To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(58)

The van was moved and Freddie came to the barrier, ducked underneath and approached Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs. You’re back again. Mr. Yates said none of us were to talk to you. Sorry about that.”

“Nice to see you again too, Freddie.” Maisie followed the sarcastic quip with a question. “When did you speak to him last—he was very cordial to me when I visited.”

“It’s this business about Joe,” said Freddie. “Got him worried, I suppose.”

“In case you’re all getting ill, is that it?”

Mayes shrugged. “Not as bad as Joe, but it makes us feel a bit queasy at times. Nothing that a pint won’t cure of an evening. Anyway, I’m going back up to the Smoke soon. Not for long, just for a couple of days off, then back down here. Like being in the army it is, stuck where you don’t want to be.”

“Just as well you’re not in the army, don’t you think?” Maisie regarded the painter, who took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. It was a full packet of twenty expensive cigarettes, not the Woodbines he had smoked before. “I’d like to ask a couple more questions, about Joe.”

“All right then—fire away,” said Freddie.

“Can you tell me honestly—did Joe drink at all? Was he ever the worse for wear after you’d been down to the pub in one of these villages where you’ve been staying?”

Freddie shook his head. “Joe wasn’t what you’d call a drinker. Mind you, I suppose it’s my fault that once or twice he was a bit tipsy. He was all wound up, you see. Like a spring. I put it down to missing his mum or something like that—p’raps he’s got a girl back at home. So when he asked for a shandy a couple of times, instead of his usual Vimto, I got the landlord to make it more ale than lemonade—which is the opposite of what Joe liked. The way he ordered it, it was a glass of lemonade and a spoonful of ale on the top! Who would have believed his old man was a publican?” Freddie took a long draw on his cigarette, pinched out the lighted end and threw it into the bushes. He was staring at the ground as he spoke. “So, I suppose a couple of times he was a little bit not-quite-there, but at least he wasn’t so nervy. Just before it happened—just before he died—he was in a bit of a state. Every time someone came into the pub, he almost jumped out of his skin. I reckon it was the paint—it was doing something to his mind.” He looked up at Maisie. “But do I think it was doing enough to his mind to make him jump onto a railway line? I really don’t know. None of us was with him, and he wasn’t one for skylarking around. And I’ve thought about it a lot—I reckon Joe was like he was because he wanted to be different from some of the sorts he saw in his dad’s business. But he told me his dad warned him about it too—that the pub should be a lesson to him. It put dinner on the table and clothes on their backs, but there were better ways to earn a living.”

Maisie said nothing for some seconds, allowing the silence to distill her thoughts, and the picture Freddie Mayes had painted of Joe Coombes away from home. “Did he get any visitors—either at the lodgings or while working?”

The painter and decorator shook his head. “Not as far as I know—although he mentioned his brother’s mate coming over to see him. Ted—Teddy—something like that. But he went out for walks. He said it was to clear his head, though it might have been to see someone. We were in Whitchurch for a good while and he started talking to one of the farmers in the pub one night. Bloke had a sheepdog with him, and Joe was telling him how it fascinated him, the way the dogs worked on the farm. The old boy said he should come over to watch, perhaps have a go—and I know Joe walked over there of an evening sometimes—he liked the old boy’s company.”

“No one has mentioned this before,” said Maisie.

Mayes shrugged. “Didn’t seem important, I suppose—going off to look at a sheepdog messing around with some sheep.” He held out his hands, palm up, and shrugged again. “Look, Miss Dobbs, I’m a London boy, born and bred—the only thing I know about these animals is when I put a few pennies on a greyhound at Catford dogs.”

“What was the farmer’s name?”

“Hutchins. Phineas was his name. Funny old name for a funny old bloke. They called him Finny. Looks like he came out of a book. I think it’s Moorwood Farm—ask a publican in Whitchurch, any one of them would know how to get there. Not that old Finny could tell you much. Oh, and he has a bit of a smell about him—being a farmer, I suppose.”

Maisie regarded Freddie Mayes. “Do you know where the paint comes from?”

Mayes took another cigarette from the packet and lit up. Maisie wondered how long this one would last, and again how he could afford to be so cavalier about his expenditure. Recalling how Billy always kept the unsmoked portion of a cigarette, perhaps the only reason for such waste was a good supply, and at little or no cost.

“It comes in big tins in a big lorry, that’s all I know.”

“I meant its place of origin—where it begins its journey?”

“Not my business, is it? Probably from a government depot, something like that. All I know is we get the paint, put it in our buckets, and we brush it on the walls.”

“And the only friends outside of you and the lads that Joe had while you’ve been away is this old farmer and his dog.”