To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(99)
“I’m very grateful for your help, Sylvia,” said Maisie. “The information you gave me was invaluable, and has helped to put those responsible for Joe’s death away for a long time.”
“That detective from London was a bit sharp, wasn’t he?”
Maisie laughed. “Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell? Consider his job—I think it would make anyone sharp.”
“Well, he didn’t keep me for long, but it raised a few eyebrows at the airfield, I must say. I think it might be part of the reason why I’ve been promoted—well, not exactly a promotion, but it feels like it, not to be driving that ambulance. I’m being transferred to a new job—much better.”
“Oh? That sounds exciting—well done.”
Preston used her handkerchief to dab her lips, and took a sip of tea. She looked around at others enjoying their afternoon tea, and turned back to Maisie. “I’m sure you don’t know any German spies, so I’ll tell you what it is—sort of.” She looked around again, and leaned toward Maisie. “They’re sending me to one of the Chain Home stations.”
Maisie moved closer to Preston. “The what?”
Preston cast her glance around the tea shop again. “Chain Home stations—they’re stations where they have a special early warning system and they’ve been set up all along the coast, so we can tell when there’s an attack coming from over there. It’s using radio signals and I’ll be a plotter for what they call ‘radio detection and ranging.’ We can use this system to instantly know where the enemy aircraft are located and how many of them are coming over here, so we can get our boys up there to intercept them. We’ll be able to give a decent warning if bombers are on their way.” She leaned back and began spreading clotted cream on the remainder of her scone. “That’s all I’d better say. They’re sending me to Ventnor on the Isle of Wight, so that’s me—away from the ambulances and that terrible job. And you won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“I wouldn’t tell a soul,” said Maisie. “And I don’t think you should tell anyone else—not even your family. I think this information is too important, Sylvia.”
Maisie met Dr. Clarissa Clark at the hotel in London where she was staying while attending a series of meetings—one in connection with her findings during the postmortem on Joe Coombes.
“The interesting thing, Maisie, is that—having done more research—we discovered that while the various substances used by Robertson to thin out the fire retardant and to make it go further, were fairly nasty, they were not what was causing the more serious problems. The paint had been developed and then tested only to discover whether it had the required fire-retardant qualities. The testing was arbitrary, a very basic affair and not conducted by scientists at the level I would like to see—they just wanted the paint on their buildings to protect them, because they were racing against time.”
“Will they discontinue use?” asked Maisie.
“I doubt it, not the way they’re constructing new airfields around the country. No, it’s a time of war, so a worker who has a particularly bad reaction—someone like Joe—is only so much concomitant damage along the way.”
“That’s terrible,” said Maisie.
Clark pressed her lips together before speaking again. “It is terrible, Maisie—but so is a burning building. To die in a fire is a dreadful death—I’ve seen my fair share of burn victims and I am sure I will see many, many more before this war is done. Will there be more Joes? I don’t know—though certainly there are going to be precautions now. I’ve asked for even the most simple masks to be provided to the workers, especially those apprentices who are still so young. And I have stipulated that they should wear gloves, though they tend to limit the dexterity of the working painter. And a list of guidelines I’ve drawn up will be issued to the companies who are currently taking over the Yates’ contract—that’s what my meetings here in London have been all about.” She paused. “The thing that worries me is not what happens to these workers now, or even in a few months, or a year—it’s what happens when years have passed. This very powerful fire retardant is poison, and such contamination can remain in the body for decades, affecting every part of the human system. I am sure men will suffer in the future and never know it was all due to a job they took on when they were little more than boys.”
Tim Partridge came home to Chelstone toward the end of June, to a welcome from all but his brother Tom, who was already stationed at RAF Hawkinge, flying Hawker Hurricane aircraft and preparing for whatever might come next in his life. Anna had taken to grabbing Tim by his right hand and insisting he accompany her to the stables to help her groom Lady. And when he objected, maintaining that a person with an arm missing could hardly groom himself, let alone a pony, she replied, “Tim—you’ve got another arm, haven’t you?” And to the delight of all who observed the exchange, Tim agreed to be pulled this way and that wherever Anna wanted his company. His recovery had begun.
With her routine reestablished, of weekdays in town and toward the week’s end, the journey back to Chelstone, it was toward the end of the month when Maisie persuaded Priscilla to accompany her to Rye.
“I don’t know if I can bear to go back there,” said Priscilla. “Gordon’s funeral was hard enough on everyone. Tim was so upset that he could not leave the hospital, but I think it was for the best.”