“Lord Julian—the war is close now, isn’t it?”
“It was always close, my dear—close isn’t simply a question of distance. The threat of war has been lingering over our heads since Adolf Hitler came to power. It was only a matter of time before we reached this point—but I don’t think we could ever have foreseen having hundreds of thousands of our men at such peril almost beyond our reach. The RAF is moving farther into France to ward off the Luftwaffe—trying to give us a chance.” Lord Julian cleared his throat. “Anyway—look, I can get you a list of all the RAF stations in Hampshire. Apart from the ports, it must be considered somewhat safe—after all, if it’s good enough for the Bank of England. . . .” The gravely voice tapered off.
“I don’t understand—” Maisie fingered a coin, ready to press into the slot should more money be required for the call.
“Their operations were moved to the county—after all, you cannot have the country’s financial arm at risk in the City, not with its proximity to the Thames and the docks. And it’s not a surprising choice, after all, they print the money down there, so it’s considered safe enough. That’s why I said you were in the money—I’m not terribly good at quips though.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Lord Julian.”
“I suppose it’s a well-kept open secret. As well as the odd brewery, and of course silk, and agriculture, the place you’re in is known for printing money. It’s not all done in London, you know, and as much as Rowan seems to believe otherwise every time she goes to Harrods, I can tell you I do not have a press in the cellar!”
Maisie laughed along with her late husband’s father, and reiterated that she would indeed find that list of airfields useful—in the meantime, she asked if he might know the nearest RAF station to Whitchurch.
“Oh, there’s a few—let me think. Middle and Nether Wallop aren’t far away, though Middle Wallop is for the training of new pilots—perhaps your friend’s son will be sent there soon. Probably you’d want to go to Andover—again, it’s mainly used for training and they have a couple of bomber squadrons there, and a maintenance division. Yes, I would imagine Andover would have been high on the list for any fire-retardant work.”
As the pips sounded to indicate more coins were needed, she heard Lord Julian call out, “Must dash now, Maisie.” And he was gone.
She exited the telephone kiosk and stood for some moments, thinking. How could she ever find the painting crew? They could be anywhere in the county—they could even have moved on to Dorset—so she would have to return to make a concerted effort to find Joe Coombes. Indeed, he might have already been in touch with his parents once more. She was about to step toward the Alvis when she stopped, turned around, and entered the telephone kiosk again. She had managed to obtain more change from Mrs. Keep that morning, but calls to London were not cheap. This next call, however, might cost her nothing, if it were accepted. She picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the operator.
“I’d like to place a reverse charge call please,” said Maisie. “To Whitehall one-two, one-two. Tell them it’s Maisie Dobbs calling urgently for Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell.”
She waited, nibbling at a hangnail on her little finger. She could hear the conversation back and forth between the operator and her counterpart at Scotland Yard, and then waited until she heard a familiar voice. “Tell her I’ll accept the bloody charges, though I’ll live to regret it, knowing that one.”
“Caldwell?” said Maisie.
“All right, what is it?” Caldwell was brusque, but Maisie could hear something else in his voice—as if he were smiling, enjoying a certain pleasure in the fact that she had called him, and it could only be because she needed his assistance.
“Hello Detective Chief Inspector. I wonder if you could give me a hand with something.”
“I’ve already helped you out with the price of this call. Now what?”
“I’m much obliged to you for your generosity, Inspector—but I wonder if you would be so kind as to call whoever is your main liaison person in Hampshire, in the police force. I’m investigating the case of a London boy who’s been working in these parts but hasn’t been in touch with his parents for a while, and—”
“Oh blimmin’ heck—you want me to ask Spud Murphy down there in Basingstoke if he’s been nannying a boy lately?”
“Not quite. I want to know if . . . well, I want to know if the remains of a fifteen-year-old lad—mousy hair, about five feet nine inches, freckles on his nose, medium build, no other distinguishing marks that I know of—has been found and not been identified.”
“What makes you think the boy could be dead.”
Maisie felt a shiver of sensation as if someone had run an icicle across her neck. “I just want to rule it out as a possibility.”
“And where can I get hold of you, Your Ladyship?”
She sighed. Caldwell could never resist any chance to get under her skin. “I’m returning to London today—I would hope to be there by late afternoon, all being well. But if I can, I’ll stop somewhere and call in from a kiosk—plans might change, after all.”
“Make sure you’ve got some money on you next time, won’t you.”
“Thank you, Inspector Caldwell.”
Maisie replaced the telephone receiver and left the kiosk. She climbed into the Alvis, and after consulting the map and the number of motor spirit coupons she had with her, she set off. She hoped to find someone who not only knew where the Yates crew were going next, but also would be prepared to tell her.
There was an element of being in another part of the country that Maisie enjoyed. Driving along main roads and country lanes, she looked out at the landscape beyond, at the way fields were laid out that was different from the Kentish farmland she knew so well. Passing through villages and hamlets, she compared houses of stone and slate with the weatherboard cottages lining the main thoroughfare through the village of Chelstone, or the brick terrace houses of the railway towns she looked out upon during her train journeys to and from London. Soon she was approaching Andover, and took little time in locating the airfield. As she expected, her first stop—perhaps her only stop—was the guardhouse, where she was asked to state her business by a military policeman, who came out to discover the purpose of her visit.
“I wonder if you might be able to help me,” said Maisie. “I’m looking for someone who can tell me if the painting crew is still here at Andover, or even in the area if they’ve moved on. You probably saw them—from Yates and Sons in London. They’re applying a fire retardant to the buildings. My friend’s son is among them—he’s a young apprentice—and they fear he’s ill and needs to return to his home.” She passed a calling card and her identity card through the open window of the Alvis. The guard flipped from one card to the next. “As you can see,” added Maisie, “I’m an investigator, and as I was in the area on a personal matter, I said I would try to find out how he is.”
The guard looked around at his fellow serviceman, who was now standing outside the guardhouse.
“Call the ops room—ask Captain Michaels if he can come down, would you? Unexpected visitor. Civilian.”
“Oh, and if you would like additional confirmation of my identity, you can call Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell of Scotland Yard.”
“Just pull over there, Miss Dobbs. You won’t have to wait long.”