To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(54)

“Well, she’s home now. And that’s where I’m going, off to see Doreen and Margaret Rose, if that’s all right, then I’ll be in the office later.”

“Don’t worry, Billy. Come in tomorrow.”

“What about Hampshire?”

“I’m not sure—but I think I’ll leave soon.”

“You don’t sound very sure, miss.”

“It’s Tim, and—”

“There’s nothing you can do, miss. That’s what Mr. and Mrs. P. realized. Nothing you can do until he comes back in, and if his pal is anything like him, they won’t come home until it’s over, until they’ve done everything they can for our boys.”

“That’s what worries me,” said Maisie.



There was something about driving that made Maisie feel cocooned from the world around her. Looking out onto streets where people were going about their daily round until the town gave way to countryside again, catching glimpses of farmers at work, a horse-drawn plough turning the soil, or workers marching from one field to another—it was easy to believe the war was nothing more than a nightmare that would come to an end soon, that the country would wake up and any threat of an invasion by a ruthless enemy would have evaporated. Time would march on, the seasons would pass and death would come after three score years and ten—and with good fortune, perhaps a few more years added on to enjoy a life well lived.

Mrs. Keep welcomed Maisie with a cup of tea, home-baked scones and the promise of a room always ready for her whenever she came to the farm. Once refreshed, Maisie set her bag in the room, dropped in to say hello to Doreen’s aunt, and went on her way—this time in the direction of the airfield where she believed Teddy Wickham was stationed. Would she be able to see him? Would her name still be on a list that gave her preferential access? She had not wanted to trouble Lord Julian again, but was now having second thoughts and wished she had.

As before there were two guards stationed at the gatehouse when she drove up. She pulled into a lay-by opposite their station, reached into her handbag and took out her identity card. She wound down the window and held out the card.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant. I wonder if I could speak to the officer in charge, if I may? My name is Maisie Dobbs—here is my calling card.” She took one of the cards from her pocket. She did not wish to appear too confident of her position, but at the same time wanted to get answers to questions as soon as she could. “I believe my name should be on a list here—perhaps it’s with the officer in charge.”

“Right you are, miss. Remain in your motor car, if you don’t mind.” The sergeant returned to the gatehouse and stepped inside. Through the open door Maisie could see him winding up the telephone and placing a call. The conversation seemed to take longer than she had expected, but at last he replaced the receiver and walked back toward the Alvis.

“Sergeant Packham had to go through some papers, Miss Dobbs. He’d remembered seeing your name, but the permission to enter had been filed away. Now then, when I lift the gate you may proceed to the building situated to your right as you drive up there. Do not exceed five miles per hour, and do not stop. You will see where to park your vehicle and a guard will be waiting to escort you to an office where Sergeant Packham will see you.”

Maisie nodded and thanked the guard, who proceeded to lift a barrier, waving her through as she drove on. Taking care to keep the Alvis at the specified speed—tantamount to hardly moving—she followed instructions for parking. An armed guard approached the motor car, opened the door and instructed her to “Follow me, madam.”

Upon entering the long, one-storey building, she smelled fresh paint, and could see the job had been finished recently, perhaps in the last fortnight. The guard stopped outside a door, knocked and was given leave to enter. An officer and a sergeant were waiting in the room and returned the guard’s salute. The room was cool and felt damp, and seemed infused with the vapor of fresh emulsion. It was oppressive, reminding her of an interrogation room at Scotland Yard.

“Miss Dobbs,” said the officer. “Flight Lieutenant Cobb, and this is Sergeant Packham. Please take a seat.” He extended a hand toward a chair opposite a single desk in the room. Cobb took a seat on the other side of the desk, while Packham remained standing. “Now, how might we help you, Miss Dobbs? Is this to do with the painters?”

Maisie looked from Cobb to Packham. “Yes, I’m afraid it is in connection with the death of one of the young apprentices, Joseph Coombes. I’m given to understand that a friend of his brother, named Edward—Teddy—Wickham is stationed here. He visited Mr. Coombes a few weeks before his death, and subsequently told the deceased’s parents that their son had been in ‘top form.’ I would like to see Wickham, if I may. I would like to ask him a few questions about his meeting with Joseph Coombes.”

“Is there a suspicion of foul play in the death of the young apprentice?” asked Cobb.

“The inquest has yet to take place, but in all likelihood the coroner will conclude death by misadventure.”

“Young lad playing fast and loose with fate, eh?” said Cobb.

“Perhaps not,” said Maisie. “Might I see Wickham?”

Cobb turned to Sergeant Packham. “Where is Corporal Wickham at the moment?”

Packham lifted an open ledger from the desk and began to run his finger down the page. “In the hangar, sir,” he replied.