“Let me,” said Maisie.
“We’ve fair drunk London out of tea,” said Phil Coombes. “I’m supposed to be opening up today, but I can’t. Can’t face people, can’t face the looks, the questions—if they bother to ask. People are probably too frightened.” He looked at Maisie, who had made the pot of tea and was now setting clean cups on the draining board, ready to pour. “I’m grateful to you, Miss Dobbs—we might never have known, if you hadn’t been down there trying to find Joe.”
“And thank you for going down—you know—to identify him. We couldn’t’ve done it—none of us,” added his wife, who had taken a seat between her daughter and husband.
“Archie could have,” said Vivian. “I can see him now, saying ‘Yeah, that’s my brother—now that’s done, I’m off down the pub.’ I can hear him now,” said Vivian.
“Vivian! That’s not fair! Your brother is a good young man—we brought you all up the same. He just takes it all in a different way.” The girl’s mother held up a finger to make a point. “You would do well to remember that—and remember who looks after you!”
Vivian scraped back her chair and left the kitchen, running along the landing to her room, and slamming the door behind her.
Coombes rubbed his forehead as his wife began weeping again. “It’s been like this since the news came—I mean, aren’t we all supposed to pull together? I’ve got two at loggerheads and we can’t seem to get ourselves going—and we’ve got a funeral to get sorted out.”
Billy nodded to Maisie, and took her place to pour the tea. Maisie sat down and reached across to lay a hand on Coombes’ forearm. “There is no path set for this kind of shock, and for the grief that attends such terrible news. Vivian is in so much distress over losing her brother—that horror inside has to find a way out, so she’s very, very angry. We all have a different way of dealing with loss—and sometimes our ways clash.” She took a breath, knowing her words would cause more pain but had to be given voice. “You don’t have to rush to plan the funeral. Joe won’t be released to you for burial yet—they have more work to do, trying to find out what might have been ailing him.”
“Do you think he jumped?” asked Coombes. “Do you think it was all this ‘boys will be boys’ business? And if he was alone—why wasn’t he with the other blokes?”
Maisie nodded to acknowledge Billy as he placed cups of tea in front of each of them, and then took a seat at the table—she had noticed he had remained very quiet.
“I think the police have good reason to think he was a victim of his own ebullience on the night he died, however . . .” She modulated her speech, choosing her words with care. “However, I think the question of how Joe spent the past couple of weeks should be answered.”
“The police aren’t going to do any of that answering though, are they?” said Sally Coombes. “That detective—what was his name—Caldwell? He said the coroner would likely say it was either accidental death or death by misadventure.”
“Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell was being honest about what was discovered, and the conclusions of the pathologist at the scene. They will look very carefully at how Joe was found—please trust that they are continuing to consider each small mite of evidence they can find, to discover what lies behind Joe’s death.” She looked from Phil to Sally Coombes, who were both leaning toward her, as if she had the answers to every one of their questions. “And I want to assure you that I will not cease to investigate Joe’s death myself. I knew Joe—saw him grow up here—and I want to find out the truth of what was behind the accident that led to you losing him.”
They finished their tea in an almost whispered quiet, with Maisie steering the conversation to Joe’s childhood, so that they might remember their son as he was, and not how they might imagine him to have been at the point of his death. Maisie and Billy took their leave, receiving thanks from the pub landlord and his wife, and Maisie in turn asked them to say goodbye to Vivian, and to tell her that she was being held in their thoughts.
Billy did not speak until they reached the front door leading up to the office, whereupon he turned to look around at the square.
“What is it, Billy? What do you want to say?” asked Maisie.
“All right, it’s like this: the carpet is an inch thick on those stairs, and them cups and saucers—and the teapot, sugar bowl and jug—were bone china. Matching, at that. And did you see the watch on Phil’s wrist? All very nice.”
Maisie waited, for she knew Billy had more to get off his chest.
“I feel really, really bad for them, miss, because that Joe was a young diamond of a lad—and Viv is a good girl, even if she does have a bit of the Sarah Bernhardts about her. But I still think something’s not right, and I know where to start.”
“The older son?”
Billy nodded.
“Good—because I was going to ask you to make a point of going over to see him. He works in Sydenham—easy to get to on your way home, isn’t it?”
“Just a bit out of my way, but consider it as good as done,” said Billy.
“One thing though,” added Maisie. “Remember he’s grieving too—and I meant what I said—everyone’s different. We’ve both seen it before—when Brenda received bad news about her sister, she went out and cleaned all the windows like a demon. That could be Joe’s older brother—work could be balm for his aching soul. And it wouldn’t surprise me if his sister’s dramatic bent didn’t irritate him a bit.”
“Would me,” said Billy.
“So, go easy on him.”
“You still think something’s amiss though, don’t you?”
“I do,” said Maisie. “But I don’t want to scare anyone either. Now, I must be getting along or I’ll miss my train.”
“One more thing, miss—”
“Yes?”
“What shall we do about that bloke in the black motor car over there?”
Maisie reached into her handbag for her keys. “I thought I’d wait to see which one of us he follows—and if it’s you, Billy, I want you to go straight home. Your family has too much worry to risk any more problems at the moment.”
From the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front of the office, Maisie watched the vehicle on the other side of the square, and sighed. Yes, she was tempted to end her own speculation, walk across to Conway Street and rap on the window. But at the same time she too had much to lose. That thought reminded her of an overdue telephone call she had promised to make. She turned away from the window, and just as she was about to reach for the receiver, the telephone began to ring. She picked up the black Bakelite receiver and recited the number.
“Is that Miss Maisie Dobbs . . . um, is she there?” The voice on the line was that of a young woman, a voice lacking the tone of maturity, but with more resonance than that of a schoolgirl. Maisie would have put her at twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. “I’d like to speak to her, please.”
“Yes, this is Maisie Dobbs. Who’s speaking?”
“Oh at last! I’ve reached you—I thought it would go on ringing for ages, and I have so little time when I can get to the telephone box. My name’s Sylvia Preston. Leading Aircraftswoman Preston, WAAF. You should have received a message I’d called before.”
“Yes, I did, Miss Preston, but I thought it best not to call back as I have no idea of your shift times.”
“I’m glad you didn’t after that first telephone call—that nosey mare of a landlady can’t keep anything to herself, and she’s half cut most of the time. I’m happy to have moved out, though I sometimes wonder if I haven’t gone from the fat into the fire.”
“Oh dear—” said Maisie.
“It’s all right really, this one’s harmless—to a point. But about Joey Coombes—oh heck—” Maisie heard the woman exclaim when the pips sounded, though she was soon back on the line having inserted more coins to continue the call.