Consulting her watch, Maisie realized there was no time to locate Phineas Hutchins, though she dropped into a local pub to get change for the telephone kiosk, and directions to the farm visited by Joe Coombes. The publican gave her plenty of coins for her telephone calls, and she discovered that the farm neighbored the Keeps’ land, and was leased from the same owner. She would visit tomorrow, before making her way back to London. But there was more she must do before she returned to her room at the farm for the night.
Brenda picked up the telephone after the first ring. “Anna’s been asking for you—and for young Tim. She’s in a bit of a state about it, poor little love.”
Since the evacuee came to live at the Dower House, Maisie was aware that the child had a sensitivity shared with her grandmother.
“What is she saying? What has she been told about Tim?”
“Nothing—but she already knew he wasn’t here without us even telling her. She said she watched him hiking out over the fields on the morning he left. She said she knew he was going to leave, because she could see it in his head. I tell you, that child makes me wonder at times, Maisie. Your father says it’s nothing to worry about, that children on their own see all sorts—little friends who aren’t there, and other strange things. He said your mother always told him they had to just accept anything you said that was like that without comment, when you were a child.”
“Yes, Dad’s right. And she is still not completely well, is she?” Maisie knew her stepmother meant well but worried she might say something that would make Anna feel different from other children. “Did Anna say anything specific—about Tim?”
“She said she had a big dream, that he had a bad arm and that he was on a boat.”
“She knows he likes to sail—he’s told her enough stories about his trips to see his friend Gordon.”
“And what do you say to the bad arm?”
Maisie was quick to answer. “Oh, you know—she’s seen his father many times now and understands that Douglas lost an arm, so in her dreams it all becomes mixed up. That’s how dreams are.”
“Well, when the woman from the Ministry of Health came, I had to whisper to Anna not to say anything about her dreams and what she imagines. Last thing we want is for the woman to write something critical about it in the report.”
“She came today? I thought she wasn’t coming until I was present. Oh my goodness.”
“Don’t you worry, Maisie. Your father and I made a good account of ourselves, and so did Anna—we’d brought her downstairs to lie on the bed you’d made up for Tim in the conservatory, so she could look out over the fields. She wanted to watch Lady in the paddock, and Emma when your father took the dogs for a walk. And she keeps saying she wants to see Tim when he comes home.”
“So, what happened? Tell me—this is so important, and the woman will have thought the wrong thing because I wasn’t there.”
“I told you, it’s all right—don’t worry. Your father explained that you were involved in war work, that you could not discuss it. He told her that you had to go to London a couple of times a week, but that Anna was in our good hands when you went—just like any other woman might leave her child with relatives.”
“Oh dear—”
“She asked questions and wrote on a form that I couldn’t see. She said ‘Right you are’ a lot, and asked about your marital status—again. They asked that the last time. I reminded her that you were widowed, and I pointed out that your in-laws are over at the manor. Then she checked her notes and said, ‘Oh yes, your daughter is Margaret, Lady Compton, isn’t she?’ So I reckon it will be all right. What does Mr. Klein say?”
Maisie sighed. “That there is an issue because I’m a widow—husbandless is what they mean.”
“There’s a lot of women going to be husbandless in this war, and children going to be fatherless. And at least this will be one they don’t have to worry about.”
“Mr. Klein said they asked about her father. All her grandmother knew was that his name was Marco, and that he was a merchant seaman from Malta.”
“You could make a verse out of that.” Brenda laughed.
The pips sounded, and Maisie pressed more coins into the slot and pushed button “A” on the telephone box.
“I wish I could laugh too, Brenda. Mr. Klein has pointed out to them that, what with the situation in Malta and the paltry amount of information we have on the father—and it might not even be correct—there is almost no chance of locating him. I’m used to looking for people, and I doubt I could find Marco from Malta. And Anna is five years old, for goodness’ sake!”
“I can hear you getting worried again, Maisie. Try not to—you’ve had references from some very good people—Lord Julian, Lady Rowan, that Mr. Huntley, and Mr. MacFarlane.”
“I think Robbie MacFarlane might not have been the best choice.”
“It’ll be all right, Maisie. He might be a bit brusque, but he’ll do you proud, just you see—and after all, he is a policeman. And for now little Anna is here, and she is safe—and she knows she’s safe. I just wish she would stop fretting about Tim. She says he will be home in a few days. What with that little determined face of hers, I wouldn’t bet against it.”
Maisie bit her lip, imagining Anna, her black hair braided in two long plaits tied with ribbon at the ends. She would be kneeling on her bed looking out across the fields, her brow knitted, waiting for Tim to come home.
“I must go now, Brenda—I’ll be back in London tomorrow and will telephone again. Perhaps I can speak to Anna then.”
“All right, Maisie, love. You look after yourself. I’m glad you finally told us about your plans. And Maisie—remember, that little girl loves you. She told me so yesterday. She asked when you were coming home.”
Maisie felt words catch in her throat, and could bid only a faint good-bye to her stepmother.
Composing herself, Maisie picked up the receiver again and placed a call to a number seared into her memory. Whitehall-one-two-one-two. Scotland Yard. She was put through to Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell without delay.
“I was just about to go home, get an early one, and there you are. If I could have put money on anyone messing up my plans, it would have been you, Miss Dobbs. Now then, what the you-know-what can I do for you?”
“Two things. Perhaps three. First—would you pave the way for me to see Inspector Murphy again tomorrow? Late morning would be best, if you can. And the other thing is this—do you know what the Robertsons have been up to lately?”
There was a pause on the line, followed by a loud sigh.
“For a minute there, I thought you asked me about the Robertsons. In fact, I could have sworn you asked me about London’s most notorious family of criminals who—for reasons best known to the gods—keep slithering through the fingers of the law. Yes, I thought you asked about them, just for a minute.”
“Inspector Caldwell—please—”
“That means I should be getting you in here to have a chat with me and my esteemed colleague from the Flying Squad, because we both know there is no smoke without a fire.” Caldwell cleared his throat. “Now then, what do you know, that you’re asking me what I know?”
“Just a guess.”
“What is it?”
“I think Jimmy Robertson is involved in the death of Joe Coombes.”
“Pull the other one. Jimmy Robertson would not be messing about with a wet-behind-the-ears apprentice. You’re wasting my time, Miss Dobbs. Right now we don’t have anything concerning Jimmy Robertson on our department’s books, though I like to know what him and his kin are up to. Harry Bream in the Squad has a few robberies he’s looking into, and what with the war on, you can bet the Robertsons are making hay at everyone else’s expense. They say crime will go down, what with all the bad blokes joining the army, but I haven’t seen a lot of evidence of it, not yet. In fact, it’s the opposite. But as I said, I can’t see your lad being mixed up in all this.”
Maisie felt a sudden lack of patience. “Have it your way, Inspector Caldwell. I’ll pull the other one somewhere else!” She slammed down the receiver.
But instead of picturing Caldwell looking at his own receiver and laughing at her expense, Maisie could only see in her mind’s eye a little girl kneeling on her bed, her elbows resting on the windowsill, her chin on her hands, looking across fields, waiting for those she loved to come home. Maisie had come to love Anna too, and now, in the telephone kiosk, she leaned against the doorframe and began to weep with fear, that—despite documents signed by the child’s grandmother and all the other required elements that had been gathered by her solicitor—her dearest, most heartfelt wish might come to nothing.
Maisie’s eyes were still raw, smarting as she sat in her car along the road and watched a van—she suspected an armored van with a guard alongside the driver—leave the works where paper money was printed for the Bank of England. She had not sought nor did she wish to gain access to the establishment, for she could acquire all the information she needed from Lord Julian. No need to cause a problem where none were necessary. She had learned that security was tight around the establishment, due not only to the amount of currency being taken to and from London, but because of the special notes produced for airmen. She pushed away thoughts of Tom—he was young to be so vulnerable away from home. Yet so were all the airmen taking to the skies. Eighteen, nineteen, perhaps just into their twenties—so much rested on the shoulders of youth.
She had waited outside the gates, having observed that the van would leave at different times of day. She had also learned from Lord Julian that a variety of steps were taken to ensure the safe arrival of money in London or wherever stocks were bound. Alternate routes were chosen, selected just before the van left, and a certain understated police presence along the way meant additional security. How tempting it must be for someone like Jimmy Robertson—though would even a family such as the Robertsons risk so much? She knew only too well that the darkest inhabitants of London’s underworld were not stupid—though they were informed enough to slip through the law’s dragnet.
Maurice had taught her early in her apprenticeship that she had to be something of a chameleon. On one hand, she was an advocate for the dead. In viewing the deceased she had to endeavor to understand every inch of their being—and not only from the perspective of the pathologist’s craft. He cautioned her to accrue knowledge of the “forensic science of the whole person.” Hence she was accustomed to being alone with the deceased, to absorbing an aura others might not feel. But Maurice also imbued in her the need to understand the mind of a criminal—and the criminal in question might have the equivalent of a doctorate following long study of his or her subject. Or he might be a neophyte, a mere novice who sees only the fortune waiting at the end of crime’s rainbow rather than the nuances of color in the job to be done. And now, having satisfied herself that she understood what was required in the transportation of considerable amounts of money, she decided that Jimmy Robertson would not have ventured beyond a red outer ring of that rainbow—at least not if there were easier pickings closer to home. But what were those easier pickings? And how did Yates and Sons fit into the picture? What was the pot of gold the man in the black and green Rover 10 was looking for—or perhaps protecting? Before driving away she decided she had chosen the correct category for the presence of large amounts of new money in the same place as Joe Coombes had been lodging. It was not a distraction, neither was it crucial, but this particular shoe fit somewhere. For now she would still consider it important, something she would perhaps come back to.
The following morning, Maisie declined a fried breakfast in favor of a soft-boiled egg and two thick slices of Mrs. Keep’s homemade bread, toasted, with butter and honey from the farm’s hives. She packed up her overnight bag, and left, waving to Mrs. Keep as she drove away. The Keeps—still anxious for news of their sons—had assured her that Phineas Hutchins was a “good sort” who kept to himself but knew the land and his livestock better than anyone.
Grateful for such a solid motor car, Maisie drove at low speed along the pitted track down to the farmhouse where “Finny” Hutchins resided. It was a timber-framed home with a thatched roof and well-tended vegetable garden in the front. Maisie came to a halt alongside the farmhouse, stepped out of the motor car and walked to the front door. She knocked twice, but was not surprised at the lack of an answer—a farmer would be expected to be out on his land long before breakfast. Maisie never embarked upon a trip to the country without her stout walking shoes—which she appreciated as she entered the muddy cobblestone courtyard beyond the house, leading to a series of low buildings. Two border collies—one young, one more mature—saw Maisie first, and came running toward her. The older one seemed more measured, the younger one was yapping. The experienced dog maintained a low trot around her, as if she were a sheep to be kept in place. Hutchins looked up from his work, mending a fence. He was not a tall man—Maisie had an inch or two on his height—but he had a solid bearing, a strength to his body. She thought he might be in his sixties. His gray hair was clipped in a tidy fashion, and he was clean-shaven. And though his attire—corduroy trousers, a gray shirt, woolen weskit—showed age, it would appear they were clean. She wondered what Freddie Mayes might have meant by his comment about the aroma that followed the farmer to the pub.
“Lads! Lads! Get back ’ere!” Hutchins commanded. The dogs ran to heel as the man wiped his hands on a handkerchief pulled from his pocket. He took his tweed jacket from where it had been hung on a fence post and collected his shepherd’s crook, which was leaning in the same place. He walked toward Maisie.
“Hello—Mr. Hutchins? Good morning—my name is Maisie Dobbs. I wonder if you could spare me a little of your time.” Maisie held out her hand.
“Depends upon what you’ll be wanting with that precious time of mine. We’ve got to get up to the big field presently—so the lads and I shall be tapping our feet to be off before you know it. Eh, lads?” He passed the crook into his left hand, with which he also held the jacket, and accepted Maisie’s hand. “My, that’s a strong shake you’ve got there, young lady. Can’t abide a wet fish in my fingers, no I can’t—can I, boys?” He looked down at the dogs, then back to Maisie. “And I like to see a person come to a farm with good solid footwear. Not like some of them land girls I’ve heard are turning up without even a pair of good boots. Now then, Miss whatever-your-name-was—state your business, because I’ve got to get about mine.”
Maisie smiled. “Mr. Hutchins, I want to talk to you about Joe Coombes—I’m a friend of his parents, and I am also an investigator, so I’m trying to help get some questions answered for them, about his passing. Can you help me?”
The man’s ready smile evaporated. He looked down at his feet. The older of the two dogs whimpered. “You’d best come in then,” said Hutchins, pointing to the farmhouse with his shepherd’s crook.
Maisie declined the offer of tea, and Hutchins joined her at the kitchen table, where he had drawn back a chair for her when they entered. The kitchen was neat, as if everything was in its designated place. The pine table was scrubbed and clean. The red-tiled floor smelled of disinfectant.
“You keep a comfortable farmhouse, Mr. Hutchins,” said Maisie. “I live in the midst of several farms, and I know a good farmer when I see one.”
“Farm has to run like a ship—otherwise you never know what might end up overboard in a storm.” He rapped the knuckles of his right hand on the table. “Right then, miss—let’s get down to it. What do you want to know about Joe?”
“I’d heard that you’d befriended him, and that he had visited you here at the farm.”
“That’s true,” said Hutchins. “Took to my young pup there, and started asking me about him, and about how I train them for sheep. I don’t only have my own two, but that one’s mother, and I sell the pups when she has them. I breed a good sheepdog, and there’s farmers who know it. The bitch whelped again just afore Joe died. I let him have first pick.”
“Really? Joe?” said Maisie.
“Don’t look so surprised! He might have been a London boy, but he soon had the country in him. Loved it here, he did. And he came over to the farm many an evening, and would sit here talking to me, asking me questions. Came out with me to watch the dogs working. He asked me for one and I told him—put one of them dogs in London and you’ll have a lunatic on your hands. Fifty mile a day that dog can do—easy. Been bred for a job, not to sit in front of a fire. Mind you, mine always like the fire of a winter’s evening, I must say. My late wife said I was a soft touch with the dogs. But they work for it, and they’re good ’uns. Joe said he wouldn’t want a dog in London, that he wanted to work for me here on the farm. Said he’d had enough of it all, London, the painting, and going round the country to these airfields.”
Maisie leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and drawing closer to Hutchins. “I am not shocked, Mr. Hutchins, but perhaps a little taken aback. I’d heard that Joe missed home, and that he wanted to finish with the job.”
“Right enough he did. He’d had enough of all of them. But he didn’t want to go home, and that’s a fact.”
Maisie looked down at her hands. She was in no hurry to continue, and felt that Hutchins was waiting for her to say something. And she suspected he was waiting for her to ask the right question—a question that he could answer without feeling as if he had revealed a confidence.
“Was Joe troubled, would you say?” Maisie looked up into the farmer’s eyes.
“He was.”
“And what was he troubled about?”
“I don’t know, though I tried to find out.”
“And how did you do that—how did you try to find out?”
“We’d go out to the fields, check the sheep of an evening after he’d finished at one of them airfields, and then we’d come down to the house for a cup of tea and perhaps a bite to eat. Sometimes he’d stay and sometimes he had to get back to the other lads, or to have the dinner his landlady had put out for him. He’d sit there, right where you are now, and we’d talk, and as time went on, it was always as if he wanted to tell me something, but just couldn’t get the words out.”
“Do you think he was in trouble?” asked Maisie.
Hutchins shook his head. “I know what a lad looks like when he’s in trouble, when he’s been up to something, and that wasn’t the look he had. No, it wasn’t that kind of trouble. But it was close—it was as if he was trying not to get into trouble.”
“Do you think someone was making him do something he didn’t want to do?”
“Well, his father was for a start.”
Maisie frowned, and was about to speak when Hutchins continued.
“Far as I can make out, Joe wanted to ask for his cards from this Yates business and get another job—he wanted to come to work on the farm. But he said his father had put his foot down, that he said that if he gave up working for Yates, then he might as well never come home again. He told Joe you don’t give up a chance of a craftsman job, an apprenticeship that could lead to something. I remember him sitting there, and saying, ‘I don’t want to go where this job is leading though. I want to stay on your farm.’ He was only a boy.” He sighed. “I can see his father’s point, but Joe told me his father had just brushed it off when he told him about the headaches. Not sure I would have done that—but I don’t know. Not my place to comment upon how another man raises his son. But I know this—they’re soon gone, especially if there’s a war on.”
Maisie nodded. “Do you think Joe was scared of anything?”
Hutchins met her eyes once again. “I do, Miss Dobbs. Yes, I do. Only I don’t know what it was. He wouldn’t tell me. I said to him, one evening, out there with the dogs, I said, ‘Come on, lad, a problem shared is a problem halved. Tell me what’s bothering you, and it might not seem so bad—like putting on the light in a dark room.’”
Maisie smiled. “A very dear friend of mine once said the same thing—about putting on the light in a dark room. He told me that when we keep secrets they grow inside us, and we can’t see the truth of them anymore.”
“That’s about the measure of it,” said Hutchins. “What Joe couldn’t tell me could have been a small thing, or it might have been something much bigger than he could manage. But he was scared—and he seemed fearful of what might befall me if I knew what it was.”
“Did he say as much?” asked Maisie.
“Just that it was best if I didn’t know. That’s words of a fair size for a young man.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
Phineas Hutchins broke the silence that followed.
“Now, Miss Dobbs, you can answer a question for me. You’ve been looking a bit surprised ever since we met. First out there in the courtyard, and now in here. You keep looking around my kitchen, as if there’s something you find curious about me and my house.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Hutchins—but I was told to expect a quite different person.”
Hutchins laughed. “Bet it was that Freddie, the one who was supposed to keep an eye on Joe. I surmised he was the foreman, and in that position, he should mind the apprentices. It’s part of the job—just like Odin here looks after his apprentice, Loki.” The dogs pricked up their ears as their names were spoken. “First time Freddie saw me, I’d been out there in the courtyard loading up two pigs being taken to market. I’d had a miserable time of it. As a rule I’d have a good old wash and brush up before I went to the local, but this time I had a thirst on me and I didn’t care what anyone thought—and me and the landlord grew up together, so he knew I was usually better turned out. Anyway, that was when Joe came over to talk about the dogs, and we became friends.” The man looked down at his hands, and in that moment it was as if every line on his forehead, every fold of skin on his face, became more apparent. “He was a good boy, Joe. He was my friend and I do miss him. Nice to have a lad around again, here in the house.”
Maisie nodded, and took one of Hutchins’ hands in her own. Some seconds passed before she spoke again. “I should be going, Mr. Hutchins.” She slipped her hand away and took a card from her pocket. “This is my card. If you can think of anything else that might help me, please get in touch.”
“’Fore you go, miss—come out to the barn. Want to show you something.”
Hutchins led the way, first to the courtyard, then to another small outbuilding. He drew Maisie inside and pointed to a large boxed-in area filled with straw.
“Oh, my goodness. May I?”
“The mum’s name is Freya. She’s not as protective as she was—she’s already started nipping at them, telling them who’s boss. Take a pup away from the mother too soon, and you take away the first lessons in life, so I leave them with her a bit longer than some might. She’s letting them all know they can’t be top dog. She’ll let you pet them.”
Maisie knelt down to stroke the pups, who nipped and tumbled trying to get to her outstretched hand.
Hutchins pointed to one of the pups. “That one there—with the one blue eye, one black—he’s the one I earmarked for Joe. They’re all spoken for,” said the farmer. “Even with the war. Work has to go on and a farmer needs good dogs.” He knelt down beside Maisie and picked up the one he had chosen for Joe, holding it to his chest as he stroked the pup. “This one stays though. Not getting rid of Joe’s boy. Going to call him by the name he chose for his dog. He went to the library and looked up names so it fit with my little gods here—and of course, my goddess.” He smiled as he reached across to ruffle the bitch’s ears, setting the pup in front of its mother. “Joe wanted to call him Magni. That’s the god of strength. Seems only right he’ll have that name, even though Joe’s not here.”
Later, as Maisie bid good-bye to Phineas Hutchins, she wished she had known about him sooner, for the perspective he offered regarding the final weeks of Joe’s life was not quite what she was expecting, though she was not surprised. Despite taking more time than she had hoped, it seemed the mystery surrounding the death of Joe Coombes was beginning to give up its secrets. “Everything yields to pressure, Maisie,” Maurice had taught her. “The slow drip of water on stone will, in time, wear away a ridge. Even the strongest metal, if enough weight is applied, will start to bend. Some cases will begin to give quickly. But do not despair of the assignment when it seems to defy every effort. Just give it time. Continue with your work, with your questions and your observations. Wait for the yielding.”
There was one more task to be completed before setting off on her journey back to London. She slowed down alongside All Hallows Church, parked the motor car and entered the place of worship. The church was cool and damp, and to the left as she entered was the town’s war memorial plaque. One by one she read down the long accounting of young men from the town who had perished in the years 1914 to 1918. And there he was. Joseph Hutchins. Age nineteen.
She returned to the Alvis, took the driver’s seat once again, started the engine, slipped the motor car into gear and drove off toward the Winchester Road. At last, slowly but surely, the yielding had begun.