The two older boys lived on opposite sides of the street, just a few doors away from each other. Before they alighted from the MG—which was surrounded by a clutch of children almost as soon as Maisie parked on the street—she turned to her secretary.
“Look, let me talk to the father and mother—or whoever’s at home—and you have one of your chats with the boy. You seem to be very good with the youngsters. I really want to know exactly what they saw, who they saw, and if there was anyone new around lately. These boys are on the streets before and after school, and they hear their parents talking, too. They’ll close ranks if ever someone from the street is fingered for a crime. But no one suspects the boys of anything, and as long as they’ve done nothing wrong, I believe they’ll talk to you as easily as the younger ones.”
Maisie emerged from the MG at the same time as Sandra closed the door on the other side.
“Right then, who wants to earn a penny?”
The hands shot up, all the children focused on Maisie.
“Good. There’ll be a penny each for looking after my motor car—not a scratch, not a bump, and no bits hanging off when I get back. All right?”
“All right, Miss,” they said in unison.
A baby screamed from within the house as Maisie rapped on the rough and splintered door of the Flowers’ house.
“Tony! Tony! Get off yer bum and see who that is at the bloody door. And wipe your sister’s nose while you’re at it.” There was a pause. “I don’t bleedin’ care what you’re doin’—and don’t whine that it’s always you. I don’t care who it always is, but I want you to answer that door—and if it’s old man Walsh, tell him I’ll pay him next Friday.”
Maisie and Sandra looked at each other.
“Sometimes,” said Maisie, “the time you choose to call upon someone is not necessarily the most convenient time for them.”
“You’re not kidding, Miss.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll slip into my best local vernacular,” said Maisie.
The door opened. A boy, tall for his age, Maisie thought, pulled his arm away from his runny nose. “What d’yer want?”
Sandra stepped forward. “Tony! I’ve heard all about you from your gang of friends; they say you’re one of the best. You look after everyone, don’t you?” Her accent had changed. Maisie thought she sounded like Enid, with whom she’d shared a cold bedroom at the top of 15 Ebury Place, oh so long ago. Enid was always trying to improve herself, and had developed an incongruous posh edge to her Cockney accent. Maisie’s local dialect had never been as pronounced, though it was noticeable enough at the time. But it had changed gradually in those early years while taking her lessons from Maurice, so that, like a piece of fabric gently warmed and fashioned into a hat, her diction had taken on a new shape, a new roundness with distinct turning points, so that by the time she went up to Girton College, she might have been taken for a clergyman’s daughter. But more important, she could put it on when she liked; years of blending with those of a higher station meant that she could assume the clipped tones of the aristocracy if it helped her gain information she wanted. But now, in this street, losing the odd “h” in pronunciation might not be a bad thing—and it seemed that Sandra had the accent down pat.
“So, what if I do?” asked Tony Flowers.
“My friend just wants to talk to you, if that’s all right with you,” said Maisie. “It’s about the Indian woman—and don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble. We want you to help us, that’s all. So, can I go back and have a word with your mum while you help out Mrs. Tapley here?”
Tony kicked at the front tiled doorstep, which his mother had clearly tried to keep tidy with Cardinal polish.
“All right, then.” He turned into the passageway behind him. “Mum! Mum!” he bellowed. “Mum, there’s a woman here to see you. Not the bailiff. About the Indian woman.”
“Well, I can’t come out there now, can I?” his mother screamed back.
Maisie nodded at Sandra and crossed the threshold, stepping over toys in the passage while making her way to the back of the two-up-two-down terrace house, which smelled of boiled cabbage.
“Hello, Mrs. Flowers. Thank you so much for letting me come in to see you.”
“Where’s that boy gone now?” The woman looked up from nursing her baby. She seemed thin and harried, her hair gathered up by a scarf tied at her crown. Many poor women were known to feed the breadwinner in the family first, and themselves last, after the children, and Tony Flowers’ mother seemed true to type. “Sorry and all that, but the scrap’s got to have something before I go out to my job. Never a spare moment.”
“Tony’s with my assistant, Mrs. Flowers. I’ve come to see you about him finding the Indian lady, in the canal.”
“Not that again. We already had the police round here. People don’t like seeing police come to a door, do they?”
“They certainly didn’t where I come from. In Lambeth.”
“Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you? So, what do you want with me, then?” The baby stopped suckling, and without looking at her child, Tony Flowers’ mother rested the baby against her shoulder, pulled her underclothes and blouse back across her breast, and patted the little girl’s back.
“I wonder what Tony told you about it all,” asked Maisie.
“Just that they saw something in the canal, and when they tried to find out what it was, turns out it was one of them Indian women. Been shot, she had, right there.” She stopped patting the baby’s back for a second and touched the middle of her forehead. “Had terrible nights at first, he did. I’d hear him screaming, waking up the other kids. I thought it would go on forever. His father said he’d have to get a bit of backbone, otherwise if he ever saw what he saw in the war, well, he’d end up loony.”
“Did he ever say anything about seeing anyone else that day—or even in the days before he and his mates found the body?”
Mrs. Flowers looked towards the window, almost as if she could see beyond the glass, which she couldn’t due to the film of soot on the outside, and condensation on the inside. “I’m trying to think—it was weeks ago now, and what with all I have to put up with, it’s a wonder I remember yesterday, never mind a month or even a fortnight gone.” She sighed. “It was well before that, but I do remember Tony being late coming home, and because I had to get to work, I went up the road towards the canal—as you’ve cottoned, that’s where these boys go to get up to no good. Anyway, I saw them in the distance, and called out to Tony, and he came running. Now, when I looked at them, the boys in the distance, the sun was in my eyes, and you know how it is in the afternoon—it can blind you, it can, when it’s bright. Well, I could have sworn I saw five boys together, not the usual four—and them four are like that, you know.” She held her hand away from the baby’s back again, and twisted her forefinger and middle finger, like the base of a vine. “Thick with each other, they are. But anyway, he came along, and I gave him a piece of my mind, and I said to him, I said, ‘Who’s your new mate then?’ And he said, ‘Oh, no one.’ ‘No one?’ I said. ‘Funny no one with two legs, a head, and two arms, eh?’ She leaned towards Maisie. “I don’t want my kids getting into trouble, Miss—what’s your name?”
“Maisie Dobbs.”
“Well, like I said, I want my four to keep away from trouble, because trouble will find them round here, no two ways about it. Yes, you don’t have to look far for trouble, because it’s waiting for you. That’s what I say.” She looked at a clock on the mantelpiece. One hand was broken in the middle and the glass cover was cracked. “Blimey, I’d better be off—got to get down to the soap factory. We might not have much, Miss Dobbs—but by heck we’re clean in this house.” She stood up, and Maisie came to her feet. “Here, hold her a minute.” Mrs. Flowers gave the baby to Maisie and ran along the passage, yelling at the top of her voice. “Tony. Would you come in here and watch this baby now!”
The baby rested her head against Maisie’s chest, and closed her eyes. Not a cry
or a whimper. She closed her eyes and began to sleep. Maisie walked towards the door, and along the passageway, remembering, at that moment, the comfort she felt when she held little Lizzie Beale years ago. Now this child’s soft downy hair was under her chin, and as if she could not help herself, Maisie kissed the top of her head.
When she had thanked Mrs. Flowers and pressed a sixpence into Tony’s hand, she nodded at Sandra. They were ready to leave. Mrs. Flowers had taken the baby from Maisie, handed her to her son, and rushed into the house to grab her coat and a rather battered hat.
“Oh, Tony,” said Maisie, as she distributed pennies to the children gathered around the MG—a group that she could have sworn had grown larger since they first parked the motor car. “Tony, before you go in, what was the name of the other boy who sometimes came along by the canal?”
Tony rolled his eyes. “Oh, him. He’s not in the gang. Not one of us lot.”
“But what’s his name?”
“Marty. Said his name was Marty.”
“Was he around much?”
Tony Flowers shrugged. “Sort of. Said he didn’t know anyone much, so he just sort of followed us along the canal, or down the market, which is where we go of a Saturday morning sometimes.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
The boy shrugged. “Nah. He’s just around sometimes.”
“Is he older than you?”
Another shrug. “Dunno. Reckon he works on the docks somewhere.”
“What makes you think that?”
“His hands. Got all that hard skin, when you look at them. You know, like he’s been picking up heavy boxes all day.”
“You don’t shy away from a bit of hard graft either, do you, Tony? Your hands don’t look too soft.”
The boy blushed and shrugged as he held the baby tighter. “Gotta get her in now.”
“Yes, I think she looks like she needs a nap. But Tony, do you know if your friend is in? Sydney Rattle, along the road?”
“Nah. He’s just got another job. Nights. His mum found it for him, so he works days, then goes out again after his tea. Won’t be back until late. Only comes out with us on a Saturday afternoon now.”
“Can I come and see you again, if I need to?”
Tony Flowers shrugged again. “S’pose so.”
“And if you remember anything else about Marty, would you try not to forget?”
He nodded. “Yes, Miss. I’ll remember.”
“Tony,” asked Maisie, her voice lower, “did this Marty scare you?”
Another shrug. “I dunno, Miss. He wasn’t like us. He was different.”
“Thank you, love. I bet your mum thinks you’re a real diamond. Here, buy yourself some sweets.” She slipped another sixpence into his pocket. He blushed again, nodded his thanks, and took the baby back into the house.
Soon Maisie and Sandra were back in the motor car, driving towards the Elephant and Castle and Waterloo Bridge.
“How did you know there was another boy?” asked Sandra.
“His mum mentioned it.”
“But he never told me there was anyone else.”
“It was how I asked. He’d just had the baby put in his arms, so although he is protective of his little sister, he’s also a bit softer on the inside when he’s holding her. And I didn’t ask him if they’d seen anyone else, I just asked the name of the other boy—I didn’t give him a chance to say there wasn’t someone.”
“Oh, of course.” Sandra paused, as if committing what Maisie said to memory. “So, I wonder, why did the younger ones lie?”
Maisie sighed. “It could be that they wanted to protect their group, or that they don’t like saying anything without the older boys there. Or they might be embarrassed—perhaps Marty has something that marks him as different, for example. If he’s that much older than them their parents would get suspicious, especially if he’s an outsider. He could have some information on them that they don’t want to go any further—perhaps he saw them getting up to some mischief that the local bobby won’t be too happy to know about.”
“What’s your guess, Miss?”
“I would say that on the one hand these boys feel sorry for him—he might be lonely, perhaps—but he’s not like them in some way. He’s an outsider. And I think they’re also scared of him. Perhaps he has a confidence that they don’t, and instead of knowing about something they’ve done wrong, he might be one of those youngsters who eggs on the others to get up to more serious mischief, calling them names and intimidating them when they don’t. But I could be completely wrong, and I might be thrown by putting two and two together and getting five, which is why everything goes on the case map. But tell me about your conversation with Tony.”
“Much like the chat I had with the younger boys—nothing more, nothing less, though he is older, and seems more thoughtful. He sounded brotherly towards them, as if he looked out for them.”
“That sums up the children here, growing up together. They probably fight like cats and dogs at times, but they protect each other as well.”
“What’s next, Miss?”
“I’m going to see Jesmond Martin, the father of the missing boy. I’ll ring from the office and go over there this evening, if I can. In any case, there’s a lot of catching up to do on that inquiry as it is.”
“Do you think Billy will be all right, Miss Dobbs? Will he come back to work?”
“Let’s wait and see, eh?” Maisie felt a catch in her throat as she spoke. She took a deep breath. “In any case, did you manage to find out the name of that lecturer, at the art college?”
“I’ll have it tomorrow morning—seeing my friend at class this evening.”
“Oh, do you want me to drop you anywhere, Sandra?”
“Just by Charing Cross, that would do well enough—but only if it’s not far out of your way. Thank you.”
Some twenty minutes later, as Maisie pulled away from Charing Cross Station, she looked back at Sandra. Her glance came at what must have been an inopportune moment, for it was just in time to see Billy emerge from the station, smiling as he limped towards Sandra.
Maisie returned to the office and made the call to Jesmond Martin, which was answered by a housekeeper, who informed her that Mr. Martin was not yet home from work, and in any case was expecting guests this evening. Maisie left a message that she would like to speak to him as soon as possible, and wondered if she might call at his office—she asked the housekeeper to pass on a message at her earliest opportunity, requesting he call her in the morning. Having made that call, and another to Mr. Pramal’s hotel, she picked up the receiver one more time.
“Maisie, darling,” said Priscilla as soon as she heard Maisie’s voice. “Are you coming to supper soon? The boys so want to see James again. Directly I tell them you’re coming, they’ll be camped out on the stairs waiting for him, wearing aviator goggles.”
“Yes, we’re looking forward to seeing them, too, but I wondered, Pris—have you got a moment this evening, if I come over now?”
“Drinks at the ready, Maisie. Three quarters of an hour, then?”
“About that—and a cup of tea would be just fine.”
“For you, perhaps, but not me!”
Maisie smiled and shook her head. “In a while, Pris.”
“Crocodile. See you then!”
It seemed to Maisie that Priscilla’s sons were all growing up faster than ever. The eldest, Thomas, was almost as tall as his mother, and the youngest, Tarquin, had lost the babyishness of earlier years, despite still being without the front teeth he’d lost in a spat at the first school he’d attended upon the family’s move from Biarritz back to London. The contretemps with another boy—possibly due to his coloring; Priscilla’s sons were tanned by the Riviera sun, and all had her rich dark-copper hair—resulted in his brothers diving into the fray to protect their younger sibling. This act of loyalty—or wanton pugilism, according to the headmaster—led to their suspension and subsequent transfer to another school, one
for the sons of a more international group of parents.
“Mummy’s in the drawing room, Tante Maisie,” said Thomas, who had greeted her with a kiss to each cheek.
“Is Uncle James with you?” asked Tarquin, looking down the steps towards her motor car.
“I’m afraid not—but he’ll be with me next time.”
“Excellent!” said Timothy. He was looking at Maisie through a pair of large goggles, while wearing a leather aviator’s cap.
“You look like the Red Baron, Tim,” said Maisie.
“No, not me. I’m going to be like Captain Albert Ball.”
“Let’s hope not,” added his older brother. “He came off worse after a bit of a spat with von Richthofen, you know.”
Leaving Everything Most Loved Page 12