To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(14)
“Miss Dobbs—Maisie—would you like to stay for tea? You must be gasping for a cup, and something to eat.”
“Come on in, miss—we’ve been on the road for a few hours now,” added Billy.
Maisie shook her head. If she were to secure accommodation for the night, she should make haste to find her way back to a guesthouse she had noted as they drove through Whitchurch. “I should be getting along—I’ve to settle a room for the night.”
“You can stay here on the farm, Miss Dobbs,” said Doreen’s aunt as she emerged from the house wiping her hands on a tea cloth, and introduced herself as “Aunt Millicent,” as if everyone referred to her as “aunt” whether related or not. “They run a bed-and-breakfast up at the house, you know. The farmer’s wife, Mrs. Keep, puts up a very good spread of a morning.”
Realizing she had little choice—the group’s faces were wreathed in smiles of welcome and all but dictated her next move—Maisie inclined her head and accepted the referral. “I’ll nip along to see Mrs. Keep now.” She consulted her watch. “And then I might have just enough time to go back into Whitchurch before it gets dark.” She turned to Billy. “I want to find out where Joe was staying, have a word with the landlady. I’ve got his last address.”
“Right you are, miss.” Billy nodded, acknowledging Maisie’s tactful decline of tea. By the time she had seen Mrs. Keep, it was likely that Doreen would be in a state of distress, for Billy would have recounted what he knew of the battles raging on the other side of the Channel, and the fact that there were plans being made to evacuate the army. Maisie wondered if being privy to classified information in advance of the general population was as useful as it appeared at first blush. And she found herself wishing she had placed a call to Dr. Elsbeth Masters, the doctor of psychiatry to whom she had referred Doreen years before in the wake of little Lizzie Beale’s death. Although Billy’s wife was stronger, this news of what was happening in France might distress her to the point of relapse. But Billy was with her, so at least she had someone there to share the weight of her deepest fears—and they had come through so much together.
Mrs. Keep was as good as her name. She kept a tidy house, neat accommodation and a fair price for a room, which looked out over the kitchen garden and beyond to a field with cattle grazing, and a hill flanked by a stand of oaks in the far distance. At ease in the small room with sloping beamed ceilings, Maisie closed her eyes as she stood in front of the diamond-paned window. An image of the restful landscape before her seemed etched behind her lids, as if it were a photographic negative. But she could not linger and give way to fatigue. After paying Mrs. Keep for one night, she left the house to search for a Mrs. Digby, who apparently took in lodgers—including the young Joe Coombes.
Mrs. Digby resided in a house on the Winchester Road, not far from the River Test and the old silk mill. Billy had told her something of the town during the drive down from London, informing her that the silk mill was built in 1815, but that silk only began to be made two years later, when a silk manufacturer from London bought the property. The mill had garnered some prestigious clients, and more recently Billy had been told by a local that not only was the mill continuing to make silk for shirting and legal gowns, and for the company started by Thomas Burberry, but was also weaving silk for the insulation of electrical cables. It appeared the machine of war was in operation everywhere.
Maisie had been directed to the house by the landlord of a local pub—it seemed there was a pub on almost every corner of the small town—and according to the plaque above the door of the three-storey residence, it had been built in 1790. It appeared somewhat down at heel, and for the time being had probably been saved from complete collapse by ivy leaching into every crevice of the brickwork—though that same ivy could well be the culprit undermining the mortar. Maisie knocked at the door, and when there was no answer, knocked again. No one came. She stood back and looked up at the windows, then back at the door—and only then noticed a bell pull to the right, partially obscured by creeping vine. She took the rusty cast-iron handle and gave it a good tug. This time she did not have to wait long for a response to her summons.
“All right, all right. I’m coming. What’s the rush? That’s what I want to know.” A woman’s voice, husky, interrupted by a throaty cough, grew louder on the other side of the door. “I’m here, just a minute.” The yapping of a small dog inspired a scolding, and another round of coughing before the door was opened. “Yes? What can I do for you?”
Maisie estimated Mrs. Digby to be about fifty years of age, though she appeared to be doing all she could to combat the years. Dressed in a silk kimono over a pair of silk pajamas—both had seen better days, and perhaps not much in the way of laundry soap in recent weeks, or months—Digby was heavily made up, with copious amounts of powder and rouge. Maisie wondered if the woman had been on the stage, for the texture of the cosmetics reminded her of those used by Priscilla’s youngest son, Tarquin, when he had been given the role of Peter Pan in the school pantomime. Regarding Mrs. Digby, Maisie remembered Douglas Partridge looking down at his son and inquiring whether he had put on the makeup with a trowel, it was so thick. The woman’s eyes were bright blue, rimmed by long, thick lashes that could only be false. She held a petite white dog under her arm and jigged it up and down, as if it were a babe on her hip to be soothed. Maisie thought the dog looked more like a powder puff with eyes, nose, tongue and teeth, than something reliably canine.