To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(72)

Billy placed his notebook on the table and unfolded a press cutting. He ran a palm across the scrap of newspaper, making it as flat as possible before pushing it toward Maisie.

She looked down at a row of faded faces, young men in uniform, smiling at the camera, as if sharing a joke at the photographer’s expense.

“Are you in this?” asked Maisie.

“No, not me—never one to get my name in the paper. This was sent to me by my mum in the war, because one of my cousins was in the photograph. Here, you can see, it says, ‘London Boys Leave for France to Take On the Hun.’ They’re all lined up, waiting to get on the boat. See? That’s Arthur, my cousin—Mum and her sister, my aunt, said we always favored brothers more than cousins. He was in the artillery though. I was showing Billy my war photographs last night—pictures of me and the lads I was with, over in France. I was trying to sort of get him to talk a bit, letting him know I understood how things are, when you’re soldiering.”

Maisie was already running her finger along the line of men. “Who am I looking for? There’s someone here you want me to see, isn’t there?”

“Right there, miss. You have to take account of time don’t you, but I think that’s Phil Coombes—look. If you can imagine Archie—he’s the dead spitting image of his dad, when he was his age. That’s what made me stop and look again.”

“It’s hardly surprising he was in the army though—there’s more, isn’t there?”

“You ever seen a photo of Jimmy Robertson?”

“Not recently, no,” said Maisie.

“I was a bit late today because I had to go down to see my mate, the one who works for the Express. We went down to the newspaper storage place, and we found a picture of Robertson from a few year ago, when he was hauled up for armed robbery and the beak let him off. You see, I’d seen more recent photos in the papers, and it seemed to me that the bloke right there could be him. And it was him—there, next to Phil Coombes. In the artillery together.”

“And someone like Jimmy Robertson doesn’t forget anyone—because the anyone in question could be useful later.” Maisie looked at the grainy cutting again, taking care not to tear the thinning folds. “Can I keep this?”

“It’s all yours, miss—I never wanted it in the first place. When Mum sent this to me, she wrote in the letter, ‘How come you can’t get into the papers and make me famous on the street?’ Which was a bit rich, if you ask me.”

“I’ll bring it back, Billy—this is part of your family’s history, after all. You might change your mind.” She placed the photograph in her bag. “Now then, I’m off to see Phil,” said Maisie. “Any luck with those new inquiries?”

“Two on the go, miss. One woman thinks she’s just married an officer in the navy who’s married to someone else, and another who only really wanted some company, I reckon. She asked me about her missing watch and necklace, but I found them for her before twenty minutes was up—then she wanted me to stay for a cup of tea and insisted on paying me for the time—I’ll put it in petty cash. She was just lonely, I reckon. Sad, eh?”

Maisie nodded and passed a crayon to Billy. “Would you do the honors and bring us up-to-date?” She tapped it onto the desk in front of him and gave a half-smile, knowing he was put out that she intended to see Phil and Sally Coombes on her own. “Look, I know you want to be helping with this case—but as soon as Jimmy Robertson’s name came up, I knew we had to proceed with care.” She sighed. “Billy, you almost died a few years ago, and even if you can’t remember because you were in a coma, I remember the effect it had on Doreen. I can’t risk that again, which is why I want you to take charge of the new cases. Just for now.”

Billy shook his head. “But you could be walking right into danger, and you’ve got little Anna to consider. I know she’s only your evacuee, but there’s more to it than that. We’ve all got people to take account of, but this is what we do, after all—and haven’t you always said we’ve got to get to work when truth comes to us for help? Or something like that, anyway.”

“Oh, touché, Billy—touché!” She paused and dropped the crayon. “All right, come on. Let’s get over there to see Phil and Sally—but take my lead, as I don’t want to show too much of my hand. Just enough. Then we’ll let it simmer, like I said we would. All right?”

Billy grinned. “Ready when you are, miss.”



Phil Coombes came down from the upstairs flat the third time Billy rapped on the door.

“Thought you’d all left home, mate,” said Billy.

“Oh good morning, Miss Dobbs, Billy.” He looked from one to the other. “Got any news for us?”

“I’m sorry, but we’ve a few more questions, if that’s all right,” said Maisie, stepping into the deserted public bar when Phil Coombes stood back to allow them to enter. The smell of stale smoke and the yeasty odor of yesterday’s beer was overpowering. Dust motes danced and settled in a shaft of sunlight slanting through the window to the dark stained floor.

Coombes led the way up the narrow staircase to the flat above, and called out to his wife. “Sally—got company. Miss Dobbs and Mr. Beale. About Joe.”