“He’s a good man, Sandra. And speaking of good men, any idea what’s happened to Billy?” Maisie leafed through the post on Sandra’s desk, as if the comment had been offered in passing.
“I think there’s trouble at home. He’s not said much, but I’ve had the impression that Doreen is suffering again—not like before, but due to her anxiety about young Billy being in the army. She’s seeing the doctor—that nice woman you put them in touch with a few years ago—so I reckon it will be all right. Little Margaret’s school hasn’t been evacuated yet, but apparently they’re off on Monday—personally, I think it would be best if Doreen takes Margaret and goes down to the country to be with family, like Billy said they would. Bobby has his apprenticeship, and he can do for himself, though it’ll be only him and his dad in the house—which might not be a bad thing, as it can’t be good for the lad, being around his mum when she’s that anxious. I think he remembers what it was like when Doreen was so ill. Probably scares the life out of all of them.”
“Thank you for telling me, Sandra. I knew something was wrong. It might help if I offer to put Billy on shorter hours. He’s an air-raid warden anyway, so he has his shifts. And what with the war, we don’t know how business will go—everything changes in wartime.”
Sandra nodded. “There was a telephone call from Mrs. Dobbs too—she said she thought you would be back at Chelstone today. She sounded anxious.”
“I’ll go later, but I have to get some work done before I set off.”
“And another telephone call came in, this one from a young man.”
“A young man? Who?”
“Name of Arthur Addens. Son of Frederick Addens. He’s on a short leave, going back on Sunday morning to a barracks in Colchester.” Sandra looked up from the sheet of paper on which she had transcribed the message. “I don’t think he should be telling people that, do you?”
“I daresay he shouldn’t—but what else did he say?”
“He was in a telephone kiosk, and said he would come over here at ten, taking a chance on seeing you because you can’t telephone him back. And he didn’t say why—just said he wants to see you.”
“All right—that sounds promising, and a bit ominous. He might be coming here to harangue me for going to see his mother twice.”
The door opened, banging back on its hinges. “Miss, I’m really sorry, but—”
“It’s all right, Billy, really—”
“I found Lucas Peeters.”
“Oh, well done! How did you do that?—No, wait, catch your breath. Come on in and sit down. Sandra, you too.”
Once seated at the table in Maisie’s office, Billy pulled the tin of crayons towards him, ready to add details of his discovery to the case map.
“I got his last-known address from a bloke he used to work for, and I took it from there, wearing out shoe leather until I realized that the man called Leonard Peterson living in a couple of rooms above a cobbler’s in Islington must be Lucas Peeters, only he’s changed his name. I saw the name next to the door downstairs, matched the initials, and put two and two together.”
“You’re sure it’s him?”
“I spoke to the cobbler—and I thank my lucky stars, because he made my poor old soles as good as new before I left. Anyway, that Peterson—about thirty-five years of age—apparently doesn’t have an accent at all, except on the odd occasion when he’s had a rough day at work. According to Jim—the cobbler—the rest of the time you’d think he was a London boy born and bred. Mind you, he said he reckons Peterson has worked at it. And apparently he got married a few weeks ago—out of the blue—to a hairdresser, name of Alice. Neither of them were at home, and Jim said they’d gone down hop-picking—their honeymoon, of all things.”
“Where is the farm?”
“Out Charing way.”
“Do you have the details?”
Billy grinned, leafed through his notebook, and pulled out a page. “There you are, miss. Got the lot.”
“Excellent! Billy, let’s get this map up to date,” said Maisie, looking at her wristwatch. “Frederick Addens’ son is due in about half an hour, so with any luck we can be on our way by eleven. We’ll drive down together—should be there easily by one o’clock—and after we’ve found him and had a chat, I’ll drop you at the station and you can go straight back home from there. We’ve a lot to talk about on the way, in any case.”
“Have you got your motor spirit coupons? I don’t want us getting stranded—and I know how fast that jam-jar of yours can go, so you bet it drinks up the juice.”
“I have my coupons, and I also have a full tank—plenty of ‘juice,’ as you say. And today you might find out exactly how fast my jam-jar can go!”
Billy seemed ready to make a game retort when he looked down at the case map and saw the name Maisie had written in red letters, joining the names of the dead.
“You’re kidding, miss.”
“I wish I were, Billy. I wish very much that this was a joke.”