To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(60)
Maisie sighed. “That there is an issue because I’m a widow—husbandless is what they mean.”
“There’s a lot of women going to be husbandless in this war, and children going to be fatherless. And at least this will be one they don’t have to worry about.”
“Mr. Klein said they asked about her father. All her grandmother knew was that his name was Marco, and that he was a merchant seaman from Malta.”
“You could make a verse out of that.” Brenda laughed.
The pips sounded, and Maisie pressed more coins into the slot and pushed button “A” on the telephone box.
“I wish I could laugh too, Brenda. Mr. Klein has pointed out to them that, what with the situation in Malta and the paltry amount of information we have on the father—and it might not even be correct—there is almost no chance of locating him. I’m used to looking for people, and I doubt I could find Marco from Malta. And Anna is five years old, for goodness’ sake!”
“I can hear you getting worried again, Maisie. Try not to—you’ve had references from some very good people—Lord Julian, Lady Rowan, that Mr. Huntley, and Mr. MacFarlane.”
“I think Robbie MacFarlane might not have been the best choice.”
“It’ll be all right, Maisie. He might be a bit brusque, but he’ll do you proud, just you see—and after all, he is a policeman. And for now little Anna is here, and she is safe—and she knows she’s safe. I just wish she would stop fretting about Tim. She says he will be home in a few days. What with that little determined face of hers, I wouldn’t bet against it.”
Maisie bit her lip, imagining Anna, her black hair braided in two long plaits tied with ribbon at the ends. She would be kneeling on her bed looking out across the fields, her brow knitted, waiting for Tim to come home.
“I must go now, Brenda—I’ll be back in London tomorrow and will telephone again. Perhaps I can speak to Anna then.”
“All right, Maisie, love. You look after yourself. I’m glad you finally told us about your plans. And Maisie—remember, that little girl loves you. She told me so yesterday. She asked when you were coming home.”
Maisie felt words catch in her throat, and could bid only a faint good-bye to her stepmother.
Composing herself, Maisie picked up the receiver again and placed a call to a number seared into her memory. Whitehall-one-two-one-two. Scotland Yard. She was put through to Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell without delay.
“I was just about to go home, get an early one, and there you are. If I could have put money on anyone messing up my plans, it would have been you, Miss Dobbs. Now then, what the you-know-what can I do for you?”
“Two things. Perhaps three. First—would you pave the way for me to see Inspector Murphy again tomorrow? Late morning would be best, if you can. And the other thing is this—do you know what the Robertsons have been up to lately?”
There was a pause on the line, followed by a loud sigh.
“For a minute there, I thought you asked me about the Robertsons. In fact, I could have sworn you asked me about London’s most notorious family of criminals who—for reasons best known to the gods—keep slithering through the fingers of the law. Yes, I thought you asked about them, just for a minute.”
“Inspector Caldwell—please—”
“That means I should be getting you in here to have a chat with me and my esteemed colleague from the Flying Squad, because we both know there is no smoke without a fire.” Caldwell cleared his throat. “Now then, what do you know, that you’re asking me what I know?”
“Just a guess.”
“What is it?”
“I think Jimmy Robertson is involved in the death of Joe Coombes.”
“Pull the other one. Jimmy Robertson would not be messing about with a wet-behind-the-ears apprentice. You’re wasting my time, Miss Dobbs. Right now we don’t have anything concerning Jimmy Robertson on our department’s books, though I like to know what him and his kin are up to. Harry Bream in the Squad has a few robberies he’s looking into, and what with the war on, you can bet the Robertsons are making hay at everyone else’s expense. They say crime will go down, what with all the bad blokes joining the army, but I haven’t seen a lot of evidence of it, not yet. In fact, it’s the opposite. But as I said, I can’t see your lad being mixed up in all this.”
Maisie felt a sudden lack of patience. “Have it your way, Inspector Caldwell. I’ll pull the other one somewhere else!” She slammed down the receiver.
But instead of picturing Caldwell looking at his own receiver and laughing at her expense, Maisie could only see in her mind’s eye a little girl kneeling on her bed, her elbows resting on the windowsill, her chin on her hands, looking across fields, waiting for those she loved to come home. Maisie had come to love Anna too, and now, in the telephone kiosk, she leaned against the doorframe and began to weep with fear, that—despite documents signed by the child’s grandmother and all the other required elements that had been gathered by her solicitor—her dearest, most heartfelt wish might come to nothing.
Maisie’s eyes were still raw, smarting as she sat in her car along the road and watched a van—she suspected an armored van with a guard alongside the driver—leave the works where paper money was printed for the Bank of England. She had not sought nor did she wish to gain access to the establishment, for she could acquire all the information she needed from Lord Julian. No need to cause a problem where none were necessary. She had learned that security was tight around the establishment, due not only to the amount of currency being taken to and from London, but because of the special notes produced for airmen. She pushed away thoughts of Tom—he was young to be so vulnerable away from home. Yet so were all the airmen taking to the skies. Eighteen, nineteen, perhaps just into their twenties—so much rested on the shoulders of youth.