To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(8)
“I don’t like this spring cold either—I even put on a heavy coat today. I mean, it’s sunny, but I can’t seem to get warm these past couple of weeks.” Sally Coombes held on to her bag with both hands, as if it might be wrest from her grip at any moment.
Maisie placed her hand on Coombes’ upper arm. “I understand, Mrs. Coombes—you must be very worried about Joe.”
The woman’s eyes filled with tears as she pressed her lips together.
Maisie smiled. “Come on—I’ll put on the gas fire so you can warm up. And Sandra’s here with the baby.” She led the way to the first-floor office. “He’s such a lovely little lad—just a couple of months old now. She’s lucky he’s so calm.”
“My first one wasn’t. Or the second, come to that. But Joe was a dream of a baby—hardly a grizzle out of him. And always smiling.”
As they entered the office, Sandra walked toward them. “It’s lovely to see you, Mrs. Coombes. You haven’t seen my baby yet, have you?”
Maisie smiled and began to move three chairs back toward the fireplace, where she turned on the gas flame. The room was not cold now, but it was clear from her blue fingertips that Sally Coombes was indeed feeling a chill.
Coombes looked down at the child swaddled in a knitted white shawl. “Look at those rosy cheeks!”
“Would you like to hold him?” asked Sandra.
The woman set down her bag on Billy’s desk and took the baby.
“Let’s all take the weight off our feet, shall we?” suggested Maisie.
As Coombes smiled down at the baby and rubbed a finger alongside his cheek, Maisie put her first question to the woman.
“Can you tell us what is making you so unsettled about Joe, Mrs. Coombes? Mr. Coombes has already given us his account, but I would like to know what you’re feeling about the situation—as a mother.”
Coombes seemed loath to shift her attention from Martin to Maisie. With a gentle touch she ran her finger alongside the baby’s cheek again, and sighed. She looked up at Sandra, then Maisie. “My Joe was just like this—not a peep from him for hours, so content.” She took a deep breath. “He’s just not been himself. I am sure Phil said the same thing—and it’s not something you can describe, though I’ll do my best. Joe’s been on this job for a few months now—and you know, it’s hard work, outside for the most part, and through the winter too. He’s a strong lad, doesn’t complain, and we’ve brought them up to know the value of a hard day’s work—so it’s not as if he was moaning about the job. Well, not until a couple of weeks ago. But I think I noticed the change before Phil. Joe would telephone us—not to talk for long, but just to say hello so we could hear his voice. But his voice changed—he became sort of, well, distant, like he didn’t really want to talk. It was as if he was just getting through the five minutes on the telephone, and I felt like I wasn’t so much having a conversation as interrogating him, or whatever the right word is. ‘How are you, Joe?’ ‘All right, Mum.’ ‘What’s the job like?’ ‘All right, Mum.’ ‘Do you like your new lodgings?’ ‘They’re all right.’ It was like trying to have a word with a brick.”
“I take it he was more . . . more forthcoming, before this lack of enthusiasm started,” offered Maisie.
“Oh yes, Miss Dobbs—he would always have a story,” said Coombes. “Perhaps something about the landlady, or a laugh he’d had with the lads. He couldn’t wait to tell us about the first time he saw a heron, landing on a lake—he’d gone for a walk after work, to get some fresh air, he’d said, and he saw a big heron. He was made up with seeing it—loved seeing new things.” She became thoughtful. “To be honest, I reckon he really loved being in the country, though I think it was around the same time as he began taking those long walks after his working day was done, that he first started having those nasty headaches. Perhaps he walked to feel better.”
“What about the headaches, Mrs. Coombes?”
“He wouldn’t say much, just that it was as if someone had landed him a wallop on his head, and that the light seemed blue around the edges of whatever he was looking at. And he felt bad in his stomach at the same time—you know, as if he would bring up his breakfast.”
“I know that sort of headache,” said Sandra. “I had them a few times when I was first carrying Martin. Came with the sickness—you remember, Miss Dobbs. You sent me home—in fact, you had Billy go out and find a taxi for me.”
“I remember very well,” said Maisie. She leaned toward Sally Coombes. “It’s a very bad sort of headache that can often be caused by bright light, or by a certain smell, or by strong food—chocolate will do it, believe it or not. They can start at any age, though often at Joe’s age, coming into manhood. Had he ever experienced them before?”
Coombes shook her head. “Never. My three were always in tip-top health. None of them drink—well, as far as I know, because Archie lives in lodgings across the water, in Sydenham. Close to the engineering works where he’s a foreman now. And I know this might surprise you, but not one of them has ever touched a ciggie either—unlike their father.”
Maisie allowed silence to settle for some seconds before speaking again. “Mrs. Coombes—Sally—why do you think Joe failed to make his usual telephone calls this past week?”