The sun was shining as George drove Priscilla and Douglas back to Hastings the following day, along with Tarquin, who had been told about his brother’s journey to Dunkirk, and what happened when he came home. Having waved them off, Maisie brought the Alvis around to the Comptons’ garage, where she parked it and left the keys on George’s work bench. She patted the bonnet, and closed the door behind her. It was not a great loss, the lack of a motor car to hand, though it might prove to be inconvenient. She hoped the day ahead would be a quiet one. Perhaps she would read to Anna, prepare Sunday lunch, and visit her in-laws, who were anxious for news of Tim.
Brenda was waving to her as she reached the path that led from the garage up to the Dower House.
“Telephone for you, Maisie,” she called out. “It’s your Mr. Beale, says it’s important.”
Maisie ran to the house, and picked up the telephone receiver.
“Billy—how are you?”
“All right, miss. What about Tim—did you find him?”
“Yes, we did. He’s home.” Maisie recounted the story of Tim’s arrival back in Rye, and the news of his operation.
There was silence on the line.
“Billy?”
“Yes, miss, just thinking about Tim and his mum and dad. I know this sounds a bit off, but I half envy them?”
Maisie nodded. “I think I know what you’re going to say, Billy.”
“I thought you would. I mean, it’s a terrible, terrible thing, but the boy has been to war now—so he’ll never be blaming himself for not going. And he did something not a lot of lads his age would’ve done. So, he’s lost his arm—but the fact of the matter is that now no one can send him anywhere to lose his life, can they? He can get on with it and make something of himself, like his father’s done.”
“Yes—yes, I believe you’re right.” Maisie paused. “But you called for another reason, Billy—what did you find out?”
“I think you had an inkling of this, or you wouldn’t have been so specific with what you wanted me to look into. It’s Teddy Wickham.”
“Go on,” said Maisie.
“His mum—maiden name was Doris Robertson. And there’s more.”
“Sally Coombes.”
“Right first time. She’s Jimmy and Doris Robertson’s sister.”
“And probably met her husband through Jimmy Robertson, because Phil Coombes was in the army with him.”
“What’s that you’re always saying, that line—didn’t you say Walter Scott wrote it? ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave . . .’”
“‘When first we practice to deceive.’”
“But why did—?”
“Not yet, Billy. Having dodgy relatives doesn’t make people criminals. We’ve a little way to go—as I said, they can stew in their juices. I think I understand this particular web, but I need more evidence.”
“All right, miss. See you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be back in the office late morning. I’ll tell you what I think we need to do then. We’ve time.”
Maisie replaced the telephone receiver, and thought for a moment, her hand remaining ready to make another call. She picked up the receiver and dialed.
“Chelstone Manor?”
“Hello, Simmonds—is Lord Julian in his study?”
“I have just taken him his morning coffee. Her Ladyship has departed for a walk with the dogs across to the stables. Shall I tell him you’d like to speak to him?”
“I’m going to come over to the house now, Simmonds. Please let him know I’m on my way.”
“Right you are—and may I say how glad we all were to hear that young Timothy Partridge is on home turf. It might have been better news, but at least he is home.”
“Yes, he’s home. That’s the most important thing. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
When Maisie entered the manor house library, Lord Julian was standing behind his desk looking out at the grounds. He turned as the door opened, and came toward her, his hands outstretched.
“Maisie, my dear—what a trial, seeing your dear friends go through such a terrible time, waiting for news of their son, and now this. We have come to enjoy their company. If there’s anything we can do . . .”
“Thank you so much,” said Maisie. “I think, though, it’s going to be a time of waiting and helping Tim through the coming weeks and months of recovery. I believe he will be spending a good deal of time here at Chelstone, along with his family.”
“Full house eh? We’re at capacity here too, what with the Canadian officers. Good group though, we’ve grown to enjoy having them here—the supper conversation has been very lively.” He motioned to Maisie to take the chair on the opposite side of his desk. “Coffee?”
“I’ll pour,” said Maisie. She topped up Lord Julian’s cup and served herself a half-cup of the thick black coffee from the silver pot bearing the Compton family crest, a coat of arms also engraved on the matching tray, milk jug and sugar bowl.
“What can I do for you, Maisie?” He took his seat.
“It’s about the Bank of England. Do you think you could find out if there have been any attempts to mount a robbery—I’m thinking of the transportation bringing notes of currency from Hampshire into London.”
“I can find out.”
“And I know I’ve asked this before, but I assume every precaution is taken to reduce the risk of such an attempt.”
“I have been informed that it is so.” He took a sip of coffee, then replaced the cup in the saucer, returning it to the silver tray. “What do you know, Maisie?”
“I am not sure—it’s pure speculation, really. But I would advise extra precautions for the next week or so. I think the risk of a criminal act has passed, but one cannot be too sure.”
“Have you alerted the police?”
“The police need evidence, Lord Julian, and I don’t have any at the moment. All I have is a series of observations. But the real crime I’m concerned about is not one of theft, but of fraud. And I believe it has to do with the War Office.”
Lord Julian raised his eyebrows and leaned forward. “Go on.”
“How does a business land a government contract in a time of war?”
“Pretty much the same procedure as when the country is not at war, though with a few degrees more secrecy. Companies are invited to tender their estimates for work or supplies, and also provide references to support their work. The government does not necessarily award a contract based upon price, but other aspects of the supplier’s credentials are taken into account—delivery record being of prime importance.”
“I see. And how does a business become known to a government department? Previous work? References from another source?”
“Both of those might be the case, and of course sometimes the principals in the business receive word that there is a contract to be awarded, and they request to bid along with everyone else.”
“I suppose no one would admit if there were some degree of . . . of—”
“Would that American word graft do? Is that what you’re looking for?” Lord Julian sighed. “Interesting that here the same word means hard work.” He shook his head. “I can’t say corruption doesn’t happen, and in a time of war, especially, it could be seen as a treasonable act, given that it undermines the integrity and therefore strength of government. It diminishes us all.” Lord Julian held Maisie’s gaze. “You would tell me if you had knowledge of such an act.”
“It’s down to evidence again, Lord Julian—and making the connections between people I’ve met. I don’t want to point a finger at the innocent.”
Maisie looked out of the window behind Lord Julian. “Oh, here’s Rowan now.”
“Don’t dare leave before seeing her. This business with Tim, you see . . . we’ve become very fond of the boy, and when we heard what had happened, it brought back such memories of . . . well, you know.”
“Yes. I do. There’s always something to remind us of James, isn’t there?” As Maisie turned to leave, s
he noticed a uniform laid out on one of the leather armchairs. “Lord Julian—the uniform? Is it yours?”
“’Fraid so. Our newly formed Local Defense Volunteers unit. And I seem to have been volunteered in my absence to be the figurehead of the Chelstone brigade! Seriously though, with the threat of invasion, and with our proximity to airfields and being between London and the coast, it’s a case of every man being called upon to bear arms to protect the country—and as the prime landowner in this area, I have a responsibility to do what I can. We’ve a good number of men in the village and beyond who fought in the last war, and of course some who cannot fight in this one, so it’s time we all stepped forward to do our bit.” He smiled, shaking his head. “Rowan thinks it’s terribly funny, seeing as I was last in uniform a good few decades ago, and rarely even lift my gun to go after a pheasant now—though with this rationing business, I might sharpen my eye on bagging a few. Anyway, they’ve already started calling us the Home Guard, which I think sounds more like a shield you put in front of the fire to stop sparks catching the carpet.”
Maisie laughed. “I am sure you’re the very best leader they could hope to find anywhere—a catch indeed.”
Lord Julian placed his hand on Maisie’s shoulder as they walked to the door. “Let’s hope we can catch the odd German parachute-landing in a field, eh? That’ll show them what we’re made of!” He took a deep breath, and a wave of gravity seemed to envelop him. “Maisie, I know I can tell you this in confidence, but it’s important for us to consider the possibility that we may all have to move—and in a hurry. The fall of France does not augur well for us, and the prime minister is ordering authorities in Kent and Sussex to prepare for complete evacuation in the case of imminent invasion. It obviously hasn’t come to that yet, though children are already being evacuated from certain coastal areas—but we must be prepared.”
With Anna now almost fully recovered, Maisie relented and agreed it would be perfectly all right for Frankie to take her down to the stables to groom Lady, her pony, though she cautioned against tiring the child.
“We’ll have no backsliding,” added Maisie, smiling as she waved to her father as he led Anna by the hand, along the path toward the stables.
Brenda put the kettle on the stove and sat down at the kitchen table, patting the place opposite.
“You’ve not yet told me what Mr. Klein wanted to see you about,” said Brenda.
Maisie rubbed her forehead, her mind still lingering on the conversation with Lord Julian. “Just a few minor points.”
“Minor?” said Brenda.
Maisie avoided Brenda’s gaze. “They prefer to approve adoptions where married couples are concerned, not widows, or spinsters, and definitely not bachelors.”
“But you are already her guardian—her grandmother signed the papers.”
“Guardian in a limited capacity—there was no time for Mr. Klein to prepare the documents required for full guardianship, so my standing is as a sort of temporary guardian with a responsibility to place Anna in a good home.”
“This is a good home,” said Brenda. “The very best for Anna.”
“Don’t worry. All is far from lost, Brenda,” said Maisie. “The new stricter adoption laws on the books for ratification were canceled when war broke out, so there are avenues remaining to me. And the local billeting officer has commented in her report that it might be difficult to place Anna elsewhere anyway, given her parentage—which really means her coloring. Then the problem of her father came up, Maltese Marco, who came and went out of Anna’s mother’s life before she was even born. So, as I said, there are avenues—I have great faith in Mr. Klein. I just have to be patient.”
“So, the war that brought us Anna could be the war that helps keep her with us.”
Maisie nodded. “I really do hope so, Brenda. But I’m almost scared to imagine it.”
Brenda reached for Maisie’s hand and held it tight. “It’ll all come right, love. I believe it will all come right.”
By every canon of military science the BEF has been doomed for the last four or five days. Completely out-numbered, out-gunned, out-planned, all but surrounded, it had seemed certain to be cut off from its last channel of escape. Yet for several hours this morning we saw ship after ship come into harbour and discharge thousands of British soldiers safe and sound on British soil.
Maisie had read enough, so she folded the copy of the Manchester Guardian and placed it where she had found it—on the seat next to her, discarded by a previous passenger. The train began to slow, signaling that the last stop—Charing Cross—was only a few minutes away. She opened the Daily Herald, this one left by a woman who had been sitting opposite her, until departing the carriage at Waterloo. She glanced at the front page headlines, and turned the page, where a smaller lead caught her eye.
Boy, 16, Young Hero of Dunkirk.
Timothy Partridge, 16, of Holland Park, London, took to the high seas last week in a motor boat belonging to his best friend’s father. Tragically . . .
She rolled up the newspaper and slid it into her bag. She could not bring herself to read another word, but would clip the column later, in case Tim wanted to keep it. But perhaps not yet. That morning she had left the Dower House before breakfast, agreeing with Brenda that it would be best not to disturb Priscilla and Douglas. The pressures of the past week had weighed heavily on the family—and they were all becoming more and more anxious about Tom, who had not been heard from for some days.
At the office, Maisie went straight to her desk, where she removed her coat and gloves and placed her briefcase and shoulder bag on the table. Yet again she had left her gas mask hanging on a hook behind the door when she last departed the office, and upon seeing it made a promise to take it with her today. She would also make more of an effort to keep the gas mask to hand at all times. Maisie took out her notebook and began reading through notes she had made on Sunday afternoon, devising her plan for the coming several days, when she would—she hoped—track down the evidence to support her belief that Joe Coombes’ death was no accident.
A noise outside distracted her, so she stepped across to the window, where she saw Walter Miles on a stepladder, weaving fresh clematis shoots up across new trellising. It appeared the plant had sprouted up a few inches almost overnight, and was reaching toward the gutter downspout. She watched for some moments as the man worked in the color-filled courtyard.
“And why don’t my clematis bloom like that?” she whispered to herself.
“Miss—something you should know,” Billy called out to her as he entered the office, throwing down his newspaper and wiping his brow with a handkerchief.
“And what’s that, Billy?” she replied, frowning as she drew away from the window.
“Been talking to Phil—he was outside when I came past the pub. Smoking enough to put a chimney to shame, he was. I asked him what was troubling him, and he said it was his Archie. You should see Phil—he’s got a temper on him when he likes, and right now he’s like a madman.”
“What did Archie do?” asked Maisie.
“He’s thrown in his job at the engineering firm in Sydenham, and he came round this morning to tell his mum and dad he’s enlisted and is going in the army. He’s not even waiting for his call-up papers to arrive.”
Maisie grabbed her bag and jacket. “Just when I need the Alvis, she’s in the garage at Chelstone!” She did not stop as she ran toward the door. “Come on, Billy.”
As they reached Tottenham Court Road, a taxicab screeched to a halt as soon as Maisie raised her hand, and they clambered into the back of the vehicle.
“Faraday House, please,” said Maisie.
“Faraday House? What are we going there for?”
“Just a guess, but I think Archie has planned the imparting of his news down to the last minute. Vivian will leave the building for lunch in about fifteen minutes, and I would bet that Archie is waiting there for her.”
“Why? I mean, I know she’s his sister, but—??
?
“I believe she’s also an informant for Jimmy Robertson. Consider this—the Coombes family are a good family, and you can tell that Phil and Sally have done their best to bring their children up to know right from wrong. But just because you know right from wrong, it doesn’t mean you stay away from the wrong part. The family is still connected to the Robertsons—they’ve grown up in the shadow of Uncle Jimmy. I would say they’ve kept it quiet, but a man like Robertson keeps his hooks in.”
“Blimey,” said Billy.
“I can’t explain now,” said Maisie, as the taxicab drew up alongside Faraday House. “But what would you do if your uncle was Jimmy Robertson, and you’ve reason to be scared of him, perhaps because you’re in deeper than you thought you would ever be?”
“Blimmin’ ’eck, I’d run away.”
“That’s what Archie is doing, and the war is giving him a good opportunity to make his bid for freedom from those hooks.”
The taxicab began to slow down as they reached their destination. Billy leapt out as it came to a halt alongside the curb, and held the door open for Maisie. She paid the driver and looked up and down the street. “Now we wait, but not for long. If Vivian comes out to go for a sandwich and a cuppa, and Archie isn’t here to say good-bye to his sister, then we’ve missed him. It means I’ve guessed wrong.”
They stood for a few minutes, Maisie fixing her attention in one direction, while Billy kept his eyes on the other.
“I think that’s him, miss—see? Coming toward us, along the pavement.”
Maisie cast her gaze in the direction indicated by Billy. “Yes, that’s him. Let’s go toward him—if he meets Vivian, there will be strength of denial in numbers, and I want him on his own.”
“Right you are, miss.”
Maisie and Billy walked toward Archie Coombes, who seemed dressed for a cooler day, in a dark suit, a black overcoat and with a dark gray fedora on his head. He was smoking a cigarette, cupping the lighted end in his hand.