call.
“I could throttle him, to tell you the truth, Maisie,” continued Priscilla. “In the meantime, Douglas has been pulled into the Ministry of Information, and Timothy is professing readiness to join the Royal Navy, claiming that a midshipman would have been a boy in Napoleon’s time. And as you know, the trouble with Tim is that he is so very quick with his tongue, you can’t argue with him, and I end up shouting at my own beloved son. Tarquin, bless his cotton socks, has stated his intention to join the Peace Pledge Union, clearly a move to rattle the cages of his older brothers—he takes a childish joy at starting them off, as if they were toy motor cars you could wind up with a key and let whizz across the floor. The stupid thing is that my boys would kill anyone who threatened one of them, and yet I sometimes think they’ll murder each other when they get going. Tarquin seems to be enjoying walking around with a beatific look on his face, though we both know he still cherishes the aviator’s cap that James gave him, and if truth be told, he’s only taking his current position because it’s in direct opposition to his brothers.” Priscilla paused for half a second. “Anyway, I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to me. Do come over for a drink after you get home from work. I have some other news for you.”
“That sounds ominous, Pris. I’ll walk along around half past six, I would imagine.”
“Stay for supper—please.”
“All right, I’d love to.”
“Maisie—”
“Pris?”
“I’m so terribly scared.”
“I know . . . I know. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
In telephone calls to Lady Rowan and Brenda, Maisie assured both women that she would return to Chelstone as soon as possible. Brenda reported that twice already Emma the dog had calmly left the house and walked to the school a half mile away, and was waiting outside when Anna and the boys emerged, ready to escort them home.
Maisie took a deep breath before her next call, which was to Francesca Thomas—who was “not in the office” according to Lambert, who had answered the telephone.
“May I take a message for when she returns,” he asked.
Maisie hesitated. “No . . . no, that’s all right. Just tell her that I telephoned. She knows both my office and home numbers.”
“Very well, Miss Dobbs. Will there be anything else?”
“That will be all, Mr. Lambert. Thank you.”
Lambert bid Maisie good afternoon. She replaced the receiver and leaned back in her chair, her gaze cast out towards the window and across the rooftops as she considered the case and the many questions she had asked of those she had met and of herself. At last she reached into her bag and brought out her notebook, going back through details recorded along the way. Taking out her pen, she began to tap it on the desk, as if she wanted to write a certain sentence, but could not bring herself to fashion the words that would without doubt point the finger in one or two directions. She closed the notebook and placed the pen on top.
“Spain was easier than this,” she whispered to herself, before coming to her feet, taking up her bag, her keys, and hat. It was only as she reached the front door that she realized that, once again, she had left the box containing her gas mask behind. She sighed, not bothering to return.