To Die but Once

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Maisie and Billy sat in the saloon bar and waited until afternoon closing time before the pub was empty. Phil Coombes did not even ask if they wanted to speak to him, but as he chivvied the last customer out of the pub and locked the door, he turned to them.

  “Better come upstairs. Sally will have heard me bolt the door, and the kettle will be on.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Coombes,” said Maisie.

  Sally Coombes demonstrated no sense of surprise as her husband led the visitors into her kitchen. She set two more cups and saucers, a pot of tea, a jug of milk and the sugar bowl on the table.

  “Take a seat,” said Coombes. “You too,” he added, pulling out a chair for his wife.

  Maisie looked in silence from Phil to Sally Coombes, and Billy shifted in his seat.

  “You know why I’m here, don’t you?” said Maisie.

  “It’s about my brother,” said Sally. She pulled a handkerchief from her pinafore pocket and pressed it against her eyes.

  “We couldn’t go to the police,” said Coombes, putting an arm around his wife’s shoulder.

  “Couldn’t go to the police? He was killing your son!” Billy’s outburst came without warning.

  “Billy—” Maisie raised her hand to settle her assistant. She drew her attention back to Phil Coombes. “Mr. Coombes—Phil—correct me if I’m wrong, but here’s what I believe has happened in this family.” She looked toward Sally. “Would you pour the tea, Mrs. Coombes—I know I could do with a cup.” She continued while Sally Coombes poured. “Sometimes these things start in a small way, don’t they? I’ve seen this so many times in my work—the very worst trouble that people get into doesn’t begin with a big leap to the dark side. It’s rather like when you run a hot water tap—it first runs cold, then slowly the water warms, until the hot water comes through and it’s so uncomfortable you have to draw your hand away. You can run the cold water to moderate the heat. Or you can just get used to the increasing temperature.”

  Sally Coombes set a cup of tea each in front of Maisie, Billy and her husband, then took a sip from her own cup while continuing to stare at Maisie, as if she had been anticipating every word spoken.

  “Phil—you were in the army with Jimmy Robertson, and you two became tight—he’s a charismatic person, after all. I’ve heard he’s a bit of a Jack-the-Lad with a quick turn of phrase, and a very good head on his shoulders. A very bright man.”

  “He kept our boys out of the army,” said Sally.

  “Indeed.” Maisie glanced at Billy, then brought her attention back to Sally. She had expected her to make at least one defense of her brother. “And he’s seen you all right,” she continued. “You’ve been well taken care of as a family. But there’s a price, isn’t there? And what was that price? Selling his stolen goods through the pub—perhaps the holiday clubs? People put money in the kitty every week to buy themselves a good Christmas, or Easter, and you not only keep it for them, but then you can sell the goods acquired by your brother.”

  “It didn’t do anyone any harm,” said Sally, folding her arms.

  “Sal—hold on,” said Coombes. “All right—yes, it was just like you said. A bit of knocked-off stuff here and there, and holding on to some money until one of his blokes came for it—he made it worth our while. Kept our three in better clothes than we could afford, and all we had to do was the odd favor. Nothing wrong with that—not really.”

  “But it began to get bigger, until—I suspect—you both would really rather not be doing what you were doing anymore. And that’s why, when Joe didn’t telephone as usual, and when he complained about the headaches, you were too scared to go to Jimmy, because really—” Maisie turned her attention to Sally Coombes. “Because really you know that Jimmy might have the veneer of taking care of his own, but anyone in his pay is dispensable, one way or another. You could not go to the police directly, because you have—whether you like it or not—committed the crime of receiving stolen goods, and you’ve done it for years. Probably all your life.”

  Maisie reached to take a sip of tea, choosing her words. “You, Phil, started the ball rolling when you came to see me. I think you hoped that I would find Joe alive, bring him home, and then all would be well. But I also think that, in the deepest place of your heart, you knew your brother-in-law would sacrifice your son to save himself. He is a ruthless man.”

  Phil Coombes began to weep, his shoulders shaking as the mournful keening took over his body. “I thought Jimmy was saving him, I thought he had helped us by putting in the word at Yates, and then getting him the job there. I knew that if this war went on, he’d reach conscription age, and after what I saw in the last war, I didn’t want my sons to go, and Jimmy helped.”

  Sally’s voice was cold, her words delivered in a tone that made Maisie think of shards of shaved ice. “Jimmy expects loyalty.”

  “I’m sure he does. I think it’s something we all like—but you knew, deep down, that something was not quite right with the work, and instead of allowing Joe to leave Mike Yates’ employ—and Yates is in the palm of your brother’s hand—you forbade him to take up the opportunity to work on a farm.”

  “You’re right, Miss Dobbs.” As he spoke, Maisie could see that Phil Coombes wore the demeanor of a resigned man—his shoulders were rounded, his head low—and in his voice she could feel the deep chasm of grief in his heart. “I was scared, and I was scared of Jimmy—of what he could do. I knew he would have had no patience if Joe’s complaints led to him losing money. Archie and Vivian know exactly what their uncle is like, and they’ve toed the line—they’ve done very well—but Joe was different. He didn’t really see it. And what future is there on a farm, for a London boy?” Phil Coombes held out his hands, palms up, as he asked the question.

  “There’s life,” said Billy. “A boy on a farm would be alive. And in one of your precious reserved occupations.”

  Maisie cleared her throat. “Billy, would you telephone Caldwell. Tell him Mr. and Mrs. Coombes are ready to make a statement. I think it would be a good idea if he sent a motor car.”

  “Right you are, miss,” said Billy. He left the room to go down to the saloon bar, where he could place the call.

  “I could have stopped it all, if I’d gone to the police earlier,” said Phil. “But, I mean, it was only headaches, and it was probably his age.”

  Maisie leaned forward, her brow knitted. “Phil, you’re playing a devastating game of snakes and ladders, going back and forth with the truth. One minute you’re confessing and the next denying complicity to the rest of the world. You must face up to the fact that Joe suffered terrible pain due to your brother-in-law tampering with the paint he was supplying to Yates. And who knows how many others have been affected.”

  “But Teddy said—” began Sally.

  “Teddy is only protected now because he is in uniform and the services need people working, not in prison—but he may still risk incarceration if he has to stand a court-martial. The authorities know he was under the influence of a man of whom he was fearful, so that may help him—believe it or not, the police have spoken up for him. But you knew Teddy worked in his uncle’s warehouses before the war, and it was fortuitous that his experience took him right into a similar position with the RAF—looking after stores. But was it fortune, or another of his uncle’s contacts? Either way, that’s where Jimmy Robertson came in again—and Teddy wasn’t safe in the RAF.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Sally.

  “Teddy was falsifying deliveries. No less than a third of each shipment was going straight to his uncle’s warehouse. And a good deal of each shipment was foodstuff—which is becoming harder to get already. It’s very nice money for Jimmy, a quite significant black market income. There’s probably food in your larder that should have gone into an RAF store. Sally, your brother has tentacles that reach everywhere—but you know that, you’ve lived with it all your life, because your father before him was the same. It’s the family business.”

  “We wante
d only the best for our children, Miss Dobbs,” said Phil Coombes. “We might have been strict, we might have been a bit hard on them, but it’s no good bringing them up soft, is it? And we provided for them the best we could.”

  Maisie sighed, relieved to hear the sound of a motor car pulling up outside.

  It was not Caldwell who entered the kitchen moments later, but another man, along with Billy and a uniformed policeman. The man in civilian clothing addressed Maisie first.

  “Harry Bream. Flying Squad. Pleased to meet you.” He turned to Phil and Sally Coombes. “If you wouldn’t mind accompanying me, Mr. and Mrs. Coombes. It’s very quiet outside, and we just want to take you along to our gaff to ask a few questions.”

  Sally Coombes came to her feet, aided by her husband.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Bream—in fact, I’m sure it’s Detective Inspector Bream—I’d like to change into my best costume, fetch my coat and pay a visit to the lavatory,” said Sally. She smiled at her husband and reached across to squeeze his hand.

  Bream stepped aside to allow her to leave, and as she did so, Maisie came to her feet and stood still, watching the first steps she took across the threshold onto the landing. As Sally Coombes’ footfall receded along the passageway first to the bedroom, and then a few minutes later to the bathroom, Maisie felt as if she were watching a moving picture reduced to slow motion. And then the screen turned black.

  “Oh no!” cried Maisie, rushing down the passageway. She had just pushed open the bathroom door when the shot rang out.

  Chapter 18

  Maisie bent her head as the flash from camera bulbs erupted, and reporters approached, notebooks in hand, asking for comments on what had happened in the private residence of the popular watering hole. Billy raised his hand to shield his employer, taking Maisie by the arm and falling into step as she walked at speed along Warren Street toward Fitzroy Square. Behind her she could hear Jack Barker, the newspaper vendor, who had hurried across the street when he saw what was happening. “Come on, gents, that’s enough for today. You’ve got your pictures and you’ve got the story, now get back to your little desks down there in Fleet Street and fiddle with your pens because I’ve got to sell your wares tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s all I need,” said Maisie, as they reached the front door, her key at the ready.

  “Nearly there, miss. Another nice cup of tea with a lot of sugar is what we need. Terrible day—miserable day all-around, and that was a blimmin’ horrible thing you saw in there.”

  Maisie was standing by the window, staring down at Walter Miles’ garden when Billy entered her office, placing a tray with two mugs of hot tea on the long table, the case map still drawn out across its full length.

  “I know you prefer a mug, miss, so I didn’t mess around with them china cups. Reminds me of being in the army, that there’s still a fight to be had and we’d better drink it all up and get some courage in us.”

  Maisie took a seat at the table, clutching the mug with both hands as she sipped the piping hot, sweet tea.

  “Funny, innit, miss—how it’s a nice warm afternoon out there, but now we’re both feeling like it’s a winter’s morning?”

  “It’s the adrenaline, Billy. The rush of adrenaline that gets you through a shock leaves you cold once it diminishes in your body. At least we can still be shocked—I would hate to have to accept the death of Sally Coombes as something perfectly normal.”

  “I know what you mean.” He put down the mug and tapped the map. “I can see all the links now, but some still seem a bit faint.” He paused. “And I’ve a question, miss—if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Go on, Billy. We should sit here and talk over everything that’s happened—so we can begin to take it all in, along with the outcome. This has been a testing case.”

  “It’s been an odd one, no two ways about it. All these threads and lines of inquiry, and you’re not the one tying them all together. Well—you were when it came to Sally Coombes, but. . .” Billy reached for his mug again. “Anyway, I don’t want to speak out of turn.”

  Maisie looked up at the man who had been at her side as her assistant for the best part of eleven years, a man she had seen struggle with lingering pain from war wounds sustained in 1917, with addiction, the loss of a beloved child, a very ill wife, and the challenges of bringing two sons to manhood as war approached. In turn he had witnessed Maisie battle her own shell shock along with the physical wounds of war, and then her blossoming when finding love again. He had known her through widowhood, through a homecoming from another war, and had returned to work for her as she reestablished her business.

  “You have every right to express your opinions, Billy—and if I am not mistaken, you have been harboring feelings about the way I’ve managed this case.”

  “It’s just not like you—you’ve almost got there, you’ve all your notes from the investigation. You’ve got this.” He tapped the case map. “And you’ve handed the lot over to Caldwell and that bloke from the Sweeney Todd—Harry Bream. You’re not going to be on the spot when they bring in Freddie whatshisname, and you never faced up to Jimmy Robertson—never even attempted to see him. That’s not like you at all. Now, admittedly, being in the same room with that felon would be a bit of a chance—after all, he’s not known for taking prisoners, but still . . . why? Why aren’t you in at the end? Is it because you’ve not got the motor car anymore, and you can’t exactly nip here and there on the train and the bus? Or is it to do with the money? Because as far as I can see, there ain’t some fancy client falling over himself to settle an account on this one. All the costs are down to the business.”

  Maisie took another sip of tea before responding. “Certainly giving up the Alvis has clipped my wings—it’s hard to act at speed without a motor car. And it’s not the money, Billy. I daresay there will be some ‘consideration’ coming from Scotland Yard—after all, I’ve given them almost everything they need to make arrests. Or I will have by the time we make our statements. And there are funds in the business account to absorb a few losses.” She sighed. “No, it’s something quite different. I have to be careful for another reason.”

  “I reckon after all this time, miss, you could tell me what it is,” said Billy.

  Maisie set down her mug, pushed back her chair and walked to the window, her eyes drawn to the thriving clematis. She lifted a hand to wipe away a tear, and turned back to Billy, leaning against the windowsill as she sighed before beginning to explain herself.

  “You’re right—together we’ve put all the pieces on the table for Scotland Yard, and yet I am not the one constructing the final picture, though it’s pretty obvious—it’ll fall into place without any more help from me.”

  “But, miss—”

  “Wait, Billy—just wait.” She cleared her throat. “You’ve probably gathered—indeed, I think it’s fairly obvious—that I have become very fond of our little evacuee, Anna.”

  “She’s a treasure of a child, a real treasure,” said Billy.

  “She is indeed.” Maisie nodded, struggling to swallow the lump in her throat. “And whilst her late grandmother—just before she passed away—signed forms naming me as Anna’s guardian, my stated responsibility was not only to offer Anna a good home, but to find her a family who loved her. My role was to be temporary, a place for her to be safe until she could be settled forever. It’s implied in the language.”

  Billy opened his mouth to speak, but Maisie raised her hand and shook her head. “Let me get to the end, Billy.” She took another deep breath. “I decided to take steps to adopt Anna—to become her mother. But of course there are hurdles to leap across. I have managed to persuade the authorities that it would be nigh on impossible to find her Maltese father—at first they stipulated that I should prove that both parents had relinquished interest, either through death or a signed contract. And then without any prompting from me, they concluded that it might be difficult to place her, as she is not exactly colored like an Englis
h rose. But neither am I—and I have had very mixed feelings because on one hand I was glad they identified a problem with placing her, which gives weight to my application, yet at the same time I was filled with anger that they dared to voice such . . . such . . . prejudice.” She sighed, shaking her head. “And I couldn’t exactly take them to task for it—that would have definitely put someone’s back up, and I need people on my side, not against me. To the good, I have been fortunate in the references I’ve been able to submit, but two things stand in the way.”

  “Just two?” said Billy.

  Maisie nodded. “Oh, but they’re big. One is that I am a widow, though I am a woman of independent means, and of course I have a title bestowed upon me by marriage that has smoothed the way a little.” She shook her head. “But to tell you the truth, that infuriates me too. I was brought up by people who, when all is said and done, did their very best for me. No matter what privations we faced as a family, I was loved. That’s all that really matters. Anyway, my references are excellent and my house passes muster with the Ministry of Health.”

  “So, one thing is that you’re a widow—a woman with no husband.”

  Maisie nodded, wiping away a tear.

  “And what’s the other thing?”

  There was a moment’s silence before Maisie could speak.

  “My work.”

  “Oh,” said Billy, nodding his understanding. “Yes, I’m beginning to get the picture.”