To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(18)
Mrs. Keep nodded her thanks. “I don’t know what to think,” she said. “You bring up your sons on the farm, out in the country. And you think they’re safe, that the worst that might happen to them is something horrible with the threshing machine. I mean, I lost my brother in the last war, and you think to yourself, no, it can’t happen again, not like the last time. But look at it—look at us. We’re all at it again, fighting each other. It looks like Holland, Belgium, and Luxembourg are going down to the Nazis, and now France.” She paused, watching as Maisie warmed the teapot before adding tea and boiling water. “Mind you, they say the air force will be going out to protect our soldiers. And the navy. It’ll be all hands on deck—everyone pulling together, you watch.” She sat up, her spine straight, her shoulders back, as if she were convincing herself of the best outcome. “They didn’t break us the last time, and they won’t this time—mark my words.”
Yet Maisie felt something snap within her. Priscilla’s eldest son had joined the RAF only months earlier and was now flying, although he was not considered ready for aerial combat. But would that matter in an emergency? Mrs. Keep was right—all hands on deck might be a naval term, yet it extended to those who fought in the air and on the land, as well as the sea. Billy’s son, Priscilla’s son, Mrs. Keep’s boys—it seemed everyone had something to lose, though at that very moment, more than anything, Maisie wanted only to be at Chelstone, drawn back by a feeling that her place was by the bedside of a sick child, one not her own, but entrusted to her care.
Maisie returned to the telephone kiosk after leaving the farm early the following morning. She placed a call to Chelstone Manor and asked to speak to Lord Julian Compton. Her father-in-law had contacts at the War Office—among other sources that had proven helpful to Maisie over the years.
“Maisie, my dear—how are you?” Lord Julian’s voice had changed of late, and not for the first time, Maisie heard his age in the ragged edges around each word spoken.
“Very well, Lord Julian—I’m down in Hampshire, in Whitchurch actually.”
“Oh, you’re in the money then!”
Maisie laughed, assuming the elderly man was joking, and perhaps thought that, because she was not in London, she must be on holiday in the country. She continued. “I wonder if you could help me—I’d like to know how many RAF stations there are in the county. Could I get my hands on a list of them?”
“Tricky one, as they’re building more, especially in that area. There’s about twenty-three, twenty-four, I would imagine—or there will be once they’re all operational.”
“How many?” Maisie was shocked. “In one county?”
“And if you’re looking at proximity, you’re not far from Wiltshire, and there’s more there, and of course, in Dorset, and so on. I was just talking to a War Office colleague yesterday, former RAF man—he’d come down to pay a visit to the Canadian officers billeted here at Chelstone—and he was telling me they should have hundreds more airfields operational within months. Getting ready to meet the Luftwaffe on their own terms, I would imagine—that’s certainly what our boys are doing at the moment.”
Maisie had never known Lord Julian to be so forthcoming. He had always been helpful, yet measured in his responses. Perhaps it was because she was family now, united in grief over the loss of their only son. Over the years, Lord Julian and his wife, Rowan, had come to love her, and she had come to love them in return.
“That explains something—I’m looking into the apparent disappearance of a young apprentice painter and decorator. The business he works for landed a government contract to paint air stations with a special emulsion, a fire retardant, so they’ve been going from place to place spending a good amount of time in each location and painting every building, inside and out.”
“There will be plenty of work for them, without doubt. And you say he’s missing?”
“At the moment it might be more accurate to say ‘not accounted for’ by his parents. He could well just be ill and in bed at his lodgings and doesn’t want them to know—he’s had headaches ever since he started the work. Apparently the emulsion has a heavy vapor.”
“Hmmm, yes. Fire retardant—definitely needed on those buildings. They’ll be in the line of attack.”
There was a second’s hiatus in the conversation.
“Lord Julian—the war is close now, isn’t it?”
“It was always close, my dear—close isn’t simply a question of distance. The threat of war has been lingering over our heads since Adolf Hitler came to power. It was only a matter of time before we reached this point—but I don’t think we could ever have foreseen having hundreds of thousands of our men at such peril almost beyond our reach. The RAF is moving farther into France to ward off the Luftwaffe—trying to give us a chance.” Lord Julian cleared his throat. “Anyway—look, I can get you a list of all the RAF stations in Hampshire. Apart from the ports, it must be considered somewhat safe—after all, if it’s good enough for the Bank of England. . . .” The gravely voice tapered off.
“I don’t understand—” Maisie fingered a coin, ready to press into the slot should more money be required for the call.