Maisie reached with her hand to touch the back of her head, a couple of inches above her occipital bone. “There’s a fair-sized bump . . . ” She ran her fingers down to an indentation in her scalp, sustained while she was working as a nurse during the war. The scar was a constant reminder of the shelling that had not only wounded her but eventually taken the life of Simon Lynch, the doctor she had loved. “At least it didn’t open my war wounds.” She shook her head, realizing the irony of her words.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Stratton inquired, his voice softer.
Caldwell rolled his eyes. “I think we need to get on with it, sir.”
Stratton was about to speak, when Maisie stood up. “Yes, of course, Mr. Caldwell’s right, we should get on.”
Billy looked down at his notebook, the hint of a grin at the edges of his mouth. He knew there was no love lost between Maisie and Caldwell, and her use of “Mr.” instead of “Detective Sergeant” demonstrated that she may have been knocked out, but she was not down.
“I’ll start at the beginning . . . ” Maisie began to pace back and forth, her eyes closed as she recounted the events of the morning, from the time she had placed the cap on her pen, to the point at which the explosion ripped the man’s body apart, and wounded several passers-by.
“Then the bomb—”
“Mills Bomb,” Billy corrected her, absently interrupting as he gazed at the floor watching her feet walk to the window and back again, the deliberate repetitive rhythm of her steps pushing recollections onto center stage in her mind’s eye.
“Mills Bomb?” Stratton looked at Billy. Maisie stopped walking.
“What?” Billy looked up at each of them in turn.
“You said Mills Bomb. Are you sure it was a Mills Bomb?” Caldwell licked his pencil’s sharp lead, ready to continue recording every word spoken.
“Look, mate, I was a sapper in the war—what do you mean, ‘Are you sure?’ If you go and fire off a round from half a dozen different rifles, I’ll tell you which one’s which. Of course I know a Mills Bomb—dodgy bloody things, saw a few mates pull out the pin and end up blowing themselves up with one of them. Mills Bomb—your basic hand grenade.”
Stratton lifted his hand. “Caldwell, I think we can trust Mr. Beale here.” He turned to Billy. “And it’s not as if it would be difficult for a civilian to obtain such ordnance, I would imagine.”
“You’re right. There’s your souvenir seekers going over to France and coming back with them—a quick walk across any of them French fields and you can fill a basket, I shouldn’t wonder. And people who want something bad enough always find a way, don’t they?”
“And he hadn’t always been a civilian.” Maisie took her seat again. “Unless he’d had an accident in a factory, this man had been a soldier. I was close enough to judge his age—about thirty-five, thirty-six—and his left leg was in a brace, which is why people had to walk around him, because he couldn’t fold it inward. And the right leg might have been amputated.”
“If it wasn’t then, it is now.” Caldwell seemed to smirk as he noted Maisie’s comment.
“If that’s all, Inspector, I think I need to go home. I’m driving down to Kent this evening, and I think I should rest before I get behind the wheel.”
Stratton stood up, followed by Caldwell, who looked at Maisie and was met with an icy gaze. “Of course, Miss Dobbs,” said Stratton. “Look, I would like to discuss this further with you, get more impressions of the man. And of course we’ll be conducting inquiries with other witnesses, though it seems that even though you were not the closest, you remember more about him.”
“I will never forget, Inspector. The man was filled with despair and I would venture to say that he had nothing and no one to live for, and this is the time of year when people yearn for that belonging most.”
Stratton cleared his throat. “Of course.” He shook hands with both Maisie and Billy, wishing them the compliments of the season. Maisie extended her hand to Caldwell in turn, smiling as she said, “And a Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Caldwell.”
MAISIE AND BILLY stood by the window and watched the two men step into the Invicta. The driver closed the passenger door behind them, then took his place and maneuvered the vehicle in the direction of Charlotte Street, whereupon the bell began to ring and the motor picked up speed toward the site of the explosion. Barely two hours had elapsed since Maisie saw a man activate a hand grenade inside his tattered and stained khaki greatcoat.
Turning to her assistant, she saw the old man inside the young. What age was he now? Probably just a little older than herself, say in his mid-thirties, perhaps thirty-seven? There were times when the Billy who worked for her was still a boy, a Cockney lad with reddish-blond hair half tamed, his smile ready to win the day. Then at other times, the weight of the world on his shoulders, his skin became gray, his hair lifeless, and his lameness—the legacy of a wartime wound—was rendered less manageable. Those were the times when she knew he walked the streets at night, when memories of the war flooded back, and when the suffering endured by his family bore down upon him. The events of today had opened his wounds, just as her own had been rekindled. And instead of the warmth and succor of his family, Billy would encounter only more reason to be concerned for his wife, for their children, and their future. And there was only so much Maisie could do to help them.
“Why don’t you go home now, Billy.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a note. “Buy Doreen some flowers on the way, and some sweets for the boys—it’s Christmas Eve, and you have to look after one another.”
“You don’t need to do that, Miss—look at the bonus, that’s more than enough.”
“Call it danger money, then. Come on, take it and be on your way.”
“And you’ll be all right?”
“I’m much better now, so don’t you worry about me. I’ll be even better when I get on the road to Chelstone. My father will have a roaring fire in the grate, and we’ll have a hearty stew for supper—that’s the best doctoring I know.”
“Right you are, Miss.” Billy pulled on his overcoat, placed his flat cap on his head, and left with a wave and a “Merry Christmas!”
As soon as Maisie heard the front door slam shut when Billy walked out into the wintry afternoon, she made her way along the corridor to the lavatory, her hand held against the wall for support. She clutched her stomach as sickness rose up within her and knew that it was not only the pounding headache and seeing a man kill himself that haunted her, but the sensation that she had been watched. It was as if someone had touched her between her shoulder blades, had applied a cold pressure to her skin. And she could feel it still, as she walked back to the office, as if those icy fingertips were with her even as she moved.
Sitting down at her desk, she picked up the black telephone receiver and placed a telephone call to her father’s house. She hoped he would answer, for Frankie Dobbs remained suspicious of the telephone she’d had installed in his cottage over two years ago. He would approach the telephone, look at it, and cock his head to one side as if unsure of the consequences of answering the call. Then he would lift the receiver after a few seconds had elapsed, hold it a good two inches from his ear and say, with as much authority as he could muster, “Chelstone three-five-double two—is that you, Maisie?” And of course, it was always Maisie, for no one else ever telephoned Frankie Dobbs.
“That you, Maisie?”
“Of course it is, Dad.”
“Soon be on your way, I should imagine. I’ve a nice stew simmering, and the tree’s up, ready for us to decorate.”
“Dad, I’m sorry, I won’t be driving down until tomorrow morning. I’ll leave early and be with you for breakfast.”
“What’s the matter? Are you all right, love?”
She cleared her throat. “Bit of a sore throat. I reckon it’s nothing, but it’s given me a headache and there’s a lot of sickness going round. I’m sure I’ll be all right tomorrow.”
“I
’ll miss you.” No matter what he said, when it was into the telephone receiver, Frankie shouted, as if his words needed to reach London with only the amplification his voice could provide. Instead of a soft endearment, it sounded as if he had just given a brusque command.
“You too, Dad. See you tomorrow then.”
MAISIE RESTED FOR a while longer, having dragged her chair in front of the gas fire and turned up the jets to quell her shivering. She placed another telephone call, to the client with whom she and Billy were due to meet this morning, then rested again, hoping the dizziness would subside so that she felt enough confidence in her balance to walk along to Tottenham Court Road and hail a taxi-cab. As she reached for her coat and hat, the bell above the door rang, indicating that a caller had come to the front entrance. She gathered her belongings, and was about to turn off the lights, when she realized that, in the aftermath of today’s events, Billy had forgotten the box of gifts for his family. She turned off the fire, settled her document case on top of the gifts and switched off the lights. Then, balancing the box against her hip, she locked her office and walked with care down the stairs leading to the front door, which she pulled open.
“I thought you might still be here.” Richard Stratton removed his hat as Maisie opened the door.
She turned to go back up to the office. “Oh, more questions so soon?”
He reached forward to take the box, and shook his head. “Oh, no, that’s not it . . . well, I do have more questions, but that’s not why I’m here. I thought you looked very unwell. You must be concussed—and you should never underestimate a concussion. I left Caldwell in Charlotte Street and came back. Come on, my driver will take you home, however, we’re making a detour via the hospital on the way—to get that head of yours looked at.”
Maisie nodded. “I think you’ve been trying to get my head looked at for some time, Inspector.”
He held open the door of the Invicta for her to step inside the motor car. “At least you weren’t too knocked out to quip, Miss Dobbs.”
As they drove away, Maisie looked through the window behind her, her eyes scanning back and forth across the square, until her headache escalated and she turned to lean back in her seat.
“Forgotten something?”
“No, nothing. It’s nothing.”
Nothing except the feeling between her shoulder blades that had been with her since this morning. It was a sense that someone had seen her reach out to the doomed man, had seen their eyes meet just before he pulled the pin that would ignite the grenade. Now she felt as if that same someone was watching her still.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, foolish man. I should have known, should have sensed he was on the precipice. I never thought the idiot would take his own life. Fool. He should have waited. Had I not told him that we must bide our time? Had I not said, time and again, that we should temper our passion until we were heard, until what I knew gave us currency? Now the only one who knows is the sparrow. An ordinary gray little thing who comes each day for a crumb or two. He knows. He listens to me, waits for me to tell him my plans. And, oh, what plans I have. Then they will all listen. Then they’ll know. I’ve called him Croucher. Little sparrow Croucher, always there, sing-song Croucher, never without a smile. I have a lot to tell him today.
The man closed his diary and set down his pencil. He always used pencil, sharpened with a keen blade each morning and evening, for the sound of a worn lead against paper, the surrounding wood touching the vellum, scraping back and forth for want of sharpening, set his teeth on edge, made him shudder. Sounds were like that. Sounds made their way into your body, crawled along inside your skin. Horses’ hooves on wet cobblestones, cart wheels whining for want of oil, the crackle and snap as the newspaper boy folded the Daily Sketch. Thus he always wrote using a pencil with a long, sharp but soft lead, so he couldn’t hear his words as they formed on the page.
TWO
Faced with advice to go home and rest, and knowing that it would be foolish to embark upon a long drive following a diagnosis of concussion, Maisie revised her plans and decided to travel on the train to Kent that very evening, given that trains would not run to Chelstone on Christmas Day. It would be a surprise for her father, who now did not expect her until Christmas morning. First, though, she wanted to ensure that Billy’s boys received their gifts, so upon arrival back at her flat, she loaded the box into the MG and drove with care across London to Shoreditch. The city was wet, with an unyielding quality of gray light that made the words Merry Christmas seem hardly worth saying. In poorer parts of London, the soup kitchens had been busy, and rations had been distributed to those for whom the festive season was another reminder of what it was to want. Yet in some windows red candles burned a white-gold flame, as the occupants attempted to uplift spirits and reflect the season.
She pulled up outside Billy’s house and was not surprised to see a Christmas tree lit with candles and paper chains framing the window. Silhouettes in the parlor suggested the family was gathered there to decorate the tree. As she walked to the door with the box of gifts, she heard a raised voice coming from the parlor, and wondered if she should not have come.
“Don’t you touch those presents. They’re for Lizzie. I bought them ’specially for a little girl, so don’t you dare touch your sister’s things.”
A child began to cry. Maisie thought it was probably Bobby, the youngest son. She was about to turn away, when she heard Billy, the eldest boy, shout out to his father.
“Miss Dobbs’ motor car’s outside. Quick, let’s have a look at it, Bobby!”
And before she could leave the box of gifts on the step and turn back to the MG, the front door opened.
“Aw, Miss, you shouldn’t’ve gone to all that trouble, what with you not feeling well and all.” Billy stood on the doorstep without a jacket, his shirt collar and tie removed and his sleeves rolled up.
“Is them for us?” Young Billy’s eyes lit up when he saw the packages wrapped in Christmas paper.
“Yes, they’re for you, Billy—and for your brother too! Merry Christmas!”
“Come on in, Miss, and have a cuppa with us before you go.”
“Oh, no, you’re all busy and—”
“Doreen and me won’t hear of it, not after you bringing all this for the boys.” Billy stood back to allow Maisie to come into the passageway, and then opened the door to the parlor. “Doreen, it’s Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie tried to hide her dismay when she saw Doreen Beale standing close to the Christmas tree, clutching a child’s threadbare toy lamb to her heart. Her hair was drawn back, which accentuated sallow skin that had sunk into her face, and cheekbones that seemed to jut out from under her eyes. The cardigan she was wearing was soiled at the cuffs and her dress had some dried food on the front. Though Billy and his wife were working hard to put money by for passage to Canada, and what they hoped would be a new life, they were proud people, and Doreen was especially meticulous when it came to keeping the family’s clothing clean and pressed, no matter how old it might be, or how many owners it might have had before.
“It’s lovely to see you, Doreen.” Maisie approached her and placed her hand on the woman’s arm. “How are you keeping?”
She looked at Maisie’s hand as if she could not quite fathom who this visitor might be, and how her arm had become thus burdened. Then, her eyes filling with tears, she beamed a smile filled with hope. “Have you brought a present for my little girl? She loves her dolls, you know, and her lamb. Did you bring her something?”
Maisie looked around at Billy, who set the box of gifts under the tree, and came to his wife, placed his arm around her and began to lead her to the kitchen.
“Let’s go and put the kettle on for Miss Dobbs, eh, Doreen? Let’s have a nice cup of tea, then we can all sit down and look at the tree.”
“All right, Billy. I’ll be better when I’ve had a cup of tea.”
Billy returned to the parlor. Now that he was not wearing his jacket, as he did at all time
s in the office, Maisie realized that he too had lost weight.
“Sorry, Miss, she’s having a bit of a turn. All the excitement of putting up the tree, I suppose. And—as you know—it’s coming up to a year ago that we lost our little Lizzie. Apparently, it does this sort of thing, an anniversary.”
Maisie wanted to ask questions, wanted to know how she might be able to help, but this was Christmas, and she knew Billy would want to settle his children and his wife, so the family might have a calm day tomorrow.
“I’d better be off, Billy. I’ve got to get down to Kent, and I’m taking the train—don’t want to drive down, not with this bump on the back of my head.”
“Oh, Miss, and you drove over here for us.” He turned to his boys, who were silent and watching, and as Maisie could see, were fully aware of their mother’s plight. “What do you say to Miss Dobbs?”
They echoed thanks, and Maisie said they could each sit in the driver’s seat of the MG for a minute or two, then she had to leave. And as she drove away, Maisie looked back and saw Billy standing on the doorstep, one boy held to him, the other clutching his hand. The children waved and then the three turned and went inside the house.
December 26th, 1931
Christmas Day had passed with a mellow quietness, as Maisie and her father spent time by the fire, sometimes talking, sometimes reading, with her father’s dog, a lurcher known as Jook, temporarily changing allegiance to sit at her feet. They shared a hearty festive meal of roast capon and all the trimmings, and enjoyed a short walk across fields whitened by ground frost, the length of the stroll dictated by Frankie’s years and her lingering concussion, which, though subsiding, still caused some dizziness if she remained on her feet too long.
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