Maisie helped Anna to sit up, and put her arm around her as Brenda set the tray on the bed. It was as Maisie dipped the spoon into the broth and held it steady for Anna to sip, that she was aware of Brenda watching her. She looked up. “What is it?”
Brenda seemed to purse her lips and shook her head. “Nothing. Not now, anyway.” She left the room, and Maisie continued to guide the spoon until Anna reached for it and insisted upon eating without help.
When the child had taken all she could, and her eyes had become heavy again, Maisie made her comfortable, watched her drift into sleep, and brought the tray back down to the kitchen.
“I took her to the lavatory, so she’s settled now.” Maisie took the basin and cutlery from the tray and began to wash them at the sink. “I’m concerned—is something else wrong with Anna, Brenda? What’s going on?”
“I reckon the child needs to know where she stands, Maisie—makes a body weaker, not knowing your place in the world.”
“She’s here with us, and she’s safe.”
“But what about when this is all over? This war? Then what? You may have her best interests at heart, and you may now have some sort of power of attorney or whatever they call it—but I bet she wonders where she’ll fetch up when all the children go home.”
“She’ll always have a place here—you know that—until . . . until we find a family for her.”
“And that’s the rub, isn’t it, Maisie? It’s one thing you explaining things but I reckon something should be done about it. Now. Before she gets too settled here. We all love her—how could we not? But you promised to make sure she had a good home. What do you think you can do about it?”
Maisie nodded. “I’ll talk to Mr. Klein. He’ll know what to do next.”
“Good.” Brenda picked up a cloth to dry the crockery and cutlery Maisie had just washed. “And your friend, Priscilla—she phoned to confirm that Tim is going to come down to Chelstone on Saturday. He’s had another falling-out at home, and he apparently said that he wanted to see ‘Tante Maisie’ because she was the only one who understood him. His mother told him you would be busy until Saturday anyway, and he was not to bother you any sooner.”
“Oh dear—poor Pris.”
“Poor Tim, if you ask me. Mind you, he has got a mouth on him, when he likes.”
“It’s just his age. He’ll grow out of it, Brenda. Did she say what train he was catching?”
“She said she would put him on the train from London so he can change at Tonbridge for the eleven o’clock stopping train down to Chelstone.”
Maisie sighed. “He’s such a good boy—good young man, really. He just hates the fact that Tom appears to be proving himself—proving himself to be a man—and he hasn’t had the chance yet.”
“He probably wants to run away, but not too far—and you two do get on, don’t you?”
“That’s because I’m not his mother. Anyway, let’s get Dad to line up some jobs for him—and it’ll cheer up Anna no end to have him here. She has a little-girl crush on him.”
The telephone woke Maisie at half past six in the morning. At first its ringing came as part of a dream, a sound in the distance along a tunnel where she was searching for something—she did not know what it was that was lost, but in the dream her anxiety increased until she awoke, her heart pounding.
“Hello—” In her half-sleep, Maisie could not remember the number to recite to the caller.
“Miss Dobbs—still having sweet dreams, are you?”
“Good morning, Inspector—isn’t this rather early for you?”
“Early when there’s work to be done, and you know what they say about the early bird.”
“What is it, Inspector Caldwell?”
“Your boy—one Joseph Coombes? Fits the description of a body found yesterday at—” Maisie heard Caldwell pause and the sound of a sheet of paper being turned. “Basingstoke railway station. Some trauma to the noddle, but according to Inspector Murphy, it could have happened when he fell. Sounds nasty though.”
“But—”
“Haven’t finished yet,” said Caldwell. “We need an identification, and of course there’s notification of the deceased’s nearest and dearest. You know the boy, so you could identify the body—in the circumstances, it might be best to save the mum and dad the grief, if you know what I mean. It’s not a very pretty sight, and the better part of me—you’ll be pleased to know I have one—would like to save them that last memory of their son. How do you want to proceed?”
Maisie had come to her feet as Caldwell was speaking, and pulled a dressing gown around her shoulders. “How do I want to proceed? I thought you’d just told me how I was proceeding. I’ll go back to Hampshire and then up to London.”
“I’ve already sent a motor car to take you down there. Save your coupons—we’ve got plenty. For now, anyway. By the time you’ve had your toast and marmalade, the motor will be outside your door. Murphy is waiting for you in Basingstoke. All right?”
“Yes. Of course,” said Maisie, rubbing the scar on her neck. “Poor Joe.”
“Poor Joe? He’s out of it now. It’s his poor mum and dad, that’s what’s poor. And you and I should have a chin-wag—the Yard’s involved, which means me—and we both know I don’t exactly have a lot of minutes in the day to spare, not with being short on staff. Never thought I’d see the day when I missed Able—but my able assistant Able is now Able Seaman Able—left just after that business with the Belgian refugees last year. Apparently he’s been posted to HMS Keith. Name like his, I bet he takes a lot of ribbing.”
Maisie sighed, remembering the polite detective constable and the stoic manner with which he tolerated Caldwell’s insistent jokes about his name—and not very funny jokes, in her estimation. “You didn’t exactly give him an easy time. I would bet he wins the respect of his fellow men—you wait and see.”
“And I am sure I will—wait, that is. Right—when you’re finished in Basingstoke, the motor car will bring you back to London and we can go together to see the parents. No good me bothering them before that, just in case it’s not him. I’ll get you a travel warrant to come back to Kent, so you don’t have to pay.”
“Thank you, Inspector.”
“Oh, and Your Ladyship—I take it your little investigation will be coming to an end now.”
“I’m sorry, Inspector, there’s some interference on the line—I can’t hear you very well. Hello? Hello? I’ll expect the motor car in a short while then. Goodbye.” She heard Caldwell offer a muffled expletive as she returned the receiver to its cradle.
The journey to Basingstoke offered an opportunity to think about Joe Coombes—and more importantly, the precious little she had uncovered thus far. She knew that in such circumstances it was all too easy to assign importance to discoveries that were insignificant. But at the same time, every stone was worthy of a turn. And if there was nothing untoward in Joe’s death—if indeed she was able to make a positive identification—why had she been followed from Whitchurch to Tunbridge Wells? For there was no doubt in her mind that the black motor car had been on her tail since she left Hampshire and might well have followed her from London. But was the driver interested due to her questioning of Joe’s whereabouts? Or was it in connection with Billy’s visit to Yates’ yard? Then another thought came back to her—might the man following her have been a spy?