To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(15)

“Mrs. Digby?”

The woman seemed to assess Maisie from head to toe, then smirked and raised an eyebrow, as if to have found the subject wanting. “And who wants to know?”

Maisie reached into her pocket and brought out a calling card. She handed it to Mrs. Digby, who held out a liver-spotted hand with be-ringed fingers, her nails manicured to show bright red polish to best effect. She took the card.

“Psychologist and investigator, eh? And you want to investigate me?”

Maisie shook her head. “No, Mrs. Digby. I’m here informally on behalf of very good friends of mine—their son was lodging with you, and they haven’t heard from him in a week or so, and of course they are worried.”

“You must mean Freddie. Or was it Len? I’ve only got the ladies now—three WAAFs stationed at the RAF base. Mind you—when the lads were here, it was all above board—men on the top floor, women on the floor just above mine. I don’t want any funny business going on under my roof.”

“Then you didn’t let a room to Joe Coombes?” asked Maisie.

The woman flapped a free hand. “Oh Joe. Little Joey. I almost forgot him—mind you, easy to do as he was a quiet one.”

“Was?”

“They moved on over a week ago—probably why his people haven’t heard from him.”

“I thought the men were still working in the area—at the airfield.”

Digby repositioned the dog on her hip. “Well, there’s more than one airfield within striking distance, and not many places left to lodge, what with all the WAAFs and they say we’ll have land girls coming in before too long. Not that the young ladies are easier—leaving their knickers and stockings to drip all over the floor when they’ve washed them out in the sink. And the noise they make when they’re getting ready to go out of an evening—I can hardly think. It’s like a herd of elephants above my head.” She paused. “No, there were three of them, the lads, and they moved out. . . .” The woman’s words seemed to fade, and she glanced at the ground, frowning.

“What is it?” said Maisie.

Digby shook her head. “Probably nothing. But that boy was having terrible headaches. I mean, the other boys had headaches too—I put it down to the fact that they liked to go down the pub of an evening. But with young Joe it was bad—he asked me for a powder once or twice, and I could see he was hurting. Then all of a sudden they were giving notice—the big lad, Freddie, came to see me, said they were moving out. And that was that.”

“When was the last time you saw Joe Coombes, Mrs. Digby?”

The woman stared over Maisie’s head and squinted, as if the answer might lie amid the trees on the other side of the road. “I reckon it was the day before they left. They were generally off to work before it’s my time to get up of a morning—they knew how to make themselves a breakfast, and as long as I don’t come down to a pile of dirty plates and cups in the sink, I let my lodgers look after themselves. Then that one came back to say they’d moved on, but he didn’t give an address. He brought the van and collected their belongings. Not that they had much. A small kit bag each, and that was it—I’ve seen evacuees turn up in the town with more. I know the lads were all working for a London firm, painting and decorating, that sort of trade. And I knew it was to do with airfields, so I assume they were doing up the officers’ mess at each place, something like that. I’d been paid up until the end of next month, so I was all right.”

“And they didn’t give you an address for forwarding post?” asked Maisie.

“No. Joe was the only one to get any letters in any case. Just a minute.” Digby held up a finger and walked back into the house. Maisie peered through the open doorway. A staircase swept up from a narrow hall, which had been painted red with a blue border, and a paper chain of dusty Union Jack flags hung in a shallow curve from the picture rail. A mirror was situated above a hall table where post had been spread out. Still holding the white dog on her hip, Digby held each letter up to her face, revealing a need for reading glasses, and a disposition too vain to admit it. Having placed the envelopes back on the table, she looked up into the mirror and squinted to check her reflection before turning back to the door.

“I could have sworn there was post for Joe. Perhaps Freddie took it for him. Anyway, he’ll be about somewhere with those other lads, at an airfield. Now, if you don’t mind, I can’t spend all afternoon jawing away like this.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Digby.” Maisie turned to leave, but held out her hand and pressed it against the door. “Oh—just one more question, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes?” Digby sighed the word, elongating it to signal her impatience.

“Did Joe ever have any visitors?”

“Visitors?” Digby shook her head. “I don’t hold with my lodgers having visitors—I like to know who’s under my roof.” She patted the dog, who was fidgeting, racing his little legs as if running in midair. She leaned down to put him on the ground and began speaking again as she once more stood up to her full height, by which time the dog had run to the back of the house, as if to attempt escape from his mistress. “But it’s funny you should ask, because someone came to the house asking for Joe Coombes. Tall, stringy sort of fellow—about thirty, perhaps younger. He was well turned out, I remember that—very tidy, nice tie, good shoes, well polished. I thought he might be family—not that it was any of my business. I told him that Mr. Coombes had moved on with the rest of the crew.” Digby placed her hand over her mouth, and whispered through her fingers. “There I am telling you all this, and forgetting what I should have remembered when that man was stood where you are now. I was told not to say anything to anyone about the lads. It was part of the contract—not a real contract, not paper, like a solicitor would give you. It was verbal—the man who booked the lodgings said that on no account must I say anything about the lads to anyone who asked, and I was to tell them if anyone came with questions or to visit. He was official, I reckon, from the government. That painting business must be making a pretty penny, if someone up in London is going to that sort of trouble.” The kimono had slipped off one shoulder, revealing more of the woman’s undergarments than modesty might allow. “Oh, now look at me—just as well it’s you standing there, and not Sid Watkins from the ironmongers along the street. All eyes and hands, him.” And with her final comment, she nodded by way of departure and closed the door.