“That’s not what I meant. Did you watch him work the key?”
“What d’you mean, miss?”
“Billy, we saw him stumbling along the road, apparently drunk as a lord. We helped him along, and when we arrived at the house it was with a certain dexterity that he pulled out the key, slipped it into the lock and turned it. Most drunks would have spent a good while trying to focus on the lock and trying to get the key into the slot. He went upstairs without missing a step. Yes, he knows his place, but those stairs are not solid. Then the knife.”
“He was quick, I’ll give you that,” said Billy.
“He was no more drunk than I am,” said Maisie.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, miss.”
“Well, perhaps he’d had one or two, but he was not as drunk as he pretended to be.”
“What do you think he’s up to?” Billy began to pat his pockets.
“That’s exactly what you should do, make sure you’ve still got your wallet!” Maisie stepped around a pothole in the pavement. “I think he has a few tricks up his sleeve, Billy—that’s why I wanted to follow him upstairs, to observe him. He can pretend to be drunk, just enough to gain some sympathy perhaps—look at us, we tried to help him.”
“Yeah, but we also wanted to have a word with him.”
“Granted. I bet he pulls that one every day and some poor soul loses a wallet or a watch or something. According to Grace it’s his specialty. He finds a mark, a solitary customer in a local pub, perhaps a soldier from another part of the country who’s new to London. He’ll engage them in conversation, and the next thing you know, they’re buying drinks and he’s keeping relatively sober—not what you’d call ‘sober as a judge’ but enough to retain his balance and, more importantly, his reflexes. And then he’s slipped another wallet into his own pocket.”
“I wonder where the money goes, if he’s that good.”
“Probably on the real drinking, the habit he has when he’s on his own—that’s why he’s a danger to his family and probably himself. I wouldn’t mind betting he’s got a bottle or two of the hard stuff stashed at home, where he drinks and drinks and has days when he cannot get out of those paltry rooms at all.”
“Nasty piece of work.”
Maisie stopped walking.
“Miss?”
“I was just thinking—it’s such a tragedy. When people drink like that, it’s the demons they’re trying to dull that make me wonder what on earth happened to them.” She looked at Billy. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
Billy nodded and looked away. Her assistant’s once-blond hair was now almost gray under his flat cap, the lines across his forehead deeper. “The white stuff? Yeah, I suppose I do. But I never lifted a hand to my family—they’re too precious to me, miss, and you know it. I just didn’t know what to do with the pictures in my mind or the pain in my legs. It’s well behind me now, though if truth be told, them pictures have never gone away.”
“I know, Billy.” She began walking again, Billy falling into step beside her. “We just have to do our best to let them fade into the shadows, then build a wall of new things in front of them.”
“Easier said than done, what with all this bombing—and my boys enlisted.”
Maisie realized she hadn’t asked about Billy’s sons lately. His eldest had survived Dunkirk; now it was the younger son, an apprentice aircraft engineer with the RAF, who was the cause of most concern.
“How’s Bobby? Doing well at the college?”
“Still looking to be a navigator on the bombers. He told me they’ve got a new one in the works, and he’s in line for training on it.” He shook his head. “They’ve already sent him up to Manchester so he can see what it’s all about. Of course, he said he can’t tell us much, but he made my head spin, going on about Merlin engines made by Rolls-Royce and that sort of thing. I tell you, that boy leaves me behind when he tells me about his work—and remember, I was in the Engineers in the last war, so I can generally keep up with that sort of talk. Not with Bobby though.”
“I’m sure it’s a feather in his cap, being chosen to learn something new.” Maisie tried to appear positive, though she knew why Billy wasn’t smiling.
“Not to me, miss. New bomber means more bombings and with bigger bombs. Then he’ll be going over there every night to bomb Germany, won’t he? And look how many of them bomber crews come back—not many, eh? That would definitely drive me to drink, if I lost one of my boys. At least our Billy is having it jammy, out there in Singapore. I bet it’s all sun and getting in rounds of fancy drinks, with just a bit of square bashing in between. Mind you, good on the boy. He deserves it, after Dunkirk.”
Maisie and Billy walked on in silence until they reached the bus stop, where they would catch a bus to take them back to the West End. Both were lost in their thoughts. There seemed nothing left to say, as if they knew any words would only take them back into the terrors of the last war, memories that could rise up from the dark shadows if they paid them too much attention.
Chapter 16
“Sandra, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at home?”
Maisie’s secretary looked up from her desk, her smile broad as Maisie and Billy entered the office. “Hello, Miss Dobbs. I’ve been doing the books at my house and keeping the files, and it’s all very nice being down in Kent—don’t get me wrong, I’m really grateful to you for finding us that cottage—but as I said to Lawrence, ‘I’d like to get up to London,’ and he said, ‘Why don’t you go up there on the train, and I’ll look after Martin. I’ll take him fishing.’ He’s still a bit young for that, but I’m sure they’ll do something together. Anyway, I’m here—and if you don’t mind my saying, it’s just as well.”
“Are you suggesting Miss Dobbs and me are not very good at filing, Sandra?” After their meeting with the volatile Arthur Hackett, Maisie thought Billy’s laughter was a relief. As she joined in, the anxiety she had been holding in her body began to ebb away. Billy could always be depended upon to bring humor to the proceedings at just the right time.
“I think that’s exactly what Sandra is alluding to, Billy. And probably with good reason. We’ve let things go a bit.”
“And I’m sorting it all out. Almost done. I’ll put the kettle on.” Sandra picked up the tea tray, adding, “Oh, and a Mrs. Towner called—she asked for Lady Margaret at first, but I told her you use your maiden name for your work, so it’s Miss Dobbs. Just as well I was here—you never know how many telephone calls you might have missed, what with me not being in the office very often. Could you telephone her back, miss? She said it’s important.”
“Thank you, Sandra—and we would love a cup of tea. I’ll telephone her now.” Maisie watched the young woman leave the room, and thought how she had become less strained since becoming a mother—still competent, but with more ease in the way she met the world. Though Sandra had known tragedy in her life, she appeared to take everything in her stride, the days of sadness well behind her.
Billy stepped across to his desk, where Sandra had left a series of notes, each one with a question. “It’s nice having Sandra back, but she is the only person I know who can nag on paper.”
Maisie laughed. “Put your head down and get on with it, Billy—it’ll only get worse if you don’t answer her questions.”
Once in her office, Maisie dialed Gabriella Hunter’s number. No one picked up. As the ringing continued, Maisie felt a knot in her stomach.
When at last the housekeeper answered, Maisie was alert to the crack in her voice as she recited the number.
“Hello—it’s Maisie Dobbs here. Are you all right? Hello!”
“Oh, Miss Dobbs. Miss Dobbs—I mean, Lady Margaret—oh dear—”
“What is it? What’s happened?”
Maisie heard the housekeeper’s gulps, as if she were being deprived of air.
“It’s Miss Hunter. She’s been rushed to University College Hospital. I was only meant to be out for a little
while, running some errands and getting a few groceries. But you have to queue for such a long time, so I wasn’t back when I said I would be. And when I got here, the lock was broken.” She gulped again.
“Breathe slowly through your nose,” said Maisie, her voice slow, calm. “Do you have a paper bag? Perhaps one the grocer put something in?”
“Right at my feet—”
Maisie could hear more rasping as the housekeeper fought for air. “Good. Take a bag now—never mind what drops out onto the floor—take the bag and put the opening over your nose and mouth and breathe as calmly as you can.”
She could hear the sound of rustling paper and the woman’s breathing, fast and shallow at first, then becoming steady.
“Are you still there?” asked Maisie.
Paper crackled again before the housekeeper replied. “Yes, I’m feeling better.”
“Good—do that whenever you feel the panic coming on. Now, what’s happened?”
Maisie heard the woman breathing into the paper bag again.
“Hello . . .”
“Sorry, Miss Dobbs.” She coughed once more, then went on. “What happened was that I came home and the door was closed, but I could see the lock had been tampered with. I rushed in, dropped my groceries, and went straight to the study, where Miss Hunter was lying on the floor. Blood all over her face. Someone had hit her and left her for dead. Her papers were all over the place. Drawers open, books strewn around.”
Maisie placed her hand on the buckle at her waist.
“I knelt down, listened to her heart,” continued Towner. “Then I got a hand mirror and put it in front of her mouth—I knew she was alive, so I telephoned for the police and an ambulance straightaway.”
“You’ve been remarkable, Mrs. Towner.”
“I just tried to do the right thing.”
“Can you remember the name of the policeman who came to the house?”
There was the sound of crinkling paper on the line and the housekeeper breathing into the bag.
“Hello?”
“Sorry—it was a Mr. Caldwell. Yes, that’s it—in fact, no, sorry, he was a Detective Chief something-or-other.”
“That’s all right—I know who you mean.”
“He said . . . he said . . .”
“Mrs. Towner?”
“He said it was attempted murder and he made me tell him everything.”
“Yes, that’s his job.”
“He wanted to know everyone who had been to the house over the past few weeks.”
“That’s perfectly normal—that’s what he has to do.”
“I gave him your name.”
“As I would expect you to, Mrs. Towner. Now then, I’m going to go straight to the hospital, and then I’ll come to see you. Is the lock mended?”
“No. The door won’t shut. I’m scared.”
“Right you are. I’m sending someone round right now.” Maisie looked at Billy, who, along with Sandra, was standing at the open doors into Maisie’s office and had been following the conversation. “In fact, I’m sending two people.” She turned to Sandra, who nodded. “They’re my assistants. Mr. Beale is a tall man, grayish blond hair, and he’ll be wearing a cap. Mrs. Sandra Pickering is about my height, dark hair, and she’s wearing a pale blue day dress and a navy jacket.” Sandra reached to one side, picked up her hat from her desk, and held it up for Maisie to see. “And a navy blue hat with a pale blue band. They’ll be with you in about fifteen minutes and will look after you.”
“Thank you, Miss Dobbs.”
“And Caldwell didn’t leave a policeman with you?”
“He said he would normally do that, but he’s short-staffed.”
“Yes, that’s right. Anyway, Billy and Sandra will be with you very soon.” Maisie replaced the receiver. “Right—you heard all that—you know what to do.” She scribbled the Mecklenburgh Square address on a scrap of paper, passing it to Sandra. “And have a look around to see if you can find anything else the police might have missed.” She was already at the door, Billy and Sandra behind her.
“Why do you think someone picked on Miss Hunter, miss?” said Billy, as they hurried down the stairs.
Maisie opened the front door, turning to Billy and Sandra. “Gabriella Hunter is no ordinary lady. She was an agent during and immediately after the last war, and she knows much, much more than anyone might imagine. More to the point, she was finding out a few things for me, getting in touch with some very well-informed old contacts—and of course, she has her own experience to draw upon.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll see you at Miss Hunter’s house as soon as I’ve finished at the hospital. And Sandra, you must catch your train home directly poor Mrs. Towner is settled and safe. In the meantime, I’ll leave it to you two to decide if she should go to an hotel.”
At Tottenham Court Road, Billy hailed a taxicab.
“You two go first, Billy,” said Maisie. “I’ll get the next one along.”
Billy opened the door for Sandra to climb aboard, but just before he stepped into the taxicab, he looked back at Maisie. “Grayish blond?”
Billy had just slammed the door behind him and Maisie was raising her hand to hail the next taxicab on Tottenham Court Road when a black Invicta motor car pulled up alongside her. The back window wound down.
“Miss Dobbs—I was just coming to pay you a visit. And I bet I know where you’re going. Come on—I’ll run you over there.”
It was clear from Caldwell’s tone that even if she had wanted to decline, this was an order. The passenger door was barely closed before the Invicta pulled away from the curb, alarm bells ringing as the driver negotiated busy streets at speed toward the hospital.
“Right then.” Caldwell gave Maisie a pointed look. “We’ve got about five minutes. How about telling me what’s going on.”
Maisie looked out of the window, then back at Caldwell. “I can tell you some things, but I will have to leave gaps.”
“Hush-hush work and all that, Miss Dobbs?” Caldwell gave a half-laugh. “Always the way these days, isn’t it?”
Maisie nodded.
“Right then, just tell me what you can. By the time we get over to the hospital, this could be a murder case anyway.”
Maisie felt the air leave her lungs, so she placed both hands against her chest and began to tell Caldwell the story of Gabriella Hunter, but with those details that might be of most interest to him edited with care.
“I’m afraid she’s very poorly, though she has regained consciousness. At her age . . .” The registrar—the most senior doctor on duty in the ward—consulted his notes as he briefed Caldwell and Maisie outside Gabriella Hunter’s private room. “Sixty-one—she seems fit other than a nasty hip, which I must say flummoxes me as it appears to have been caused by a bullet wound a number of years ago, and she has another similar wound on her upper arm.” He looked up. “Any ideas how she might have sustained those two?”
Caldwell looked at Maisie and raised an eyebrow. “Miss Dobbs?”
“She was in France during the last war,” said Maisie.
The doctor looked from Maisie to Caldwell and back to Maisie again, then smiled as if he had at once seen the funny side of a joke. “Oh, right then. Anyway, she has suffered a serious concussion. Even though she’s come round, she won’t be ‘all there’ when you go in—and I must insist upon no longer than five minutes.”
“Her other injuries?” asked Maisie.
“Bruising to the cheeks, and there was an attempt to take her life with a blade, but it seems not to have penetrated too far, given that she was wearing some sort of protective shield under her blouse. Her housekeeper apparently told the ambulance men that it was a special corset for her back.” He stopped as if to gauge Maisie’s reaction to his revelation. “Perhaps she had to watch her back too, do you think?”
“It’s entirely possible,” said Maisie, acknowledging the inference. “But it seems there was clearly an attempt to kill her, not just frighten her.”
“That’s for you people to decide, but yes, I’d say someone wanted to finish her off. You will see we’ve had to shave her head to stitch up a nasty cut where she was hit with something sharp.”
“Can she see visitors now?” asked Caldwell, who had taken on a distinct pallor.
“Five minutes. Sister will be in to collar you if you are a second over. A word of caution, though—do not try to test your authority with our ward sister, otherwise you might find yourself being trepanned.”
Caldwell did not follow as Maisie opened the door to the hospital room, explaining that he had a few more questions for the doctor. She walked straight to the side of the bed and reached for Gabriella Hunter’s hand.
“Gabriella. Gabriella, it’s me—Maisie.”
She watched as the closed eyelids flickered; Hunter was trying to open her eyes.
“Squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” said Maisie, feeling the pressure as Hunter increased an otherwise loose grip.
“Do you know who did this to you?”
Hunter moved her head in a shallow nod.
“Was it the man with a scar?”
A slight frown formed across Hunter’s forehead.
“Or long lines down the cheeks?”
Hunter made the barest movement of her head from side to side. No.
“Gabriella, what were they looking for?”
A smile crossed the woman’s face, and she tried to speak. Maisie leaned in so her ear was close to Hunter’s mouth.
“M . . . m . . . Maurice.”
Maisie looked up. “Maurice?”
Hunter spoke again, this time with some force. “Book.”
“Which book, Gabriella—you have so many books!”
“Mmmmm.”
“Gabriella?”
“Mine. Mmmmm.” With tremendous effort she finished the sentence. “My book.”
Maisie turned as she heard the door open.
“I think that’s enough now.” The sister in charge was not yet frowning, but Maisie thought it would not take much to get on her wrong side. “Time to leave, madam. The patient needs rest.”
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