To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(79)

The dot in the distance continued to grow in size as time passed. Two fishing boats cast off in the direction of the Cassandra and her savior, the Mistress Mollie. Soon another motor car was parked alongside the Alvis, and as Maisie looked up, she could see the effort with which Douglas Partridge wielded his cane as he limped toward his wife.

“Oh, darling! You’re here!” Priscilla rushed to her husband’s side. He allowed his cane to drop and pulled her to him. “Tim’s coming home. Tim’s coming home and he’s almost here.”

“I know. I know, my love. He’s almost here.”

Maisie knelt to retrieve the cane.

“Thank you, Maisie,” said Douglas. “And thank you for sorting everything out—for getting me here.”

“You spoke to Lord Julian?” asked Maisie.

“Yes. He brought me up-to-date—I know what’s happening.”

“What’s happening is that our son is almost home, Douglas!” She took his arm and began leading him toward the harbor wall. “I promise I will not admonish him in front of everyone for this escapade. I may have to fling my arms around him, though.”

Maisie and Douglas exchanged glances.

“Don’t embarrass the boy, whatever you do, Priscilla.” He pointed his cane toward a cluster of people waiting alongside the women with their tea and sandwiches. “There’s a newspaper reporter and photographer over there, and I am sure Tim would not want to be on the front page with his mother clinging to him. Whether you like it or not—our son is a hero.”

Priscilla shook her head. “I never wanted heroes.”

It was late in the afternoon when at last the Cassandra drew into full view, behind the fishing boat towing her in. The two vessels seemed to stop their progress, as another fishing boat joined them. People around began muttering, speculating about what might be happening. Douglas grabbed Priscilla’s arm to stop her running in the direction of the boats. Then a fisherman pushed back his cap and smiled.

“Good on ’em. Good on ’em.”

“What is it? What’s going on?” Priscilla called out.

“I know what he’s doing,” said the policeman. “He’s giving the Cassandra enough fuel to get to the harbor. He’s letting her come in under her own steam.”

And as the crowd became silent, the rumble and fail of an engine trying to start echoed along the river, until after a chug-chug-chug the engine fired and began running. A cheer went up and the boats began moving again toward the harbor.

Priscilla screamed out her son’s name. People clustered together to watch the launch pull in to dock, the young man at the helm calling out instructions to soldiers on board, who threw out lines from the bow and stern to waiting fishermen. The soldiers’ faces were stained and drawn, their exhaustion evident in the way they half-stumbled toward hands waiting to receive them. Maisie could see the skipper, his face black with oil, his shirt red with blood and bandages wrapped around his left shoulder and arm. A fisherman from one of the boats was standing behind him, as if to support the boy should he fall. The coastguard clambered on board to reach him, turning off the engine, then joining the fisherman to help the young man remain upright.

“I can’t see who that is,” said Priscilla. “He’s hurt. I hope it’s not Tim, I hope he’s not been wounded.”

Maisie looked at Douglas, who rested his hand on his wife’s shoulder.

“You should wait here.” He walked toward the Cassandra, just as two ambulance men made their way on board with a stretcher.

“Maisie, what is it? What’s happening?” As Priscilla struggled to speak, it was as if she were learning every word anew.

Maisie held on to Priscilla’s arm. “There are wounded on board, Priscilla. The man at the helm will not leave until everyone has left the boat—even if he’s falling down with exhaustion, he will not leave. He may be young, but he is the captain.” And in that moment, she felt a glimmer of hope.

Priscilla watched as the ambulance men began to leave the boat. And with movements that showed a deep respect and—Maisie thought—gentleness, they brought a blanket-draped body ashore. The crowd moved aside for them to continue on.

“Oh my God.” Priscilla turned to Maisie. “Is that Tim. Is that my son, Maisie?”

“We mustn’t think like that. Let’s wait and see.” She felt her voice crack, as she again drew her attention toward the Cassandra.

The two ambulance men approached the boat once more, this time without a stretcher. They made their way on board, then stopped and stood aside. Instead, Douglas was helped onto the boat by a fisherman. Maisie squinted, watching Douglas approach the coastguard and the young man who had brought the Cassandra home. And as Douglas allowed his cane to fall a second time, to pull the young man toward him, she felt Priscilla begin to give way.

“Don’t fall, Priscilla. Don’t fall. He’s home. Tim’s home.”

The coastguard handed Douglas his cane, and guided him off the vessel. He turned back to watch as Tim began to walk toward the stern.

Priscilla ran toward the Cassandra, with Maisie following. Reaching the vessel, she opened her arms to her son, yet as she witnessed the reunion, Maisie saw the blood running down Tim’s arm, his hand limp as his mother relinquished her grasp.

“Priscilla—hold on to him! He’s going down!”