To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(46)

“The bus that goes to Tenterden, where you can change for Rye.”

“Oh dear,” said Brenda. “Where do you think he’s gone?”

Maisie felt her heart beating almost to her neck. “It’s what he’s done as much as where he’s gone.”

“But where? He’s only a lad,” said Brenda.

“Now, you mustn’t worry, Brenda. I’ll get him back—I think I know where he is. You look after Anna for me—and tell her Tim will be home soon.”

“Your voice, Maisie—I can hear it—you’re frightened.”

“It’s all right, Brenda—we’ll find him, one way or another. Now, I must go. I must speak to his mother.”



“Maisie, what joy—you’re back! Of course I knew because—” Priscilla was holding a cocktail in one hand as she opened the front door. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Let’s go in, Priscilla—is Douglas at home?”

“It’s Sunday evening—where else would he be but his study?”

“Call him, Priscilla, please.”

Priscilla ran to the bottom of the staircase and called out, “Douglas! Douglas? Come down—now. It’s important.”

Maisie heard a door open close to the stairs on the first floor, and Douglas Partridge looked over the banister.

“Maisie, lovely to see you—but what’s going on?”

“I must speak to you about Tim,” said Maisie.

In the hall, Maisie recounted Brenda’s concerns that Tim had not arrived home on time.

“Oh, that’s all right, I’m sure he’ll turn up soon,” interrupted Douglas.

Priscilla shook her head. “Go on, Maisie—I can tell you’re worried for good reason. Where do you think he is?”

“With his friend Gordon.”

Priscilla was about to counter, but Douglas interjected. “I know what Maisie’s thinking. Yes, they live in Rye—and yes, they have several boats—as far as I know a rowing boat, one of those slipper boats, a sailing yacht and a motor launch of some kind. Perhaps two. Not sure if they keep them all in Rye though—I mean, the man has a veritable fleet.” He turned to Priscilla. “Hasn’t Tim sailed out of Broadstairs with them? Gordon has older brothers, all in the services now, I believe—and the father has a lot of money to spend on his passion, which is the sea.”

Priscilla looked at Maisie. “Tell me, Maisie. Where is he?”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard the news—I only heard part of the broadcast because my wireless has such bad reception—but there was an announcement, a call for owners of pleasure craft who have boating experience. I don’t know, but following the news lately, I think it’s to assist in the evacuation of the expeditionary force from France. I imagine it’s turned into an all-out push now.” She paused, biting her lip, looking from Douglas to Priscilla. “I doubt just anyone can take a boat and go—the authorities wouldn’t allow it, but . . . but putting two and two together, I think Tim and his friend might have sailed out to find a way to join the flotilla gathering in the Channel. I know very little about this, but . . . but Tim is so desperate to prove himself, he would not think twice about it. And if Gordon’s brothers are all in the services, I’d bet he’s of the same mind.”

Priscilla turned to her husband. “Do we have the telephone number for this boy’s parents? He’s been down there loads of times—I am sure we’ve spoken to his people. In fact, I had a word with his mother ages ago, when Tim started visiting. I’ll find it.”

Priscilla pulled open a drawer in the hall table. She pulled out an address book with gold leaf-edged pages and a burgundy leather cover. It was well worn, and when opened, Maisie could see names and addresses crossed out and rewritten.

“Here it is. The Sandersons. The mother’s name is Beatrice—that’s it, Bea Sanderson.” She reached for the telephone receiver and dialed, turning to look at Douglas and Maisie as she waited for the call to be answered. She picked up her almost empty glass and held it out toward Douglas. Her husband took the glass, but did not move. She raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips and turned away. The call was answered. “Ah yes, good evening. Yes—is Mrs. Sanderson at home? This is Mrs. Priscilla Partridge—yes, with a P, like the bird. P-A-R-T—that’s it, you’ve got it. May I speak to Mrs. Sanderson, please?” A pause. “Not at home? When might she and Mr. Sanderson return?” Another pause. “Not until tomorrow? I see. Did Gordon go with them or is he at home?” She looked at Maisie, her eyes wide, color draining from her face. “Yes. Quite. Well, if you’ve put two and two together, you will understand that Tim Partridge is my son, and Gordon is most certainly not a guest in my house.” She turned away again, facing the mirror.

Maisie thought that, in regarding her reflection, Priscilla was keeping her spirit present, keeping her resolve rock solid, so that she would not escape into herself as wave after wave of fear enveloped her.

Priscilla continued. “You must find Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson soonest. I fear both Gordon and Timothy have told lies to be able to do something together—no, I cannot say what that something is before I speak to his parents. And you can’t let me have a number for them? Right. If I do not receive a return call within the half-hour, I will not be here to speak to them.” She turned to her husband, anger and terror mapped across her face, now flushed. She pointed to the empty glass while continuing to speak to the person on the other end of the line. “Please tell them that the boys have embarked upon a rather dangerous adventure. Here’s my number.”