To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(13)

“Glad to see your sense of humor hasn’t completely vanished.” Maisie gave a half-laugh. “No, I meant like doctors—it occurred to me that, if this paint—emulsion, Joe called it—is sufficiently vaporous to cause headaches, I wondered if wearing some sort of mask might help, and if they wore them at the yard, when they’re decanting the bigger containers.”

“No, they weren’t,” Billy paused, thoughtful. “Well, I tell a lie. One bloke had tied an old rag around his face. Over his nose and mouth. And there’s more to tell on that.”

“Go on,” said Maisie.

“I went up to the bloke with the paperwork—he looked like he was ticking off the number of barrels—and first of all I asked him if Mr. Yates was there, and when he said no, I said, ‘Perhaps you can help me then.’ So, I asked him about Joe Coombes, and he said, ‘Oh, he’s not here—he’s on a job outside London.’ I asked him if he could tell me where, and he said he couldn’t, because it was—what did he say?” Billy pressed his lips together as he tried to remember the conversation. “‘Classified.’ That’s what he said. It was classified. He said Joe was working on a special . . . a special . . .” Billy opened his notebook, glanced at the pages, and closed it again, rubbing his eyes. “‘A special government works order.’ Then the bloke clammed up and asked, ‘And who are you?’ So I told him I was there because Joe’s dad was a mate of mine and couldn’t get away from work to come over himself, but him and his missus were a bit worried as they hadn’t heard from young Joe, and they thought he might be poorly, as he’d complained of having a bit of a head a few times. And he says, ‘Oh we all get a bit of that, mate—it’s paint what does it, especially this new stuff. That’s why Bert over there has a towel tied around his face.’ Then he told me it was all right because the lads are mainly working outside, so the fumes get dispersed.”

Maisie was silent, as if the information imparted were a stone found at the beach, a pebble shot through with thin veins of strata, to be traced and considered as she turned the rock in her palm.

“What you think of that, miss?”

“Did he say anything else?” asked Maisie.

“Not much—only that the older men look out for the apprentices, but at that age, they said Joe should have been pretty much able to look after himself.” Billy stared out of the window, then brought his attention back to Maisie. “Trouble is, they all think they’re men, these young lads, and even though I know what he meant—the bloke at Yates’ yard—fifteen and already at work for a year gives you a bit more nous than you had when you left school. But take it from me—there’s still something of the boy there, and without the beard of a man.”

“And Joe was so attached to his family. Yet I have a feeling that he knew he would be able to establish some independence with his work. He was breaking away from Phil and Sally to grow that beard. But this government job is beginning to sound like more and more of a risk.” She paused. “Do I go right here, Billy?”

“Ooops, yes, sorry, miss—I was miles away then, thinking. . . .”

“Anyway, it sounds as if the government wanted the work done as fast as possible, and sent the painters out with the best fire retardant they had to hand. And perhaps they hadn’t gone through a full testing.”

“P’raps they didn’t want to,” said Billy.

“You could be right. Look, as soon as I’ve dropped you at the cottage, I’ll find a room at a local guesthouse—it shouldn’t be too difficult, but still pushing it a bit as it will be getting dark by then. Luckily we’re making good time, but I don’t want to be out after the blackout. Tomorrow I’ll have a look round, find out where Joe was staying, talk to the landlady, that sort of thing. It’s a big county, but at least I know roughly where he was lodging, according to the notes taken when I spoke to Mrs. Coombes. I should telephone Brenda too, find out how Anna is this week. There have been some bugs going round, but so far she’s managed to remain well.”

“The things they pick up at school. When I was a boy, if anything was going round—mumps, chicken pox, measles—my mum used to say, ‘Go on, get in there and get it and then you’ll be done with it.’ Makes me laugh to think of it. There’s some who take very bad though. My cousin went down with chicken pox and they put her in quarantine because they thought she had smallpox. That’s another nasty one.” Billy seemed to stare into the distance as if the past were on the road in front of him, then sat forward in his seat. “That turning there, miss—with the pillar box at the end of the lane.”

Maisie swung the motor car onto the lane, continuing along the bumpy road until they reached a cottage on the edge of farmland.

“This is it,” said Billy.

“How far is it from the station?” asked Maisie.

“Three or four mile,” said Billy.

“And you walk all the way?”

“Unless I can get a lift from the farmer, if he’s coming this way. Doreen’s aunt’s husband, God rest his soul, was one of the farm workers from the time he was a boy, and the farmer said the tied cottage is hers until she dies.”

“Oh look, there’s Doreen with Margaret Rose now.” Maisie slowed the motor car, bringing it to a halt alongside the cottage. She shut off the engine and stepped out of the Alvis, watching as Billy’s daughter ran and launched herself into his arms while Doreen stood back, watching, smiling, yet with a questioning look in her eyes, until Billy held out a hand to bring her into his embrace. Maisie caught her breath, and for a moment she imagined laughing with James as their child ran to his arms, and then feeling his arms around them both, a family of three, beloved of each other. But James was gone now, along with all hope of motherhood, and at times Maisie thought she might lose the feeling of him, lose the image of his face, of his touch, of him reaching for her. She looked away, but heard Doreen call her name.