To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(32)
“Do you think it’s got anything to do with this?” asked Billy.
Maisie was thoughtful, drawing her attention from Billy and the case map, to the window and the blue sky beyond. “You know, when I first started working for Maurice, I would try to put my discovered information on a given case into a box—not a literal box with six sides, but I would keep notes. And I’d ask myself if the nugget I’d collected was irrelevant, or if it was a distraction. Was it something just to be aware of? Could it be described as important? Finally I put whatever I’d discovered into the categories of significant, crucial, or essential—whatever name I’d come up with. And I would go back to the information daily and ask myself if it still belonged in that particular box—it helped me to sort through what I’d gathered, because I realized I’d been treating everything as really crucial and spent a lot of time like a dog chasing its tail, and not always managing evidence very well. It helped me to grow what Maurice termed my ‘intuitive response,’ though I’m not sure he quite approved of my method.” She smiled, remembering the errors of her early days as an investigator. “So at first, when I considered the information about how and where money was printed and the coincidental relocation of the Bank of England to the same area as Joe Coombes’ lodgings, I labeled it a distraction—something that would take time we don’t have for nothing much in return. Now I think it’s important—not crucial or essential, but important. Something to keep up our sleeves, something that might prove to be useful.” She brought her attention back to Billy. “I always thought the Bank of England’s printing works was over on Luke Street.”
“Yeah, but perhaps not everyone knows that—after all, I heard the works down there in Hampshire is where money is printed for all over the world, and that sounds important enough to me.” Billy leaned toward the table, resting his chin on closed fists placed one on top of the other. He studied the map. “I don’t know about this headache business—I mean, I reckon young Joe Coombes had them all right, the headaches, but I don’t think that’s what killed him. Not what made him end up dead on a railway line.”
“No, neither do I.” Maisie scraped back her chair, and walked to the window. She looked down at the makeshift market garden in the yard, noticing a man’s cardigan draped over a wooden chair. She realized that, apart from the well-tended flowers and vegetables, this was the first sign she had seen of whoever lived in the basement flat. She turned back to Billy.
“Right, this is what we do next—and we’re limited by the fact that it’s a Friday, but Phil and Sally are at the pub.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll catch the later train now—so I’ll make a quick call to Chelstone, and we’ll go round to the Prince. I’m sure Vivian will not be at work, in the circumstances, and the other son, Archie, might have come home to be with his family—it’s a good time to get them together.”
“Or p’raps not, what with them grieving.”
“They know I’ve tried to do the best for them, and we’ll be there just as neighbors—friends—who know what they’ve lost.”
“Do you think they’re involved?”
“In the death of their son? I don’t think any parent would knowingly risk the life of their child—you wouldn’t, would you?” She reached for the telephone receiver. “But perhaps . . . perhaps there’s something amiss in that family, and we both know that involvement in a crime can be the result of something seemingly benign.” She began to dial. “Or the family may have no connection to Joe’s death whatsoever. Anyway—let me talk to Brenda, and then we’ll leave.”
Vivian Coombes looked as if she had slept in her clothes—a dress that was crumpled, stockings twisted so the seams were askew, and a cardigan pulled around her to ward off a chill that no one else would feel on a warm day in late spring. Maisie thought her fine fair hair had not seen a brush that morning, and she wore no shoes. A ladder had started to run from her toe to her ankle, and she had stopped its progress with a dab of red nail enamel. The landlord’s daughter was usually a well turned-out young woman—today, standing in the doorway at the side of the pub, she resembled a slattern.
“Oh Vivian, I am so terribly sorry,” said Maisie, as she held out her arms.
Vivian Coombes all but fell into her embrace, weeping. Maisie nodded, a sign for Billy to go up to the family rooms.
“How are you bearing up, Vivian? I know you and Joe were so very close,” said Maisie.
“He was my little brother—and he was so . . . so innocent. Not like some of them. Not like other boys. He was good, Miss Dobbs.”
“I know, I know. Is Archie here?”
Vivian stepped back, though remained close to Maisie, as if she needed a strength not present among her family. “He’s been round. He didn’t stay though—said he had to get back to work.” She looked at Maisie and swept the back of her hand across her forehead, her pale blue eyes veined as they filled with tears once more. “I mean, I’m supposed to be at work—and I’ve got important work, especially now, what with everything happening over there, in France—but my supervisor let me have the day off for compassionate reasons. I hate Archie sometimes, really I do.”
“No you don’t—you’re just grieving, and nothing will seem right for a long time. And perhaps it was too much for him—people deal with these things in different ways, and perhaps getting back to work is his way of trying to come to terms with Joe’s passing.”