Coombes shook his head and turned to his wife. “Sal—can you remember?”
Sally Coombes shook her head. “Can’t say as I do.”
Maisie continued. “I remember you saying that Joe had changed—when do you think that started?”
Coombes looked at his wife again, as if her face would jog his memory. She raised her eyebrows and sighed.
“I reckon it was after he’d been put on this new job a month or so. Before the headaches, if I’m remembering rightly,” said Sally.
“Nah, the headaches came before. Don’t you remember me saying, ‘Joe’s been very quiet when he gets on the blower.’” He looked at Billy, as if the father of sons would understand. “Then when he came home one Saturday afternoon, he didn’t want to go out much. Said it was being in the country—made him not like all the noise out there.”
“And what about his wish to give up his job because he wanted to work on a farm?”
Coombes rolled his eyes. “Oh that business. Might’ve known that would come up. Joe had this idea he wanted to be a farmer. Said he’d been offered an apprenticeship by a local bloke with a farm. All on the up and up, it was supposed to be.” He stared at Maisie. “Give up a good job to be planting turnips? The boy was off his rocker.”
“By all accounts he loved the country,” said Maisie. “You said so yourself when we first spoke.”
“No, I told him he had to stay with Yates. You don’t give up a good job.” Phil Coombes looked at the clock, and pushed back his chair. “Getting on for opening time.”
“Just another minute or two, Mr. Coombes—it’s important,” said Maisie. She cast her gaze from Coombes to his wife. “What would really have been the consequence of Joe leaving his job at Yates?”
“I don’t know what you mean. Mind you, there’s always a consequence of giving up work. Joe remembered how it was when he was younger—grown men on the streets begging for money to keep their families fed. Lining up for work, time and again—saw it myself, and we vowed that was not going to happen to our boys.” Sally Coombes looked at her husband.
“And I knew the consequence of going into the army,” added Coombes. “I saw enough myself in the last war. You did as well.” He brought his attention to Billy, then Maisie. “There’s consequences your mum and dad know about that you don’t, when you’re still wet behind the ears. And Sally and me, we knew it was our job to steer our children on the right path. Ours learned how to put in a day’s work, and they knew they weren’t going to fight any wars, not if I had anything to do with it. Joe’s job was reserved, and so was Archie’s. Vivian wouldn’t be in uniform either.”
Maisie nodded, as Coombes took account of the hour again, shifting in his chair as if to render it obvious he was checking the clock. “One minute, then we’ll let you get on, Phil. Do you know how Mike Yates managed to obtain the contract for painting aerodromes? And have you any idea about the source of the paint Joe’s crew were using?”
“How would I know?” said Phil Coombes.
Maisie came to her feet. Billy followed her lead. “I wondered about it, that’s all.” Again she turned from Phil to Sally Coombes. “You see, if my son were being killed by a certain substance, I would want to know exactly where it came from.” She turned to leave.
“Now, Miss Dobbs, I know he wasn’t feeling well, but—”
“The paint was toxic,” said Maisie. “It was poisoning his blood and affecting his brain. Joe knew it—and he knew, if only by instinct, that he had to get away from it. And the only person who truly listened to him was a farmer, a man who had lost his son in the last war.”
As they reached the door, Maisie turned back. “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but that is the way it stands. I am trying to find out who killed Joe, and I have to do all I can to turn not only stones, to see what lies underneath, but in this case I have to move boulders. The truth can hide in some very troubling places, Mr. Coombes, and you asked me to find out the truth.”
“I know about war, Miss Dobbs. I fought in the war.”
“Yes, I’m aware you were in Flanders. As was Billy, and I was a nurse in a casualty clearing station, so I know how it was.” She paused. “In fact, Billy showed me that newspaper cutting today—you were a local somebody for a short while, after appearing in the South London Press. How many of you came home, from the lads in that photograph?”
“You had that photo?” said Coombes, his face registering surprise.
“Arthur Beale. Artillery. Passchendaele, 1917. He was my cousin,” said Billy.
“Oh blimey,” said Coombes. “I never knew.”
“No need for you to have known. I’ve got a common name, and it’s not as if we talk about it, is it?”
Coombes stared at the ground and nodded. “Not as if we do.” He looked up. “Only two of us came back, of the lads in that photograph,” said Coombes.
“Yes, I already know,” said Maisie. “I’ll be in touch—and thank you, Mr. Coombes. Mrs. Coombes.”
They began walking back to the office without speaking, until Billy broke the silence. “Not like you to be so hard on someone, miss. Never heard you talk like that to people grieving. Fair surprised me, it did.”
“Sorry, Billy. There’s a time for everything, and this was a time when I needed to poke with a knife instead of a gentle touch with a fingertip.”
“Why?”
Maisie sighed. “Let’s just see what happens next. Then I’ll explain.” She stopped and turned to her assistant. “Trust me, Billy.”
“Always have, miss. I always have. But what do you want me to do next?”
Maisie began walking again. “There is something, before you start on the next three cases that came in. I want you to find out more about Teddy Wickham.”
“What about him?”
“His parents—mother’s maiden name, that sort of thing. Uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters. School. Best friends—though we know his very best friend is Archie Coombes.”
“Right you are, miss. Good as done.”
Walter Miles emerged from the downstairs flat and greeted them as they reached the steps leading to the office. He was wearing a cream linen summer blazer with beige trousers and brown leather shoes, and wore a white open-neck shirt. He carried a brown leather document case, and used a cane to steady his walk. Passing the cane to the opposite hand, he raised his cream straw fedora. Maisie realized that, despite the scar along his jawline, Miles was a very handsome man, and somewhat reminiscent of her late husband.
“Good day to you, Miss Dobbs, Mr. Beale.”
“Good morning,” Maisie and Billy replied in unison.
“You’re like the number thirty-six bus,” continued Maisie. “We don’t see much of you—and then here you are several times in a row.”
“I’m on my way to the university now,” said Miles, his smile broad as he regarded Maisie.
“What do you teach?” she asked.
“Botany, usually, though with a few colleagues being called up, I’m now teaching other sciences as needed—and I’m often at Bedford College as well as Malet Street. Anyway, I’d better be off, or I’ll be late.” He lifted his hat to signal his departure and gave another smile.
Maisie watched as Miles made his way toward Warren Street.
“Seems to be a good bloke, eh miss?”
“Yes, very nice indeed.”
“He might be sweet on you,” added Billy. “I haven’t see him much, then—like you said—there he is a few times in a row.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, Billy.”
“It meant something that day Mr. Stratton came to take you out to lunch. Last month, it was.”