“Of course I can drive them to Ramsgate—I’ve been thinking of going down there anyway, to keep an eye out for our Billy. Fool’s errand really—I don’t stand a chance of seeing him. It’ll be like a three-ring circus, and they say not many are getting away, not set against the number over there. But at least I’d feel I was a bit closer. Mind you, I’ve got to tell you, miss, I’ve only been behind the wheel of my mate’s little Austin, and Mrs. Partridge drives one of them really big old continental motors doesn’t she? Got the steering wheel on the wrong side, hasn’t it? Isn’t it a Bugatti, or a Lagonda, something like that? You could probably get our entire front room in the back seat of her motor.”
“She has a new Bentley, and the steering wheel is on the right side. But don’t worry—she collides with something every day, so I am sure there are dents all over the coachwork. This is very good of you, Billy.”
“Nah, all part of the job—and a Bentley, well, I’ll never get that chance again, will I? Truth is, they must be worried sick—young Tim should have a hiding for his trouble, no two ways about it. These boys are all losing their minds.”
Maisie delivered the news to Priscilla, that they should depart now to meet Billy at his home, then placed another call to Billy.
“Right you are, miss,” said Billy. “I’ll be waiting for them, a bag packed just in case.”
“Before you go, Billy—tell me about Archie Coombes.”
“Blimey, nearly forgot, what with all the worry going on. And I’ve been dying to tell you about him.”
“Go on,” said Maisie, picking up a notebook and pencil.
“He’s a fitter at an engineering works in Sydenham, and has lodgings over a shop in Camberwell. One bus ride and he’s at his job, though I think he’s got a bike. I had a talk with him while he was on a morning break, standing outside having a smoke. It’s been a while since I saw him, but he’s the dead spitting image of his father, so it’s not as if I had to look hard. He seemed a bit shaky, but that’s to be expected, and I saw a couple of blokes walk past, stop and talk, put a hand on his shoulder, then move along to light up. Having worked with you for a few year now, I reckon it was the way he was standing—it told people he didn’t want company.”
“Yes, I can imagine that,” said Maisie.
“Anyway, I went over, introduced myself. He throws down the ciggie, holds out his hand and thanks me for looking after his mum and dad. Then he took out a packet of ciggies again, and lit up. That was my first little niggle about him.”
“Go on,” said Maisie.
“He threw down a half-smoked cigarette end that still had a lot of tobacco in it, and he was not smoking cheap Woodbines sold by the ones and twos either—he had a packet of twenty.” Billy cleared his throat. Maisie heard a page being turned, and knew Billy was referring to his notes. “I asked him about Joe, about his work down there in Hampshire, and if he’d been down to see him. He said no, he didn’t know much about the work—he hadn’t actually seen Joe for a while. And he didn’t know the area. I asked him about Teddy Wickham, and he said he didn’t know where he was stationed, exactly, but he knew he’d looked in on Joe and he’d said his brother seemed on top form.”
“And how did he know all this—did Teddy come back on leave?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. He had a forty-eight-hour pass a few weeks ago. And he gets on the blower, apparently.”
“To whom? At the pub? How does Archie take the telephone call?”
“I’m almost there.” The rustle of another page turning, and then flipping back echoed as if there were interference on the line. “He didn’t have much to tell me, and he was getting choked up. He said he has a telephone at his digs, because he’s a supervisor and can be on call at any time. I tell you, miss, I don’t believe that for a start. I know men who are supervisors in factories, and they don’t all get a free dog and bone! Anyway, the horn went for the men to go back inside the works, and he had to go—pinched out another hardly smoked ciggie, threw it down and went back inside.”
“But you saw him again, didn’t you?” said Maisie.
“Followed him back to his lodgings, nice and easy, so he couldn’t see me. Saw him go in, then come out half an hour later dressed like two penn’orth of hambone done up for the butcher’s window. Good suit—well, a fifty-bob Burton’s special. He looked a bit flash, if you ask me—reckon he’s seen too many of those American pictures. Had shoes on you could see your face in. He waited on the street, and then along comes a motor car. Black with green down the sides, you know, the doors. Newish, I would say, with a driver in the front and someone else in the back—I could see him moving forward to open the door. Then Archie got in, and off they went.”
“Do you know the make of motor?”
“It looked like a Rover Ten—a coupe, I reckon, because the fellow in the back had to push the front passenger seat for Archie to get in with him. I reckon it was the same one that was parked across the street from the office—the driver must have gone straight over there to Archie’s job.”
“So Archie Coombes has a bit more money than we thought he might,” said Maisie. “Or at least he has friends who have money. Did you manage to look at the lodgings, by any chance?”
“I went across and knocked on the door. Nicely turned out woman comes to answer, and says I’d just missed him. I did my best forlorn look, you know, the one I put on to get round someone, and I said I wanted to leave a message for him. I pulled out my notebook and began scribbling—you know, blah-blah-blah-blah—and asked if I could put it in his room. She looked suspicious, but I said it was private, and she said she would take me up there so I could just slip it on the table. The table? Lodgings only usually come with a rotten old cast iron bed with a horsehair mattress and a couple of blankets, p’rhaps a washstand if you’re lucky. So she took me up there, opened the door and there before me is a very nice gaff indeed—two rooms, one a sitting room and one a bedroom as far as I could see. ‘He had his own furniture put in here,’ said this landlady, all proud of the room. ‘He says that when he gets his house, he’ll leave it here for me.’”
“When he gets his house?” said Maisie.
“That’s what I thought. Doing very well, for a lad of—what?—twenty, is he?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions—he could just be very careful with his money.”
“Not buying new suits, he isn’t!”
“The motor car outside—what was the driver like? Did you get a look at him?”
“Older than Archie. I’d say he was in his thirties, or even forties, but you can never be sure, not from a distance, and I didn’t want to stare and draw attention. I was taking enough of a risk as it was.”
“Yes, you were,” replied Maisie, remembering a time when Billy was beaten up by a suspect in a case, and left for dead—she had told him then, that under no circumstances must he ever put his life in danger ever again. No job was worth his life. “It’s unusual, and added to your observations about the Coombes family, it seems there are some significant contradictions.”
“I’ll say there are,” interjected Billy.
“On the one hand they are very tight,” continued Maisie. “They appear a very loving family, very honorable in fact. But these little things come to the surface—flashes of expenditure on items that would otherwise seem to be out of the budget of a family in their position, and then some discord in the home.”
“So where’s the money coming from?”
“I think we have to be very careful about following that particular stream—at least until we have more of an idea as to where it might lead. I’ll pop in to talk to Phil and Sally again, and I’ll see what I can do about finding Teddy Wickham. And I think I want to see Archie myself.”
“Are you going down to Hampshire?”
“Yes, but I might wait until I hear back from you or Priscilla.”
A silence descended on the conversation. It was broken by Billy.
“You think going down to Ramsgate is a fool’s errand, don’t you, miss?”
“I confess, it was my suggestion. And I certainly think you’re right about it being chaotic there. But I know Priscilla, and I know she has to feel as if she has some control over the matter, so going to Ramsgate and being there when boats come in will keep her from losing her mind completely.”
“There’s talk that this evacuation could go on for days. She won’t see him until the end, will she? Because what a lot of these little boats are doing is going in there, picking up men who’re waiting, then taking them to the bigger ships, the ones that can’t get in because of what they draw—it’s too shallow.”
“You’re sounding like a sailor, Billy,” said Maisie.
“My boy’s over there, so I’ve been reading up on it, this business of ships and where they can dock. And I’ve been listening to the wireless. They don’t say everything, sort of let out the news bit by bit.”
“That’s what Douglas said. Apparently it’s being orchestrated by a man named Duff Cooper. So people are informed, but not enough to cause panic—he told Douglas that it’s no good trying to pull the wool over the eyes of the British people, because they know very well when the language used in newsreels is designed to manipulate them.”
“That didn’t work, did it—your friend is panicking for all of us.”
“I know—but most people are calm, getting on with their lives.”
“Miss, you think the world of Tim. You must be worried sick.”
“I am, Billy—really worried. And I’m not sure Ramsgate is the place to wait. When they come back toward the coast, I have a feeling they might make their way to Rye. They’ll take their usual route, because they will want to get home—and they’ll want to get home because they will have seen things they might never have imagined even in their worst nightmares.”
Maisie considered her plans for the following day. Phil and Sally Coombes, Mike Yates and Archie Coombes were all on the list. And Vivian. Vivian Coombes was an interesting study, thought Maisie, not least because it was fair to assume she wanted to do what both her brothers had done quite successfully—get out from under their parents’ roof.
When a telephone call came later, it was Priscilla reporting to say they had reached Ramsgate and could find out nothing.
“Maisie, I never thought I would see this sort of thing again, really I—oh hell, the pips are going . . . Douglas . . . Douglas, give me some more change. Right—” There was a brief pause as Priscilla put more coins in the slot. “It—it’s taken me back, Maisie—I feel as if I’ve been swept into France in 1916. I remember driving back toward a casualty clearing station in my ambulance—I was so new, it was only my second or third run—and I passed a line of men walking the other way, young men who’d been in the trenches, filthy and sodden with mud, a good number wounded. It’s like looking at that all over again—” The line crackled, and Priscilla’s voice was clear again. “Anyway . . . anyway . . . we’ve spoken to some officials—well, they looked official. And no one has a record of this boat they’ve gone out on—Cassandra is her name. Well, they wouldn’t, would they? The boys joined unofficially, and no one was going to turn them back because everyone was so determined to get on themselves.” There was a gasp on the line, followed by a crackling silence.
“Priscilla! Pris! What’s wrong?”
“There’s a long line of men disembarking one of the boats, and they’re walking toward the station for trains to take them back into London—it’s a never-ending snake of soldiers. Billy and Douglas were waiting outside for me and—I can’t quite see what’s happened, but Billy just ran off. I’ve never seen him move so fast. I can’t quite see. Oh dear, he’s almost fallen—it’s his weak leg, he shouldn’t try to run like that.” Another break in the telephone line, which Maisie recognized as the pips sounding for more money. “I think I’ve almost run out of coins here, Maisie,” continued Priscilla. “I can’t say, but . . . but I think Billy has seen his son. Gosh, I hope he’s not mistaken—it would be so easy. Douglas is walking down there now. Hang on, let me open the door to get a better look.” There was a pause. Maisie heard voices in the background, the muffled sounds of people moving along outside the kiosk. Priscilla came back on the line. “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness—” She wept into the telephone. “It is. It’s his son—he’s found his son.”
And as the line disconnected, Maisie replaced the receiver, brought her hands to her face, and wept as well—for Billy, for Priscilla and Douglas, and what they already knew of war. She wept too for Phil and Sally Coombes—for whatever had come to pass in the family, they had still lost a beloved son.
Mike Yates was in his office on the first floor of the old warehouse building, overlooking the brickyard where two vans were parked and men were loading tools and materials. One of the decorators loading a van directed Maisie up to the office, which was reached via a wooden exterior staircase and through a partially ajar door. A young woman was seated at a desk piled with papers and a ledger, and was typing a letter. Maisie saw the man she assumed was Mike Yates, standing at another desk in a small office that lay beyond a wood partition with pebbled glass windows. The typist did not look up until Maisie cleared her throat.
“He’s through there, if you want him,” said the woman.
“Oh. All right. Then I can just go in?”
“Door’s open—anyone can go in. Never disturb him if that door’s closed though, not if you don’t want your head blown off.”
“Really?” said Maisie.
“Yes, really—he’s a nasty man. I’m off to join the ATS next week, and I would rather put up with that than him. Monster. Blimmin’ monster. If he has a go at me this week, I’ll just down tools and leave him to it. Him and his blimmin’ accounts.”
“Right then. I’d better brace myself and go in.” Maisie stepped toward the open door, but turned to the young woman. “What’s your name, if I may ask?”
“Charlotte Bright.”
“Does he let you out for five minutes in the morning?”
“He does this week—can’t stop me.”
“If he doesn’t tell me to leave straightaway, could you meet me—perhaps downstairs or along the street, a few minutes after I leave?”
Bright looked up from her typewriter. “Go on—tell me what he’s done, miserable sod. I bet he’s done something—did you just find out he’s married? Told you lies, did he?”
“No, not quite. I’m a friend of Joe Coombes’ family, and—”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh poor Joe. We all thought a lot of Joe—he was lovely. Not like some of them, when they come up to get their wages. Anyone would think I was only here for them to make fun of, and they all think they’re so comical with their jokes everyone’s heard before.”
“I’d better go in,” said Maisie.
She approached the door to Mike Yates’ office and knocked on the glass. “Good morning—Mr. Yates?”
“And who’s wanting him?” said Yates, looking up from a stack of papers on his desk.
“My name is Maisie Dobbs,” said Maisie, deciding to give him her full affiliation. “I am a psychologist and investigator, and I am also a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Coombes, the parents of Joseph Coombes, now deceased, but latterly in your employ.”
Yates’ nut-brown eyes met Maisie’s. He took a pencil from behind his ear, as if he were about to make a note on the top sheet of paper in front of him, but thought better of it and instead tapped the pencil against the fingers of the opposite hand. “Yeah, I’d heard someone had been round to talk about Joe—bloke with a limp. Know him?”
“Yes, that’s Mr. Beale. He works for me.”
“Works for you? Well, well, well—man working for a woman. New one on me. Take a seat, Miss Dobbs—you can ask me all the questions you want to ask about Joe. Silly boy, skylarking around near a railway line, not able to hold his drink and standing on top of a wall like that.” He shook his head. “If he’d just had a bit of brain in his noddle, he would have seen that coming.”
“How did you find out how Joe died?”
“Freddie Mayes telephoned in—he’d found out from the police, then they came here.”
“I see.” Maisie sighed. “I wonder, Mr. Yates, what evidence do you have that Joe had been drinking?”
“Freddie told me—I had to ask him and Len, on account of the accident, and of course the police have been around. Said it was open and shut—death by misadventure and all that. But still, I’ll be going to see the family—probably tomorrow. Wanted to give them a bit more chance to get over the shock before I turned up. I’ve got Joe’s last pay packet, and a bit extra as a consideration for the family, to see them all right. Mind you, that’s if Dopey out there can pull herself together to get it all ready for me.” He looked past Maisie to Charlotte Bright, and then back again. “Auxiliary Territorial Service? That one? They’ll chuck her out after a week of her painting her nails in the dark when she’s supposed to be operating a searchlight—you mark my words.”
Maisie thought it best to ignore the comment. “It’s very good of you to visit Joe’s people, to help them out. They’ll need it for the funeral.”
“Not many firms would do it, but we like to take care of our own here at Yates. Now then, what can I do for you?”
“Mr. Yates, I am curious to know if Joe was the only one of your men to experience headaches and other symptoms, likely associated with the emulsion they’ve been using—the fire retardant, and—”
“How do you know about all that?” asked Yates.
Maisie gave a half-smile. “I think it’s fairly common knowledge that your crews who are currently in Hampshire were working with a type of paint that prevents fire when air force buildings are under attack from the enemy.”
Yates shook his head. “Not one of them can keep a thing to themselves, that lot.”
“Were they supposed to?”
“Were they heck? I told every one of them—if anyone asks, you’re just giving the buildings a lick of paint. Making everything nice for when old Adolf waltzes right in.”
Maisie sighed, wondering how she might continue the conversation and perhaps tease more information out of Yates. “You can’t stop lads talking about their work or anything else when they’re away from home.” She held Yates’ gaze. “Do you know what’s in that emulsion, Mr. Yates? Do you know if it’s been tested properly?”
Mike Yates walked away from his desk toward a window. He stared down at the yard below, and after a minute had passed—an uncomfortable interlude during which Maisie thought she should have perhaps not pressed her point—Yates turned back to answer the question.
“I don’t know if it’s been tested at all. I was asked about the job, and I got it. You don’t turn down a government contract like that, and I know my blokes would agree—they’ve all got to put roofs over their heads and food on the table. If they get a headache, they can take an aspirin powder for their trouble.”
“So the contract just came to you, you didn’t have to bid for it.”
“Sometimes it works like that. Sometimes you bid against other firms, and sometimes you’re just asked to give an estimate and you’re in. That was how this one was done—I was in.”
“You must know some important people, Mr. Yates.”
Yates’ eyes appeared to narrow, as if the aperture through which he viewed her had been altered. “What’s it to you, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie leaned forward, not allowing herself to be intimidated by Yates, and this time casting several more cards on the table. “Here’s what it is to me, Mr. Yates. Joe Coombes was a happy-go-lucky lad—I’ve seen him grow from a young boy into a thoughtful young man. Still green, admittedly, but a diamond all the same. And doing this job changed him—and not simply because he’d had a taste of being one of the older lads. I know this work had a profound physical impact upon him—but I know something else, too. Joe was worried sick. He was fed up with doing what he was doing and I don’t think the painting was the ‘doing’ that he hated. There was something else, and I am bound and determined to find out what it was. If nothing else, so his parents can be at peace—if that’s possible.”
Yates stared at Maisie, then looked out of the window again. Seconds later, he turned back, taking his seat once more. He leaned forward, hands clasped on top of the sheaf of papers. “There’s nothing more to tell you, Miss Dobbs. What you’re saying doesn’t make sense to me—you might as well be talking Greek. I sent Joe Coombes off to work with a crew on a job a lot of lads his age would jump at the chance of doing, and he goes soft on me—talking his head off about what he’s doing when he was supposed to keep his trap shut, and then getting himself drunk enough to kill himself. There’s your truth, Miss Dobbs—and I’m sorry I can’t make it easier for you to swallow.”
Maisie came to her feet and held out her hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Yates. I am much obliged to you for your candor. I am sure Joe’s parents would love to hear from you—and for you to tell them what a wonderful young apprentice he was.”
Mike Yates ignored the outstretched hand and instead yelled past her. “Oi, Miss Not-So-Bright—if you could drag yourself away from your penny dreadful for a minute, would you see Miss Dobbs down to the yard.”
Maisie turned and left the small office and was joined by Bright, who put down a sheaf of papers and rose from her desk to escort her to the yard below. She did not speak until they were on the stairs.
“Don’t take any notice of him—crabby human being that he is. Cheek of it! I only pick up a book when he hasn’t anything for me to do, and I don’t read stupid stuff either. I’d argue back, but it’s not worth my breath. Him and his flash friends.”
“What flash friends,” asked Maisie. “He doesn’t look the type.”
“They never look the type, according to my mum—these crooks. I reckon it was one of his dodgy friends who got him that contract.”
“Does he mix with people like that?”
Bright shook her head. “He seems the type to me—if you come from where I come from, you know about that sort of thing.” She sighed. “Well, I don’t really know about that sort of thing personally, but my dad does.”
“What does your dad do, that he knows this ‘sort of thing’?” asked Maisie.
“He’s a copper. Sergeant at Carter Street police station.”
“That’s interesting,” said Maisie.
“It probably is, as long as you’re not related to him. Treats me like I’m a criminal half the time. What time are you going out? What time are you coming back? Which bus are you catching? Who are you going with? I like to go out to the dance halls with my friends—we don’t get up to anything wrong, just dancing to the swing bands playing the latest numbers, having a bit of fun. The way my dad talks, the musical world begins and ends with Gracie Fields singing about Walter taking her to the altar!” She sighed. “I know I’ve already told you this, but I can’t wait to get into the ATS, away from all of them.”
Maisie laughed. “Your dad’s like that because he loves you, Charlotte. In his job he’s seen too much, so he’s just worried about you—give him a chance, won’t you?”
“I s’pose you’re right, but it don’t half get on my nerves sometimes, all the questions. Anyway, nice to meet you, Miss Dobbs. And tell Joe’s people I was sorry to hear the news about him. I liked Joe. He was a good sort. Not like that brother of his—”
Maisie touched Charlotte Bright on the arm as she was about to turn away. “How do you know his brother?”
“Came round here once or twice, looking for Joe. Just before this job started, the big contract. I didn’t like the look of him—I mean, he was nice enough, but not like Joe—seemed a bit harder around the edges. Joe was sort of innocent, as if he would still be a bit of a boy when he was eighty. Anyway, I’ve got to rush—the guv’nor will be docking my pay if I’m out here any longer.”
Maisie glanced up at the office window. Mike Yates was looking down at them. She turned away and left the yard, just as a black and green Rover 10 swung through the gates.
“Where’s Martin today?” asked Maisie, a little disappointed to see Sandra at the office without her son.
“Lawrence’s aunt is staying with us, and said she would look after him today, so I’ve had some time to myself. I hate to say it, but it’s quite lovely—but just for a little while.” She laid a hand upon a pile of papers. “I’ve caught up with the letters, and there are three invoices for you to sign before I send them out. And the filing is done too—what does Billy do when I’m not here? There were pages everywhere.” She held up her finger, as if it were a reminder. “Oh, Mrs. Partridge telephoned. No news of Tim was her first comment. I wasn’t going to ask her what she was talking about, but she told me anyway. What does he think he’s doing? At his age? Going off in a boat, over there to where it’s terrible. We’ve been listening to the wireless, and—”
“What did she say?” asked Maisie.
“Just that a coastguard had told her the best thing she could do would be to go home and wait, and not get in the way. She sounded very angry, and very distraught—and who could blame her? So she said she’s coming back, and Billy’s driving them.” Sandra’s voice changed, a smile readily spreading where before there was consternation. “Isn’t it a miracle, about Billy’s son? Who would have imagined that could happen? Anyway, he’s with his mates now, on their way to their barracks, according to Mrs. Partridge, though she says he had some sort of shoulder wound. She told me that Billy had wanted his son to come home with them, but young Billy said he couldn’t. Well, obviously he had to go back to barracks—he’s a soldier, after all. But at least Billy had good news for Doreen.”
Maisie nodded and placed her bag on Billy’s desk as she pulled up a chair to sit down opposite Sandra. There was gentle warmth in their exchange, and Maisie felt a need for that cocoon of belonging, of being with someone she had known for a long time.
“Were there any other telephone calls, Sandra?”
“Just one. From Mr. Klein. Wants you to telephone him back ‘soonest,’” he said. “There’s a slight snag with the Ministry of Health that needs to be addressed. That’s all he said. Is it about—”
“Thank you,” Maisie interrupted. “I’ll telephone him now.” Maisie stood up, grabbed her bag and stepped into her office. “Excuse me, Sandra—just for a minute,” she added, as she closed the door separating her room from the outer office.
Maisie was put through to the solicitor with no delay.
“Slight problem, Maisie. Not a huge one, but . . . well, any snag at this point could become more serious if we don’t nip it in the bud.”