To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(36)

“I promise, Sylvia.”

“Right. I’ve got to go now.”

“Thank you very—” Maisie was expressing gratitude to the continuous hum of the disconnected call.



When she had raised her head from her hands, with the image of young women lifting the terribly damaged bodies of equally young men still in her mind’s eye, Maisie reached for the telephone receiver and dialed a number she knew by heart. A man answered, a clerk to the solicitor she was seeking.

“Hello, Anthony—is Mr. Klein there, please?”

“Yes, Your Ladyship—I will tell him you’re waiting. One moment, please.”

There was silence on the line, and then a series of clicks before the measured tones of her solicitor echoed down the line.

“Maisie. How lovely to hear from you—it’s about time we had a chat about your affairs. I’m afraid, what with the war, I am concerned with regard to the properties in France, however—”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Klein—it’s so impolite of me to interrupt, but I would like to speak to you about Anna.”

“Ah, yes. I have held back, but if you wish, I will take your instructions to find a good family for her.”

“Mr. Klein—I . . . I . . .” She felt herself falter. “Mr. Klein, I think I . . .”

“We’d better meet, Maisie. I believe I understand completely. Are you about to leave town, or can you come to my office?”

“I’m catching a later train today. I daresay Anna is resting in any case—she has measles.”

“Is she recovering?”

“I’m assured she is on the mend.”

“Good—can you be here within the hour?”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Excellent—I will have a series of papers for you to go over, and a list of documents required. Thank goodness the law hasn’t changed—it was on the books you know, but the war got in the way. Anyway, we can make a start.”

“Thank you, Mr. Klein.”

“I told you long ago, Maisie—you may call me Bernard.”

“Indeed—but old habits die hard.”



The black motor car was still parked on Conway Street, though upon closer inspection, Maisie realized it wasn’t completely black, but had a dark bottle green contrasting paint along the sides. She turned from the front window and crossed the office to the back window overlooking the yard below. There was a tall but narrow gate forming a rear exit to the alley, though probably not used—terra-cotta pots had been placed in front, filled with flowering plants. She gathered her handbag and briefcase, locked the door as she departed the office, and made her way down the stairs. But instead of leaving by the front door, she turned left at the end of the staircase and stepped across to a plain door with no number or name alongside. With her knuckle she rapped on the paneled door. There was no answer. She closed her eyes, whispering, “Please come. Please come.” She rapped again. And again. It was as she turned to leave that she heard the door being unlocked and a chain drawn back.

The man before her was, she thought, a few years older than herself. Of taller than average height, he wore dark trousers, a clean white collarless shirt and an unbuttoned waistcoat. He leaned on a walking stick, and when she looked into his face, she saw a scar running from his left cheekbone, down to an uneven jaw. At one glance, it was as if she knew everything about him.

“What do you want?” asked the man.

Maisie did not look away when her eyes met his. “My name is Maisie Dobbs. I work in the office above, and I wonder—would you be so kind as to allow me to leave by your back gate? I suppose it leads into the alley. Am I right? I’ll set the plants aside, and will move them back again when I return, but I would be very much obliged if you could help me.”

The man looked at her for a period of time—perhaps only a second or two, though it seemed as if he would never respond to her request.

He inclined his head, stepped back and held out his hand for her to enter. “Of course. Please, come in. And I apologize for taking so long to answer your knock. I usually use the entrance at the front, so was taken aback to hear someone at this door. Follow me.”

The man led the way from the narrow landing and two short flights of stairs into a sitting room which she thought was probably also the bedroom. He proceeded through to a scullery, and out into the yard. She was still surprised by the neat order of the flat when she emerged into the small yard, and realized her view from above did not do justice to the abundance of color the man had created.

“Oh, my—this is just beautiful. So small, and so perfect, Mr.—forgive me, I don’t know your name.”

“I never told you.” He held out his hand. “Walter Miles.”

“Thank you, Mr. Miles.” Maisie took the outstretched hand and returned his smile.

“Come on—let’s get you on your way.” Miles stepped across the flagstones and with Maisie’s assistance began to move terra-cotta pots away from the gate. “The bolt is a bit rusty, but I’ve moved it before.” He pulled on the bolt and after some effort, it gave, shooting back and releasing the gate, which he drew back and held open.

“I can’t thank you enough,” said Maisie.

“It was my pleasure, Miss Dobbs. The motor car has been out there for hours now, so be on your way before he realizes you’ve left and starts tootling down Tottenham Court Road looking for you.”