To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(64)
“He did?” said Maisie, taken aback.
“He holds you in high regard, but he is one of those people who seems to enjoy being contrary, doesn’t he?”
“That’s one way of putting it—though we get on a lot better than we used to.”
Murphy laughed. “I bet it only took one case where you proved your point, eh?” He opened the door to the street and indicated a waiting black motor car, the engine idling, a driver at the wheel. “I’m not so against private inquiry agents myself, as long as everyone plays fair and isn’t like a dog in a manger with the details. And especially now—I’ve lost a few lads to the services, and that makes surveillance of criminal activity very tricky, with men thin on the ground.”
The driver stepped out of the motor car as Murphy and Maisie approached, and opened the rear passenger door. They took their seats and were soon under way.
“You’ll see that where we’re going is more or less around the back of the station. There’s a high wall, the one we believe Joe leapt from, and the railway line below. That part of the line was laid down when the railway was built, and is used to shunt a loco into for a while—perhaps while it’s awaiting maintenance or cleaning. It’s not been used much in recent years, and you’ll see the buffers end at another part of the wall—it takes a dogleg turn there.”
“Right, I understand.”
“Up above and behind the wall is a road usually used as a shortcut down to the station—busy enough during the day, but not at night. Never at night—too quiet and what with the blackout, no light at all. The railway line at that point is not exactly looked after. You won’t see any hanging baskets of flowers, and there’s weeds all over the place. Broken bottles where lads have thrown them over, and all sorts of mess. Even if that lad had lived, tetanus would have got him, the state of the place. But like I said, not used much in years.”
At the station, they were met by the station master, who led them out beyond the platform. Looking both ways, he waved them across the lines to the other side, then behind a series of red brick buildings coated in smoke dust.
“It’s very dirty back here, madam, so watch yourself,” said the station master.
Soon they stopped at a place where brick walls rose up on two sides—one tall enough to reach the street above, and the other joining railway buildings. Maisie thought it was like being in a three-sided brick box, a cul-de-sac for trains. Turning around from the buffers toward the open side, she could follow the weed-clogged line to where it joined a main line, with the signal box in the distance. Even on a warm day it was a cold, dark place.
“I’ll stand over there, Inspector, so you can go about your business. Just shout if you need me, though I know you’ve got my statement,” said the station master.
“Much obliged to you. We shan’t be here long.” Murphy beckoned to Maisie as the stationmaster walked along the line a short way.
A train passed along another line, punching out steam as it slowed for the platform. The stationmaster took out his watch, checked the time and nodded to himself. He kept the watch at the ready, studying the platform from his vantage point, waiting for the whistle to blow and the train to begin the onward journey.
Murphy didn’t begin speaking again until the train departed. Maisie wiped a few smuts of damp coal dust from her jacket.
“Can you imagine working in a railway station?” commented Murphy. “You’d be forever washing your clothes!” He shook his head, then turned and walked farther along the short disused stretch of line. “Just along here.”
Chalk marked the spot where Joe Coombes’ body had been found. Maisie knelt down and ran her fingers along the cast iron railway line.
“Was there much blood?”
“Not as much as you might have thought,” said Murphy. “But we were hampered by all this muck around here—and whatever it was that Dr. Clark found in his brain matter.”
“I don’t think that would have affected blood flow when he fell.” She looked up at Murphy. “If he fell.”
“All the other indicators are there, that he fell from that wall,” said Murphy, pushing back his hat and scratching his head. He continued as Maisie looked up at the wall. “In the dark it might not have looked like a long way down—he probably thought it was only a couple of feet.”
“Have you searched the area around here?” asked Maisie.
“With a fine-tooth comb.”
She nodded, coming to her feet. “Inspector, would you mind if I spent just a couple of minutes here alone. I’d just like to think a bit, and have another poke around.”
Murphy nodded and turned to join the station master. Maisie remained in place until he was some yards away, then she knelt down again, this time placing both hands firmly on the railway line. She closed her eyes and imagined the Joe she remembered, the happy-go-lucky lad she would see walking along Warren Street toward the pub where his family lived above the business. She modulated her breathing.
“Come on, Joe. Give me a clue. What happened to you?”
The pain did not come on slowly—instead it was as if she had been struck by a piece of iron as hard as that she was now clutching to retain her balance while kneeling. She gasped and raised one hand to the back of her head, feeling as if she were in a dark, narrow thoroughfare. She could hear water running. Or could she? The sensation lasted only two or three seconds, but it had taken her breath away. She opened her eyes, and began searching the ground between the railway lines, brushing debris from the black creosoted wooden sleepers, picking through the rocks between them. She poked here and there with her fingers, sure—though she knew not why—that she would find something.