To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(33)

“It’s all he ever does, work—can’t come to see us, because of work. Work, work, work and no one works that hard, not so they can’t come to see their family.”

“Let’s go up—I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you all,” said Maisie.

Vivian led the way upstairs, where a landing opened to several rooms—to the left a kitchen, then a sitting room, followed by the bathroom. The door of one bedroom was open, and pinned on the walls were staged photographs of film stars—Alan Ladd being the most favored. Scarves were draped over the dressing table mirror, and several library books perched next to a hairbrush. Two additional doors to the right of the stairs were closed, though Maisie assumed they led to bedrooms.

In the kitchen, Phil Coombes and Billy sat at the table, while Sally Coombes stood at the stove, watching the kettle as it came to the boil.

“Nice of you to come back, Miss Dobbs,” said Coombes. “Eh, isn’t it, Sal?” he continued, turning to his wife.

Maisie stepped away from Vivian and moved to Sally Coombes’ side. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Coombes—yesterday was very ‘official’ with the police here. I wanted to come back to see how you’re all faring, and if there’s anything I can do.”

Sally Coombes turned to Maisie, her loss writ large in a raw desolation reflected in her eyes, and in the gray skin drawn across her cheekbones. Her hands shook as she reached for the kettle.

“Let me,” said Maisie.

“We’ve fair drunk London out of tea,” said Phil Coombes. “I’m supposed to be opening up today, but I can’t. Can’t face people, can’t face the looks, the questions—if they bother to ask. People are probably too frightened.” He looked at Maisie, who had made the pot of tea and was now setting clean cups on the draining board, ready to pour. “I’m grateful to you, Miss Dobbs—we might never have known, if you hadn’t been down there trying to find Joe.”

“And thank you for going down—you know—to identify him. We couldn’t’ve done it—none of us,” added his wife, who had taken a seat between her daughter and husband.

“Archie could have,” said Vivian. “I can see him now, saying ‘Yeah, that’s my brother—now that’s done, I’m off down the pub.’ I can hear him now,” said Vivian.

“Vivian! That’s not fair! Your brother is a good young man—we brought you all up the same. He just takes it all in a different way.” The girl’s mother held up a finger to make a point. “You would do well to remember that—and remember who looks after you!”

Vivian scraped back her chair and left the kitchen, running along the landing to her room, and slamming the door behind her.

Coombes rubbed his forehead as his wife began weeping again. “It’s been like this since the news came—I mean, aren’t we all supposed to pull together? I’ve got two at loggerheads and we can’t seem to get ourselves going—and we’ve got a funeral to get sorted out.”

Billy nodded to Maisie, and took her place to pour the tea. Maisie sat down and reached across to lay a hand on Coombes’ forearm. “There is no path set for this kind of shock, and for the grief that attends such terrible news. Vivian is in so much distress over losing her brother—that horror inside has to find a way out, so she’s very, very angry. We all have a different way of dealing with loss—and sometimes our ways clash.” She took a breath, knowing her words would cause more pain but had to be given voice. “You don’t have to rush to plan the funeral. Joe won’t be released to you for burial yet—they have more work to do, trying to find out what might have been ailing him.”

“Do you think he jumped?” asked Coombes. “Do you think it was all this ‘boys will be boys’ business? And if he was alone—why wasn’t he with the other blokes?”

Maisie nodded to acknowledge Billy as he placed cups of tea in front of each of them, and then took a seat at the table—she had noticed he had remained very quiet.

“I think the police have good reason to think he was a victim of his own ebullience on the night he died, however . . .” She modulated her speech, choosing her words with care. “However, I think the question of how Joe spent the past couple of weeks should be answered.”

“The police aren’t going to do any of that answering though, are they?” said Sally Coombes. “That detective—what was his name—Caldwell? He said the coroner would likely say it was either accidental death or death by misadventure.”

“Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell was being honest about what was discovered, and the conclusions of the pathologist at the scene. They will look very carefully at how Joe was found—please trust that they are continuing to consider each small mite of evidence they can find, to discover what lies behind Joe’s death.” She looked from Phil to Sally Coombes, who were both leaning toward her, as if she had the answers to every one of their questions. “And I want to assure you that I will not cease to investigate Joe’s death myself. I knew Joe—saw him grow up here—and I want to find out the truth of what was behind the accident that led to you losing him.”

They finished their tea in an almost whispered quiet, with Maisie steering the conversation to Joe’s childhood, so that they might remember their son as he was, and not how they might imagine him to have been at the point of his death. Maisie and Billy took their leave, receiving thanks from the pub landlord and his wife, and Maisie in turn asked them to say goodbye to Vivian, and to tell her that she was being held in their thoughts.