To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(63)

“That’s about the measure of it,” said Hutchins. “What Joe couldn’t tell me could have been a small thing, or it might have been something much bigger than he could manage. But he was scared—and he seemed fearful of what might befall me if I knew what it was.”

“Did he say as much?” asked Maisie.

“Just that it was best if I didn’t know. That’s words of a fair size for a young man.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

Phineas Hutchins broke the silence that followed.

“Now, Miss Dobbs, you can answer a question for me. You’ve been looking a bit surprised ever since we met. First out there in the courtyard, and now in here. You keep looking around my kitchen, as if there’s something you find curious about me and my house.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Hutchins—but I was told to expect a quite different person.”

Hutchins laughed. “Bet it was that Freddie, the one who was supposed to keep an eye on Joe. I surmised he was the foreman, and in that position, he should mind the apprentices. It’s part of the job—just like Odin here looks after his apprentice, Loki.” The dogs pricked up their ears as their names were spoken. “First time Freddie saw me, I’d been out there in the courtyard loading up two pigs being taken to market. I’d had a miserable time of it. As a rule I’d have a good old wash and brush up before I went to the local, but this time I had a thirst on me and I didn’t care what anyone thought—and me and the landlord grew up together, so he knew I was usually better turned out. Anyway, that was when Joe came over to talk about the dogs, and we became friends.” The man looked down at his hands, and in that moment it was as if every line on his forehead, every fold of skin on his face, became more apparent. “He was a good boy, Joe. He was my friend and I do miss him. Nice to have a lad around again, here in the house.”

Maisie nodded, and took one of Hutchins’ hands in her own. Some seconds passed before she spoke again. “I should be going, Mr. Hutchins.” She slipped her hand away and took a card from her pocket. “This is my card. If you can think of anything else that might help me, please get in touch.”

“’Fore you go, miss—come out to the barn. Want to show you something.”

Hutchins led the way, first to the courtyard, then to another small outbuilding. He drew Maisie inside and pointed to a large boxed-in area filled with straw.

“Oh, my goodness. May I?”

“The mum’s name is Freya. She’s not as protective as she was—she’s already started nipping at them, telling them who’s boss. Take a pup away from the mother too soon, and you take away the first lessons in life, so I leave them with her a bit longer than some might. She’s letting them all know they can’t be top dog. She’ll let you pet them.”

Maisie knelt down to stroke the pups, who nipped and tumbled trying to get to her outstretched hand.

Hutchins pointed to one of the pups. “That one there—with the one blue eye, one black—he’s the one I earmarked for Joe. They’re all spoken for,” said the farmer. “Even with the war. Work has to go on and a farmer needs good dogs.” He knelt down beside Maisie and picked up the one he had chosen for Joe, holding it to his chest as he stroked the pup. “This one stays though. Not getting rid of Joe’s boy. Going to call him by the name he chose for his dog. He went to the library and looked up names so it fit with my little gods here—and of course, my goddess.” He smiled as he reached across to ruffle the bitch’s ears, setting the pup in front of its mother. “Joe wanted to call him Magni. That’s the god of strength. Seems only right he’ll have that name, even though Joe’s not here.”

Later, as Maisie bid good-bye to Phineas Hutchins, she wished she had known about him sooner, for the perspective he offered regarding the final weeks of Joe’s life was not quite what she was expecting, though she was not surprised. Despite taking more time than she had hoped, it seemed the mystery surrounding the death of Joe Coombes was beginning to give up its secrets. “Everything yields to pressure, Maisie,” Maurice had taught her. “The slow drip of water on stone will, in time, wear away a ridge. Even the strongest metal, if enough weight is applied, will start to bend. Some cases will begin to give quickly. But do not despair of the assignment when it seems to defy every effort. Just give it time. Continue with your work, with your questions and your observations. Wait for the yielding.”

There was one more task to be completed before setting off on her journey back to London. She slowed down alongside All Hallows Church, parked the motor car and entered the place of worship. The church was cool and damp, and to the left as she entered was the town’s war memorial plaque. One by one she read down the long accounting of young men from the town who had perished in the years 1914 to 1918. And there he was. Joseph Hutchins. Age nineteen.

She returned to the Alvis, took the driver’s seat once again, started the engine, slipped the motor car into gear and drove off toward the Winchester Road. At last, slowly but surely, the yielding had begun.





Chapter 13




Detective Inspector Murphy met Maisie at the entrance to Basingstoke Police Station.

“Caldwell was on the blower, telling me you were coming in and to accord you any assistance you required,” said Murphy.