The black motor car visible in Maisie’s rearview mirror was not close enough to be overly obvious, but it had been in her wake a little too long for her not to have noticed. The driver had signaled when she had, had braked when she had, and had remained well back when she slowed her speed. Now she would test the driver—she would not return to London. Instead she would detour across country, through Petersfield, and onward beyond Petworth, taking the road on to Uckfield and then Heathfield, across to Tunbridge Wells and—finally—Chelstone. It would be a rare coincidence if a fellow driver were to be undertaking the long, identical journey. For her part, London could wait—she would go to see Anna, and along the way find out if she were being followed.
It was close to Heathfield that Maisie looked into the mirror and saw only a green Morris Eight trailing behind her—she had first spotted it pulling out of a petrol station some two miles away. She breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the tension she had held in her neck ebb away. Already somewhat lighter, she decided to stop in Tunbridge Wells to buy a gift for Anna. Not a doll—Anna was not drawn to dolls, much preferring the company of the giant Alsatian, Emma, or her white pony, Lady. She enjoyed reading, so a book might be a good choice, a story they could read together. But Maisie had to take care and not spend a lot of money—it must be a gift without obvious high value, or she would be taken to task by her father—Frankie Dobbs had never hidden his concern regarding the bond that had grown between Maisie and the evacuee child.
Maisie parked close to the picturesque area known as The Pantiles, walked to the bookshop opposite the bandstand, and chose an illustrated edition of The Railway Children by E. Nesbit. Leaving the shop with her brown paper-wrapped parcel, she realized she was anxious to reach Chelstone, and she thought, then, about how Joe might have felt, far from home, moving from place to place with the painting crew. Such dislocation might well have caused distress, leading to tension, and subsequently, headaches.
She unlocked the door of the Alvis, placed her shoulder bag and the small parcel on the passenger seat and, having started the engine, was about to maneuver out onto the main thoroughfare when she saw a black motor car idling across the road. The driver’s face was obscured by a newspaper, but as she watched, the corner flapped down and the man behind the wheel stole a look at her vehicle. He brought up the newspaper with a sharp snap. Maisie held her breath, but moved off after another motor car had passed, and then turned right, followed by an immediate left. She pulled into a narrow lane of terrace houses to the right of a church on the corner, stopped the vehicle beyond a tree, and looked back at the road she had just left. Only a few seconds elapsed before the black motor car passed by. If she emerged from the lane now, the driver might spot her in his rearview mirror, but at the same time, she did not want to give him time to turn around and come in search of her. She slammed the gear into reverse, pulled back onto the road, and proceeded in the direction of The Pantiles. Beyond the shops was an area of rough ground surrounded by trees—she would wait there a while before making her way to Tonbridge, and then to Chelstone. And during the time spent sitting under the broad canopy of a plane tree, she had time to speculate. Who was following her? What nerve had she touched in her investigation thus far into the whereabouts of Joe Coombes? She could not imagine the landlady in Whitchurch having given her name to another person—but perhaps someone came along with a few choice banknotes and was soon in possession of Maisie’s card. Given the time of day and the encroaching evening, it would have been clear she was staying locally, so the driver had only to wait until the following day to identify her motor car as she drove through Whitchurch, and then wait for her at each stop until she was on her way back to London.
Or could Billy’s visit to Yates’ yard have sparked interest? Perhaps he’d asked one question too many, and had set off an alarm. And now Maisie was being followed. But by whom? A government agent? A Yates employee? Someone from the military department supplying Yates with what could well be a toxic paint?
Another hour passed before Maisie felt a sufficient level of ease to drive off, through Tunbridge Wells, skirting around Tonbridge in the direction of Chelstone, where she arrived late afternoon. When Maisie entered through the kitchen door, Brenda informed her that Anna was asleep in her room, guarded by the ever-watchful Emma.
“How is she?” asked Maisie as her stepmother busied herself making a chicken broth.
“Had a bit of a temperature today, but the fever broke last night and she’s full of spots, poor little mite. I put a pair of cotton gloves on her hands—stops her doing too much damage to her skin if she scratches in her sleep. She has conjunctivitis, so I go in and bathe her eyes of a morning—she smiled this morning and said she liked feeling the warm water. So now we’ve got to get some good bone broth down her—and she does like chicken, so cook over at the house sent a girl round this morning with one already cooked. She said it was roasted last night for the Canadians, but they preferred the beef. Well, they would, wouldn’t they? Strapping great men like that, what with all them prairies or whatever it is they have over there.”
“I’ll go up to see her now,” said Maisie. “I can only stay tonight—I have a lot of work on my plate at the moment, but I’ll be back on Thursday.”
Maisie removed her jacket and slipped it over the back of a kitchen chair. She took the wrapped book, and made her way upstairs.
Anna was curled up in her bed, her hands clasped under her chin. Her eyes were closed, but the way Emma—lying down alongside the bed—was looking up at her young mistress, Maisie guessed that Anna was not asleep. She stroked the dog’s head, and knelt by the bed. She placed her hand on the child’s forehead and, without thinking, leaned forward to kiss the place where her fingers had just measured the girl’s temperature.
“Auntie Maisie.” Anna’s voice was little more than a whisper.
“Oh pet, you poor little mite.”
“I’m all right, Miss Maisie. Emma’s here, and Auntie Brenda says she’ll let me have my broth from the pudding basin—Nan always gave me broth in the pudding basin if I wasn’t feeling well.”
“You can have your broth in whatever bowl you want, Anna.” She ran her fingers across the little girl’s forehead again. “I have a present for you—a new book.”
Anna nodded. Maisie set the book down as Brenda came into the room bearing a tray with a small white pudding basin filled with broth, a slice of fresh bread and a glass of Lucozade. “There you are—Anna could do with the extra glucose in the Lucozade,” said Brenda. “It’ll give her more energy to get better.”
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?
The police driver said little to Maisie, apart from the occasional inquiry as to whether she might require a break, a “refreshment stop” perhaps. But there was something about the journey that reminded her of her flight from Gibraltar into Spain, when she traveled alone with the driver who ferried her to the makeshift field hospital where she became a nurse once again. She felt the weight of remembrance bear down upon her as she recalled the young men—and sometimes women—who were brought to the former convent, often under cover of darkness, to have their injuries tended. In those days she became both doctor and nurse, and she saw, again, the wounds of battle. Joe with his headaches was now a victim of a new war. And who would be the other new victims? Yet still there would be the Tims of the world—aching to get to where the action might be, desperate to prove themselves.
She remembered, then, a saying that someone had quoted to her once. Was it her father? It certainly wasn’t Maurice, because she had heard it spoken by a Yorkshireman, someone from northern England, of that she was sure. Where there’s muck, there’s brass. That was it. Was it Joseph Waite, the self-made man who had hired her to find his daughter, years ago? It had been one of her first cases after Maurice retired. Yes, perhaps it was him. Where there’s muck, there’s brass. A simple line, an aphorism that seemed to suggest the selling of manure. But it had a meaning that went so much deeper, alluding to the fact that where you find filth—where you find dirt; where you find the detritus of life—you’ll also discover someone making a profit. Much money can be made from the most dirty jobs. Muck and money go together. That was another one. And it occurred to her that in her lifetime she had seen nothing more filthy than war itself.
“Oh, you’re in the money then!” Lord Julian had said during their telephone conversation. It was a quip, a joke. But two things now came to mind. One, Joe Coombes was working in close proximity to the country’s source of wealth, and secondly, that Yates had accepted a lucrative contract that was potentially harmful to his workers. It wouldn’t be the first time she had seen the hardest working people become enmeshed in a web not of their making.
There’s a reason they call it filthy lucre, Maisie. Maurice’s words, spoken in the early days of her own apprenticeship, echoed in her mind. It was almost as if he were by her side, pushing, testing, guiding her.
Detective Chief Inspector “Spud” Murphy was a jovial man, and—Maisie thought—seemed as if he would be more suited to life as a village butcher. She could imagine him wearing a white cotton coat, a blue-striped apron and a straw boater, his drooping jowls held in place by a starched white collar and blue bow tie. Yet at the same time, it was clear, once he had introduced himself, that Murphy was efficient and businesslike—and she could not envision him wielding a cleaver.
“Caldwell said you were held in high regard by his department, Miss Dobbs,” said Murphy, opening a folder presented to him by the driver who had brought Maisie to Basingstoke.
“He did?” said Maisie, her brow furrowed, though she smiled—after all, she and Caldwell were not what Lady Rowan would have called “pally.”
Murphy grinned in return. “Mind you, he also said not to tell you—but I thought I would. Not a nice business, this—helps to have something positive in your back pocket to fall back on if your day includes identification of the dead.”
“May I see the postmortem report first?” asked Maisie.
Murphy had placed a pair of half-moon glasses on his nose to review the contents of the folder he had just opened, and now studied her over the rims. “You can because Inspector Caldwell obviously trusts you. But do you understand medical notes?”
“I was a nurse, in the last war, and I’ve studied legal medicine—in Edinburgh.”
Murphy looked down at his notes. “Oh yes—and you were once assistant to Dr. Maurice Blanche. I remember now.” He closed the folder and put it to one side, picking up another that was already on his desk. He looked up at Maisie. “Met the man a couple of times when I was at the Yard, before I came down here for a quieter life. Impressive. Very impressive.” He held out the folder to Maisie, and consulted his watch. “Here, have a quick gander at that—it’ll prepare you.”
Maisie opened the folder and began to read. “I don’t think this type of injury is sustained falling off a wall, do you?”
Murphy turned away from his desk to look out of the window. Expanding his view, thought Maisie. It had always interested her, that physically gazing out at a landscape, even if that landscape offered a cluster of town buildings, could provide a broader view of the possibilities inspired by a question. She did the same thing herself, when something troubled her.
“On the face of it—yes. He fell straight down onto a railway line—fortunately, it was not a main line, but an old shunting line, not used in donkey’s years. If it had been on another line, the skull would have been smashed beyond all recognition by a loco. So you can see, where his noddle hit the cast iron, he sustained a very, very nasty wound.”
“There’s something you’re not happy about, Inspector.”
Murphy sighed, but remained silent against sunlight emerging from behind a cloud, the beam slanting through the window.
Maisie continued. “I think you might be in two minds. On the one hand, yes, it seems from this report the victim—on account of his own stupidity or a crime—fell from a high wall and straight down onto the line, however . . . however, at the same time we could speculate that he was running from someone and stumbled from the wall in a panic. Or he could have been pushed. Or—”
“Or someone could have clobbered him on the head with a very—very—heavy object, and then the body was moved from somewhere else.” Murphy turned as he finished the sentence for her and moved away from the window.
“Have you had soil particles tested? Was there any residue of decomposed vegetation on his clothing?” Maisie ran her finger down the report.
“It’s right there.” Murphy stood beside her and pointed to a paragraph near the foot of the fourth page. “The railway line had to some extent returned to nature—there were weeds growing between the sleepers and among the rocks underneath—and apart from some gravel in the wound, there wasn’t anything to prove movement of the body, such as mineral or plant matter from another location. I think that’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it?” He consulted his watch. “I won’t rule it out though, but there are those who would. Come on, better get going.”
Maisie could bear the smell of a pathologist’s domain far better than most. She had known grown men—policemen with broad shoulders and a constitution that allowed them to face criminals armed with deadly weapons—fall to the ground upon entering a laboratory where postmortems were conducted. Seeing a murder victim in the place where the body was found was one thing—they could steel themselves for the discovery. But there was something about the vulnerable nakedness of a corpse having endured the attentions of a man with a scalpel, a doctor who had used sharp instruments to cut into flesh, bone and sinew, that could take that same policeman down in seconds. For Maisie there was something else that kept her standing—the fact that this moment, this very personal procedure of discovery, afforded her a chance to show compassion for the dead. Maurice had taught her that in the laboratory it was all too easy to forget respect, when there was nothing but the shell of a human being before you. “Think of a dead body as if you are viewing a set of clothing, Maisie—but consider it as the attire the soul has worn for many a year. And it is clothing that has something to teach us about the man or woman under the knife.”
Without doubt, she was looking at the body of Joe Coombes. Murphy stood to one side, as an assistant informed them that “Dr. Clark” would be with them shortly.
“It’s Joe,” said Maisie, looking down at the body.
She glanced only briefly at the incisions where the pathologist had cut the flesh, and brought her full attention to the deep open wound on the skull—so invasive, it had allowed Dr. Clark to remove tissue from the brain. She looked closer, and frowned.
“What is it?” Murphy was standing well back, halfway to the door, yet he had been watching her every move.
“She’s seen what I saw—isn’t that so, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie looked up to see a woman entering via the double doors leading into the mortuary. She stopped alongside Murphy and held out her hand. “Spud—I take it you’re well?”
Murphy opened his mouth to respond, but already the woman had moved to stand alongside Maisie. She extended her hand. “Clarissa Clark—pathologist around here.” The two women shook hands and Clark pulled a pair of clean rubber gloves from her pocket before reaching toward a trolley set up with an array of surgical instruments. She snapped on the gloves, picked up a scalpel and leaned back toward the corpse, using the instrument to indicate a small area in Joe Coombes’ brain. “That’s what you’re looking at, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Maisie, taking a step to the side to provide more space for Clark to move. “It looks like some sort of tumor—yet it’s not, and there is no identifiable outline or margin. And the color—though admittedly we are looking at a young man deceased for some days, but still . . .” She looked at Clark. “What do you think?”
Clark sighed. “For the purposes of this investigation, I am obviously looking at immediate cause of death. Given where he was found, I would say that, yes, it’s of course possible that this injury here, on the other side, was caused by falling from a height and hitting a cast iron railway line at just the right angle.” Again using the scalpel, she pointed to a deep wound—a smashed orbital bone and torn flesh above the ear revealing a skull crushed into livid brain matter. “Very bad luck indeed. Could it have been made worse by being pushed, therefore increasing velocity? Yes, I would say so. But at the same time, the injury that killed Joe could well have been done by something heavy—a crowbar, for example, especially if it came down from a height.” She lifted her hand above her head and simulated bringing it down, stopping the trajectory of her hand just an inch from the open skull of Joe Coombes.
“But you’ve obviously thought about that too.” Maisie gestured toward the naked brain matter that had first attracted her attention.
“I have, and I have never seen anything like it.” Clark corrected herself. “No, I tell a lie—I’ve seen something like it. In Serbia, in the last war. I was working at a field hospital, and I saw something similar to this discoloration in soldiers subject to attack by poison gases.”
“It’s caused by exposure to toxins, isn’t it?”
Clark looked at Maisie. “Yes, I would say you’re right—in my humble opinion.”
Maisie nodded, now pointing to the wound. “Where this young man is concerned, if you had to make a choice between falling from a height and being attacked with a crowbar, which side would you come down on.”
Clark sighed. “I think you probably have an opinion, Miss Dobbs—if you are half the woman that Dr. Blanche would have taken on as his assistant.”
“You knew him?” Maisie turned to look at Clark.
“He was my favorite professor, when he came to lecture during my student years.”
Maisie looked down at Joe Coombes, at rest, free of pain. She closed her eyes for several seconds, and then opened them again. She looked across toward Murphy, and then at Dr. Clark. “I would say he was the victim of a vicious attack, and with a heavy cast iron object. But of course I could be wrong.”
As they left the mortuary together, Murphy leaned toward Maisie, as if to share a confidence. “She lied about one thing in there.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Maisie.
“That woman has never had a humble opinion in her life.”
Maisie laughed. And for a moment she thought poor young Joe Coombes would have laughed at that one too, for she had felt his presence so keenly.