To Die but Once

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Walter Miles emerged from the downstairs flat and greeted them as they reached the steps leading to the office. He was wearing a cream linen summer blazer with beige trousers and brown leather shoes, and wore a white open-neck shirt. He carried a brown leather document case, and used a cane to steady his walk. Passing the cane to the opposite hand, he raised his cream straw fedora. Maisie realized that, despite the scar along his jawline, Miles was a very handsome man, and somewhat reminiscent of her late husband.

  “Good day to you, Miss Dobbs, Mr. Beale.”

  “Good morning,” Maisie and Billy replied in unison.

  “You’re like the number thirty-six bus,” continued Maisie. “We don’t see much of you—and then here you are several times in a row.”

  “I’m on my way to the university now,” said Miles, his smile broad as he regarded Maisie.

  “What do you teach?” she asked.

  “Botany, usually, though with a few colleagues being called up, I’m now teaching other sciences as needed—and I’m often at Bedford College as well as Malet Street. Anyway, I’d better be off, or I’ll be late.” He lifted his hat to signal his departure and gave another smile.

  Maisie watched as Miles made his way toward Warren Street.

  “Seems to be a good bloke, eh miss?”

  “Yes, very nice indeed.”

  “He might be sweet on you,” added Billy. “I haven’t see him much, then—like you said—there he is a few times in a row.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything, Billy.”

  “It meant something that day Mr. Stratton came to take you out to lunch. Last month, it was.”

  “I don’t understand—what do you mean?”

  “Oh, you two were off across the square, going out to have lunch somewhere, and I was leaving to see one of our new clients. Up comes Mr. Miles from his downstairs flat, and says, ‘Miss Dobbs seems to have a nice gentleman.’ Of course, I told him Mr. Stratton was only a friend, someone you’d worked with. And then he asked what he did, and so I told him Mr. Stratton used to be with the police, before he left to become a teacher, but has to come into London for war work now. I think Mr. Miles was a bit downcast, you know, as if you were walking out with Mr. Stratton and he was sad about it.”

  “Hmmm, I think you’re seeing things, Billy,” said Maisie.

  “P’raphs he’ll come up and invite you down for a cuppa.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, really I don’t.”

  Later, in the office as she packed papers she might need during her absence, Maisie walked across to the window to look down at the garden Walter Miles had created. She found it calming to stand there. Perhaps it took a botanist to have such luck in a postage-stamp yard where sunlight only seemed to flash through at certain times of day.

  Chapter 15

  “I felt quite bad about going to Ramsgate, to tell you the truth,” said Priscilla, flicking ash from her cigarette out of the open passenger side window. “I mean, there I was, jumping up and down, talking to anyone who looked official, trying to find out if they knew where my son was. And they had enough on their hands dealing with the men coming off the boats, without a lunatic mother screaming at them.” She coughed and patted her chest. “I don’t know whether that’s the gasper I’m puffing away on, or all this fresh air. Lovely to have a motor car with a roof you can put down though—I adored driving with the wind in my hair when we lived in Biarritz.” She paused. “Sometimes I wish we’d have bloody well stayed there, because now I have a son in the air force and another who thinks he’s Lord Horatio bloody Nelson.”

  “It’s best you’re not in Biarritz, Pris—not with what’s happened in France. And you know it.” Maisie shifted gears as she slowed to drive through Chelstone.

  “I absolutely adore this village, Maisie. Perhaps I should sell the family home and buy something here—it would make sense, because we hardly ever use the house now, and I’ve only kept it, really, for the memories. But I think Kent would be so much more convenient, after all, we would be in the country, yet there’s the train or the coach to go back and forth from London.” At that moment, a trio of RAF Spitfires flew overhead. “Then of course, I remember that Kent has taken the brunt of invasions for centuries, and I don’t particularly want to be on the front line,” she added, shielding her eyes with a hand to follow the aircraft until they disappeared into the clouds. “Wouldn’t it be simply the strangest thing if one of those boys were my son, flying off to France?” She turned to Maisie, then raised a palm to blow a kiss in the direction of the aircraft.

  “Nearly there,” said Maisie. “Brenda will have baked a bounty of cakes, I’m sure.”

  “Thank heavens for your chickens and their eggs!” said Priscilla.

  Maisie pulled into the lane leading to the back of the Dower House, parking the Alvis under a tree.

  “Tomorrow will be the last time I can drive—it has to go into the garage until after the war now. I can’t push my luck with the special allowance anymore.”

  “Ours has gone into storage too—going to Ramsgate was its swan song until this war is finished,” said Priscilla. “And there’s your greeting party,” she added, pointing to the back door of the Dower House.

  Frankie Dobbs stood on the threshold, holding Anna’s hand. The child was in her pajamas, her feet drumming the ground, running on the spot as she waved to Maisie.

  Maisie stepped from the motor car as Frankie relinquished his hold on Anna’s hand. The little girl ran to Maisie, Emma ambling from behind Frankie to remain close to her mistress.

  “You’re home, you’re home, you’re home!”

  “And you’ve forgotten your slippers, your slippers, your slippers, young lady,” said Maisie, lifting the child and holding her on her hip. “My, for a little girl who’s had the measles, you’re getting heavy! And what time is this? It’s past time for a measled girl to be in her bed!”

  “Hello, Auntie Priscilla,” said Anna, as Maisie let her slither to the ground.

  “Hello, Anna,” said Priscilla, leaning forward and tapping her own nose and cheeks. “One there, one there, and one on the other side.”

  Anna giggled and kissed Priscilla on both cheeks and her nose, as instructed, then reached for Maisie’s hand.

  “Tim’s coming back tomorrow,” she said, leading Maisie and Priscilla into the kitchen. The women exchanged glances.

  “Hello, love,” said Frankie, kissing his daughter. “She’s gone on and on about Tim coming home all day.” He looked at Priscilla, who had moved to kiss him in greeting. “Sorry, Mrs. Partridge—I told her to keep her dreams a secret, because I wouldn’t want you to be upset. But Anna’s been waiting for Maisie and you to get here—she was so excited she couldn’t rest.”

  “What will upset me is you not calling me ‘Priscilla’—how many years have I known you now, Mr. Dobbs?” She paused and pulled a face. “Oh dear, I don’t practice what I preach, do I?”

  At that moment, Brenda entered the kitchen. “Hello, Mrs. Partridge—I’ve made up the guest room for you and Mr. Partridge, and we’ll put Tarquin in the conservatory when he gets here—Tim always loves sleeping there.”

  “That’s perfect, Mrs. Dobbs—thank you so very much.” Priscilla turned to Maisie. “And I suppose you’re still bedding down in the library.”

  “It’s very comfortable, and if I can’t sleep, there’s plenty of reading material to get on with.” She reached for Anna’s hand. “Now, while you all catch up with your news, I’m taking Anna upstairs. It’s time she was in bed again—we don’t want all the excitement to set her back.”

  Maisie was stretched out on top of the covers reading a story, with Anna in bed resting against the crook of her arm, when Brenda entered with a mug of warm milk.

  “Looks like she’s not far off sleep now,” said Brenda.

  “Almost in the land of nod, aren’t you,” said Maisie, sweeping a tendril of black hair across Anna’s forehead, away from her eyes. “Come on, time for your milk.�
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  As Anna reached for the mug and began to sip, Maisie continued to support the child, who was leaning against her.

  “Heard from your Mr. Klein, Maisie?” asked Brenda, standing by the door.

  “Yes, I saw him this week. It was a short meeting, not very long at all.”

  “And?”

  Maisie shrugged, not looking at Brenda, paying attention to Anna as she finished her milk. “Just a few little things to get over.”

  “Oh,” said Brenda. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Yes,” said Maisie.

  Brenda left the room as Anna took a final sip and handed the mug to Maisie.

  “A widow is a lady whose husband has died, isn’t she?” said Anna.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Maisie stood up and set the mug on the side table. She had answered the question as if it were the most ordinary inquiry. “Now then, snuggle down and close your eyes ready for the sandman.”

  “I know your husband died,” whispered Anna.

  “Yes, you probably heard someone mention it,” said Maisie. “It’s not a secret, but I don’t talk about it much.”

  “Lady Rowan came over to read to me when I first had measles. I heard her talking to Auntie Brenda downstairs. She said it doesn’t help that you’re a widow.”

  “Probably because sometimes being a widow makes other people sad,” said Maisie.

  “Who’s Mr. Klein?” asked Anna, resting her head on the pillow.

  “He’s what they call a solicitor. A man who draws up papers to do with the law.”

  “Did he draw up papers for you because you’re a widow?”

  “Yes, he helped me with all sort of things,” said Maisie

  “Is he drawing up papers so you can keep me?”

  Maisie knelt down at the side of the bed and held Anna’s hand. Emma, who had been lying close to the door, raised her nose.

  “What made you say that, Anna?”

  The child looked into Maisie’s eyes. “Because you want me. That’s what nanny said, before she went to heaven. She told me that everything would be all right, because the lady wanted me.”

  Upon reaching Hastings at ten o’clock the following morning, Maisie parked the motor car close to the Stade, the shingle beach that was home to the town’s fishing fleet. Most had returned home with the morning’s catch several hours earlier, though one of the heavy clinker-built boats had just been winched ashore.

  “Wait a moment, Pris—I won’t be long,” said Maisie as she took one of several bottles of water she had packed in the motor car, and walked across the shingle to speak to a fisherman. He was standing to one side, his waxed overalls and jacket sodden and stained, his face and hands black with oil and sweat. She uncorked the bottle and passed it to him. He nodded his appreciation.

  “You’ve come back from Dunkirk, haven’t you?”

  The man drank several mouthfuls and nodded again.

  “I wonder if you could help me. My friend’s son and another boy went out in a launch—a forty-five-footer. They’ve not come in, and I wondered if—as you were making your way back—you saw a vessel returning in this direction. She’s usually moored at the harbor in Rye. So not far.”

  He shook his head, took one more long draw from the bottle, and wiped his mouth against his sleeve, spreading another line of oil across his cheek. “Can’t say as I have, love.” The man leaned back against the boat behind him, and sank down to sit on a mound of nets. “Sorry. We only just came in.” He raised the bottle as if in a toast. “Much obliged to you. Much obliged.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you—for going over there.”

  “It was terrible. Never get the pictures out of my head. Never. Once seen, never forgotten.” He closed his eyes.

  Maisie moved to walk away, then heard the fisherman speak again. “Just because I never saw the boat, don’t mean it weren’t there.” He sipped more water and nodded toward the boat that had just been winched in. “It was all I could do to get us back here, what with her taking on water. Didn’t like to leave, because there’s still more to bring home. Brave boys. All brave boys. And your lads might’ve been out there. I just never saw ’em. ’Twas all I could do to see my way home.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she called out, raising her hand to bid him farewell again.

  “Now Rye,” said Maisie as she reached the motor car and opened the driver’s door.

  Priscilla took one final draw on her cigarette—this time without the holder—threw it down and ground it into the dirt with the toe of her shoe.

  At Rye there was no sign of the Cassandra, but as Maisie and Priscilla left the motor car to walk across to the harbor, a member of the local constabulary approached to query Maisie’s authority for running a motor car, and also asked to see her motor spirit coupons and both their identity cards. They complied with the request.

  “All looks in order, madam. But I wouldn’t chance another run in that motor car—and I hope you’ve got a full tank there because there’s not much to be had at the petrol stations.”

  “Yes, fortunately—and my vehicle is going into storage tomorrow. We just had to make this last journey along the coast, looking for my friend’s son.” She explained what had happened with Tim and his friend Gordon.

  “Oh yes, know the Cassandra—and now I come to think of it, I’ve seen those boys before, taking out one of the father’s boats. Got a veritable fleet, the Sandersons. Sailing family through and through.”

  Maisie was aware of Priscilla’s mounting frustration, as her friend tapped her foot and folded her arms.

  “Here’s my telephone number, Constable,” said Maisie, handing the man a calling card onto which she had written the Dower House number. “I know you’re a very busy man, but perhaps someone could place a call to me should this particular member of the fleet return.”

  He nodded and placed the card in his breast pocket. “Right you are, madam. I’ll keep an eye out. So, you said you’re making your way along the coast.”

  “Yes, we are,” interjected Priscilla. “It stands to reason my son and his friend will end up somewhere between here and Ramsgate, so we’re on our very own personal patrol to find them.”

  The man smiled, as if to mollify Priscilla, then turned back to Maisie. “Drop into the constabulary at every town, madam—tell them you’ve already spoken to me, Constable Sheering, from Rye. We’re all doing what we can for the boys coming in and the boats that bring them, so my colleagues along the way will give you a hand, and if they can, they’ll let you know if he’s come in.” His eyes met Priscilla’s once again. “Your son and young Gordon are courageous boys, madam. They’re made of the best of us all.”

  “Yes, quite,” said Priscilla, who turned and walked away.

  “Her other son is in the RAF, so she’s not herself,” explained Maisie, as she watched Priscilla light another cigarette.

  “Didn’t think so,” said the constable. “I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”

  Maisie nodded, thanked the man, and walked back to Priscilla.

  “Sorry about that,” said Priscilla. “I could just see us tearing along the barbed-wire-wrapped coast—Dymchurch, Hythe, Folkestone, Ramsgate—having these little chats with policemen and old salts along the way and getting nowhere fast. Finding out absolutely nothing while my son could be dead somewhere!”

  “I just told that man a terrible lie, Pris—I told him you weren’t being yourself, but really I should have said you are being exactly yourself! The first fisherman had just returned from Dunkirk, having saved heaven knows how many lives, and that constable is going to look out for Tim. We will find him, but we won’t find him in an instant!”

  “I should have let you do this alone, but I could not sit still. Just could not sit still a minute longer.” She folded her arms.

  “Then let’s get on our way.”

  They were silent along the route, stopping in Dymchurch and then Hythe.

  “N
ever mind water and a bottle of ginger beer each, why didn’t I think of bringing a flask of something to soothe my nerves? That was a huge error on my part,” said Priscilla, lighting up another cigarette, then extinguishing the lighted end with her thumb and finger, and throwing it out of the open window. “I should probably slow down with these things—luckily I’ve got a stash, but they’ll go on ration, and—”

  “Oh dear, I wonder what he wants?” Maisie looked into the rearview mirror, at the police motor car gaining on her, bell ringing. The driver had opened his window and was waving at Maisie to pull over.

  “I’m not surprised—your foot turned into lead as we left Hythe,” said Priscilla.

  Maisie maneuvered the motor car to the side of the road. Both women once again took out their identity cards. The police vehicle stopped in front of them, and the policeman in the passenger seat left the motor car and walked toward Maisie.

  “At a rough guess, I would say you’re about to go to Holloway Prison,” said Priscilla.

  “Oh, Pris, give it the elbow!” said Maisie. She opened the door and stepped out, ready to meet the policeman at her full height.

  “Miss Dobbs?” said the policeman, as he approached. He bent down to look at Priscilla through the open window. “And Mrs. Partridge?”

  “Yes?” Maisie and Priscilla responded at once.

  “Not many motors on the road, and certainly not one like this. We had an urgent telephone call from our colleagues along in Sussex, and we thought we should intercept you. You’re looking for a vessel named the Cassandra? Shortly after you left Rye, a fishing boat came in and the skipper raised the alarm that another boat had found her drifting without power and is towing her back to Rye. It’s a distance and slow going from the Channel, but she should be home before dark—and of course, there’s the tide to consider.”

  Priscilla had already leaped out of the Alvis to join Maisie. “My son. Is my son all right? Timothy Partridge. Is Timothy Partridge on the boat?”

  “I understand there are two boys, and some soldiers. There are some wounded, but both are on board.”