Maisie and Billy sat in silence in front of the case map, looking at the highways and byways of color expressing each thought and idea that had come to them while considering the case of Joe Coombes—though the exercise seemed at that point to be getting them nowhere.
“So the air force girl didn’t call back, did she?”
“She might have, but I had to rush off yesterday evening—ambulance practice, and I was late because it had completely slipped my mind.”
“They won’t strike you off—you’re a volunteer. Apparently they’ve had to give quite a few of the employed ones their cards, and sent them back down to the labor exchange.”
“They’ll get their jobs back, and it won’t be long, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“I thought the same thing.” Billy looked down at his hands, rubbing the palm of the right up and down across the knuckles of the left.
“Everyone holding up at home?” asked Maisie.
“I’m amazed, really,” said Billy. “They’re keeping their chins up, especially Doreen. She said it won’t get our Billy back any sooner if we all sit around in a state. I don’t like what I’m reading in the papers though. They say there’s going to be a service at Westminster Abbey on Sunday—prayers for the safety of our boys over there. I’m not one for all that, but I reckon it won’t hurt, so we’ll probably come up for it and put our hands together with the rest of them. People say it will be packed.”
Maisie nodded, thoughtful as she picked up a thick red crayon from the table. “Money. Money and war. There’s Yates making money out of the war, and so many others who are doing well out of something terrible—though I don’t begrudge people the opportunity to put more cash in their pockets.”
“My mate who works over in Fleet Street reckons that crime has gone up, and everyone thought it would go down, what with us being at war. And it’s not only the criminals that are doing well. Look at the landlords who are putting up those workers from Yates—they’re raking it in. And then there’s the fact that prices have gone up on a lot of your basic foods,” added Billy. “Mind you, they went up when war was declared, then they came down when nothing much happened, and now they’re going up again. No wonder that new tenant down in the basement is growing tomatoes out the back! He’ll have a cow in there next, you watch—we can talk him up for a pint of milk!”
Maisie laughed, tapping the case map.
“You know, apparently there’s money in Hampshire,” said Maisie. “I’ve heard the Bank of England has moved its operations there for the duration. And it’s also where the paper supplier is located.”
“Do you think it’s got anything to do with this?” asked Billy.
Maisie was thoughtful, drawing her attention from Billy and the case map, to the window and the blue sky beyond. “You know, when I first started working for Maurice, I would try to put my discovered information on a given case into a box—not a literal box with six sides, but I would keep notes. And I’d ask myself if the nugget I’d collected was irrelevant, or if it was a distraction. Was it something just to be aware of? Could it be described as important? Finally I put whatever I’d discovered into the categories of significant, crucial, or essential—whatever name I’d come up with. And I would go back to the information daily and ask myself if it still belonged in that particular box—it helped me to sort through what I’d gathered, because I realized I’d been treating everything as really crucial and spent a lot of time like a dog chasing its tail, and not always managing evidence very well. It helped me to grow what Maurice termed my ‘intuitive response,’ though I’m not sure he quite approved of my method.” She smiled, remembering the errors of her early days as an investigator. “So at first, when I considered the information about how and where money was printed and the coincidental relocation of the Bank of England to the same area as Joe Coombes’ lodgings, I labeled it a distraction—something that would take time we don’t have for nothing much in return. Now I think it’s important—not crucial or essential, but important. Something to keep up our sleeves, something that might prove to be useful.” She brought her attention back to Billy. “I always thought the Bank of England’s printing works was over on Luke Street.”
“Yeah, but perhaps not everyone knows that—after all, I heard the works down there in Hampshire is where money is printed for all over the world, and that sounds important enough to me.” Billy leaned toward the table, resting his chin on closed fists placed one on top of the other. He studied the map. “I don’t know about this headache business—I mean, I reckon young Joe Coombes had them all right, the headaches, but I don’t think that’s what killed him. Not what made him end up dead on a railway line.”
“No, neither do I.” Maisie scraped back her chair, and walked to the window. She looked down at the makeshift market garden in the yard, noticing a man’s cardigan draped over a wooden chair. She realized that, apart from the well-tended flowers and vegetables, this was the first sign she had seen of whoever lived in the basement flat. She turned back to Billy.
“Right, this is what we do next—and we’re limited by the fact that it’s a Friday, but Phil and Sally are at the pub.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll catch the later train now—so I’ll make a quick call to Chelstone, and we’ll go round to the Prince. I’m sure Vivian will not be at work, in the circumstances, and the other son, Archie, might have come home to be with his family—it’s a good time to get them together.”
“Or p’raps not, what with them grieving.”
“They know I’ve tried to do the best for them, and we’ll be there just as neighbors—friends—who know what they’ve lost.”
“Do you think they’re involved?”
“In the death of their son? I don’t think any parent would knowingly risk the life of their child—you wouldn’t, would you?” She reached for the telephone receiver. “But perhaps . . . perhaps there’s something amiss in that family, and we both know that involvement in a crime can be the result of something seemingly benign.” She began to dial. “Or the family may have no connection to Joe’s death whatsoever. Anyway—let me talk to Brenda, and then we’ll leave.”
Vivian Coombes looked as if she had slept in her clothes—a dress that was crumpled, stockings twisted so the seams were askew, and a cardigan pulled around her to ward off a chill that no one else would feel on a warm day in late spring. Maisie thought her fine fair hair had not seen a brush that morning, and she wore no shoes. A ladder had started to run from her toe to her ankle, and she had stopped its progress with a dab of red nail enamel. The landlord’s daughter was usually a well turned-out young woman—today, standing in the doorway at the side of the pub, she resembled a slattern.
“Oh Vivian, I am so terribly sorry,” said Maisie, as she held out her arms.
Vivian Coombes all but fell into her embrace, weeping. Maisie nodded, a sign for Billy to go up to the family rooms.
“How are you bearing up, Vivian? I know you and Joe were so very close,” said Maisie.
“He was my little brother—and he was so . . . so innocent. Not like some of them. Not like other boys. He was good, Miss Dobbs.”
“I know, I know. Is Archie here?”
Vivian stepped back, though remained close to Maisie, as if she needed a strength not present among her family. “He’s been round. He didn’t stay though—said he had to get back to work.” She looked at Maisie and swept the back of her hand across her forehead, her pale blue eyes veined as they filled with tears once more. “I mean, I’m supposed to be at work—and I’ve got important work, especially now, what with everything happening over there, in France—but my supervisor let me have the day off for compassionate reasons. I hate Archie sometimes, really I do.”
“No you don’t—you’re just grieving, and nothing will seem right for a long time. And perhaps it was too much for him—people deal with these things in different ways, and perhaps getting back to work is his way of trying to come to terms with Joe’s passing.”
“It’s all he ever does, work—can’t come to see us, because of work. Work, work, work and no one works that hard, not so they can’t come to see their family.”
“Let’s go up—I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you all,” said Maisie.
Vivian led the way upstairs, where a landing opened to several rooms—to the left a kitchen, then a sitting room, followed by the bathroom. The door of one bedroom was open, and pinned on the walls were staged photographs of film stars—Alan Ladd being the most favored. Scarves were draped over the dressing table mirror, and several library books perched next to a hairbrush. Two additional doors to the right of the stairs were closed, though Maisie assumed they led to bedrooms.
In the kitchen, Phil Coombes and Billy sat at the table, while Sally Coombes stood at the stove, watching the kettle as it came to the boil.
“Nice of you to come back, Miss Dobbs,” said Coombes. “Eh, isn’t it, Sal?” he continued, turning to his wife.
Maisie stepped away from Vivian and moved to Sally Coombes’ side. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Coombes—yesterday was very ‘official’ with the police here. I wanted to come back to see how you’re all faring, and if there’s anything I can do.”
Sally Coombes turned to Maisie, her loss writ large in a raw desolation reflected in her eyes, and in the gray skin drawn across her cheekbones. Her hands shook as she reached for the kettle.
“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.
“I can telephone you back,” said Maisie. “Give me your number.”
Sylvia Preston read out the number and hung up. Maisie dialed, and heard one ring before the WAAF answered.
“Yes, thank you.” She sounded breathless.
“Are you all right?” asked Maisie. “You’re not in any danger?”
“I’m in danger every day—but not the sort you mean.” The young woman gave a half-laugh, almost a snort. “I ran to get to the telephone, and now I’m trying not to breathe in for the terrible smell in here. I don’t know why people have to do some of the things they do in a telephone box. Anyway, let me tell you what I think you should know.”
“Go on,” said Maisie.
“I heard you talking to the landlady when you came down. She didn’t quite tell you everything. There were two men came to see Joe—both of them turned out very well indeed, looking like they were in the pictures. Not in uniform—but not everyone is, though they both looked like they should be. One was about my age, I would imagine—twenty-one, twenty-two, something like that. And the other was older, thirties—he reminded me of my brother who’s thirty-six . . . I know, don’t ask about the age difference between us. I reckon my mum kept away from my dad for fifteen years after the terrible time she had when my brother was born!”
Maisie smiled, then prompted Preston. “But there must have been something a bit off, for you to notice them—what didn’t you like?”
“I didn’t like the way they spoke to him. I couldn’t hear the words, but as they walked a little way down the road, I didn’t like the tone—I could hear them, friendly enough first of all—they called him ‘Joe,’ so they knew him—well, the younger one did. The other one was more . . . more officious, I would say. Nice enough, handing out the ciggies—Joe shook his head, he was a good boy, really he was. Shouldn’t have been away from home, I reckon. Then I couldn’t hear anything, but I could see, and Joe just kept shaking his head, and then the younger one got him by the arm—you know, grabbed his upper arm—and turned toward him. I don’t know what he said, but it looked like Joe was scared—he held his head down, as if he didn’t want to look up into their faces.”
“Did he go off with them?”
“No, he didn’t. They had a motor car though—I saw them get into it. But here’s what happened—another one of the painters, Freddie Mayes, came along in the van, and stopped alongside them. I can’t be sure, but I think he knew them. Well, he knew the older one. The younger man was in the black motor car already. And Joe got into the van, as if it had been a life raft come to save him. I couldn’t make out his face, but you can see these things by the way people move—he clambered in that van sharpish.”
“Then?” promoted Maisie.
“Then the van drove off, and so did the motor car—the motor went out on Winchester Road, and the van in another direction—I don’t know which airfield they were at that day.” There was a pause on the line, before Preston continued. “That’s about it, Miss Dobbs. As I said, our illustrious landlady didn’t tell you quite everything.”
“Thank you, Miss Preston,” said Maisie. “I appreciate you getting in touch—very much indeed.”
“Well, I had to—we all liked Joe, us girls. He took our teasing in good heart, but he was a good boy.” She paused, and Maisie thought she heard her begin to weep.
“Are you all right, Sylvia?”
“I just think it’s terrible—that’s he’s missing, that he’s gone off somewhere. Probably to get away from those blokes, if I know anything. Do you think you’ll find him?”
Maisie drew breath and closed her eyes. Giving news of a death was never straightforward, the words caught in her heart and in her throat. “I’m so sorry, Sylvia. Joe’s body was found a few days ago—he’s dead, I’m afraid.”
There was silence on the line, after several seconds punctuated by a sniff, and a cough. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?” said Preston, her words stumbling out as she sobbed. “I tell you, Joe was scared, Miss Dobbs—I don’t know what he was scared of, but he had fear written all over him during that last week I saw him.”
“Would you know those men again?” asked Maisie.
“The younger one, probably. But I know how easy it is to make mistakes, so I would have to be careful.”
“You’re to be commended for your reticence, Sylvia, and—”
Before Maisie could say more, Preston broke in. “I’ve just had enough of death and bodies, really I have.”
“What do you mean?”
“My job—look, sorry, I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“I can be trusted—if you want to get something off your chest.”
Silence again, and more sniffing. “I’m a driver, Miss Dobbs. They taught me to drive and I thought I would be driving the officers up and down to London, and out to other airfields, that sort of thing. But you know what I do? I drive an ambulance.”
“An ambulance? For practice drills?”
“I suppose you could say that, but the death is real.”
“You’re going to have to explain that to me, Sylvia—I’m not quite following you.”
“They’re training the army to parachute—all these boys coming down in big lorries so they can practice parachuting, for taking on the Germans over there. I don’t know when they think they’re going to do that, what with everyone talking about an invasion. But the army has already started them practicing at their barracks, jumping off walls, so they know how to land. Then they bring them here to jump from aircraft. They go up over Salisbury Plain, that’s one place. We wait in the ambulances as they come down. We don’t pick up many injured—if you land wrong, you’re dead, easy as that. If I get one with a sprained ankle or a broken leg, or a collarbone, or what have you, I feel as if I’ve been let off light. Most of the time I’m with another girl loading up dead lads whose legs have gone right up through their bodies, or they’re completely smashed up. That’s my job. One time I had to drive back across Salisbury Plain in the dark, on my own, with six dead boys in the back of my ambulance, so no one would see, no one would know. And I tell you, I don’t think aeroplanes were invented for people to suddenly get up off their seat and jump out of a door. But that’s me.”
“I am so very sorry, Sylvia,” said Maisie. “I had no idea.”
“Oh, no one has any idea. And to think I was pleased to be a driver—working outside, on the move, and none of this stuck indoors doing meteorology or typing up reports for the brass. Now I drive a death wagon—that’s how it feels.” She paused, drawing breath before continuing. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“I promise, Sylvia.”
“Right. I’ve got to go now.”
“Thank you very—” Maisie was expressing gratitude to the continuous hum of the disconnected call.
When she had raised her head from her hands, with the image of young women lifting the terribly damaged bodies of equally young men still in her mind’s eye, Maisie reached for the telephone receiver and dialed a number she knew by heart. A man answered, a clerk to the solicitor she was seeking.
“Hello, Anthony—is Mr. Klein there, please?”
“Yes, Your Ladyship—I will tell him you’re waiting. One moment, please.”
There was silence on the line, and then a series of clicks before the measured tones of her solicitor echoed down the line.
“Maisie. How lovely to hear from you—it’s about time we had a chat about your affairs. I’m afraid, what with the war, I am concerned with regard to the properties in France, however—”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Klein—it’s so impolite of me to interrupt, but I would like to speak to you about Anna.”
“Ah, yes. I have held back, but if you wish, I will take your instructions to find a good family for her.”
“Mr. Klein—I . . . I . . .” She felt herself falter. “Mr. Klein, I think I . . .”
“We’d better meet, Maisie. I believe I understand completely. Are you about to leave town, or can you come to my office?”
“I’m catching a later train today. I daresay Anna is resting in any case—she has measles.”
“Is she recovering?”
“I’m assured she is on the mend.”
“Good—can you be here within the hour?”
“I’m leaving now.”
“Excellent—I will have a series of papers for you to go over, and a list of documents required. Thank goodness the law hasn’t changed—it was on the books you know, but the war got in the way. Anyway, we can make a start.”
“Thank you, Mr. Klein.”
“I told you long ago, Maisie—you may call me Bernard.”
“Indeed—but old habits die hard.”
The black motor car was still parked on Conway Street, though upon closer inspection, Maisie realized it wasn’t completely black, but had a dark bottle green contrasting paint along the sides. She turned from the front window and crossed the office to the back window overlooking the yard below. There was a tall but narrow gate forming a rear exit to the alley, though probably not used—terra-cotta pots had been placed in front, filled with flowering plants. She gathered her handbag and briefcase, locked the door as she departed the office, and made her way down the stairs. But instead of leaving by the front door, she turned left at the end of the staircase and stepped across to a plain door with no number or name alongside. With her knuckle she rapped on the paneled door. There was no answer. She closed her eyes, whispering, “Please come. Please come.” She rapped again. And again. It was as she turned to leave that she heard the door being unlocked and a chain drawn back.
The man before her was, she thought, a few years older than herself. Of taller than average height, he wore dark trousers, a clean white collarless shirt and an unbuttoned waistcoat. He leaned on a walking stick, and when she looked into his face, she saw a scar running from his left cheekbone, down to an uneven jaw. At one glance, it was as if she knew everything about him.
“What do you want?” asked the man.
Maisie did not look away when her eyes met his. “My name is Maisie Dobbs. I work in the office above, and I wonder—would you be so kind as to allow me to leave by your back gate? I suppose it leads into the alley. Am I right? I’ll set the plants aside, and will move them back again when I return, but I would be very much obliged if you could help me.”
The man looked at her for a period of time—perhaps only a second or two, though it seemed as if he would never respond to her request.
He inclined his head, stepped back and held out his hand for her to enter. “Of course. Please, come in. And I apologize for taking so long to answer your knock. I usually use the entrance at the front, so was taken aback to hear someone at this door. Follow me.”
The man led the way from the narrow landing and two short flights of stairs into a sitting room which she thought was probably also the bedroom. He proceeded through to a scullery, and out into the yard. She was still surprised by the neat order of the flat when she emerged into the small yard, and realized her view from above did not do justice to the abundance of color the man had created.
“Oh, my—this is just beautiful. So small, and so perfect, Mr.—forgive me, I don’t know your name.”
“I never told you.” He held out his hand. “Walter Miles.”
“Thank you, Mr. Miles.” Maisie took the outstretched hand and returned his smile.
“Come on—let’s get you on your way.” Miles stepped across the flagstones and with Maisie’s assistance began to move terra-cotta pots away from the gate. “The bolt is a bit rusty, but I’ve moved it before.” He pulled on the bolt and after some effort, it gave, shooting back and releasing the gate, which he drew back and held open.
“I can’t thank you enough,” said Maisie.
“It was my pleasure, Miss Dobbs. The motor car has been out there for hours now, so be on your way before he realizes you’ve left and starts tootling down Tottenham Court Road looking for you.”
Maisie was about to open her mouth, when the man shook his head. “Go now.”
And as she ran down the alley and out onto Tottenham Court Road toward Goodge Street Station, Maisie could not help but wonder about Walter Miles. She had never seen him before, never noticed him coming or going—in fact, she assumed an elderly lady lived in the downstairs flat. Yet there was something familiar about him. And she knew very well the cause of his disfigurement—wherever she went in this time of war, there was always a reminder of the last, even if it was only the sight of Billy wincing as he stood up from his desk. She reflected upon her conversation with Sylvia Preston, and the terrible job assigned to her. And she wondered how another generation of men and women in years to come would have to fight a different battle every single day—a battle against a time that would not fail to mark them, inside and out, and would come back to haunt them at moments when they least expected it. But now there was one victim of the war she would do her level best to ensure would have only joyful memories to look back upon in the years to come. After leaving the underground station at Holborn, she all but ran to the offices of Bernard Klein.