Caldwell took out his wallet at the same time Maisie reached for her purse. The sergeant thanked them for their contributions, and left the room.
“Able’s dad is in the force, you know,” said Caldwell. “He was on the beat, but he’s now a desk sergeant, out in Essex. I was told he always wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, so of course he was really chuffed when young Able came to work at the Yard. It had been his ambition, when he was a lad, but he never quite made it out of the village. I bet he wishes his boy had stayed here.”
“Yes,” said Maisie. “Yes, I’m sure he does.”
Epilogue
Billy was waiting, pacing back and forth along the Embankment when Maisie came out of Scotland Yard.
“All right, miss? I suppose that’s that. It seems they’ve got Jimmy Robertson cornered, though I must say, that Flying Squad bloke looks more like a bit of a villain himself—no wonder they call them the Sweeney Todd!”
“It’s getting into the criminal mind that does it,” said Maisie.
“But you don’t look like a criminal—well, not all the time.” Billy grinned, pleased with his quip.
“Thank you very much!” said Maisie. “How’s your Billy getting on?”
“I forgot to tell you—he’s been given another nine days leave by the docs. They reckon he needs extra time to get over that shoulder, and then he’ll be right as rain. They don’t want blokes with one shoulder up and one shoulder down on the parade ground, and to be honest with you, I think another week or two at home will do him good. Mind you, it’s going to take longer than a few weeks for him to get over what he saw in France—and don’t I know it.”
“Then take the week off, Billy—it’s time you had a holiday. There’s no need to come into the office.”
“But what about the work? We’ve got new business to consider.”
“Make your calls, tell the clients that you are recommencing investigations in a week or so. There’s no need to go to Fitzroy Square.”
“What about you?”
“I’m taking a week to myself too—perhaps more. I’ve work to do to bring the case to a proper close, but I don’t need to go into the office. And I’ve to see Robbie MacFarlane this afternoon, then I’m going down to Chelstone. Sandra knows not to come in, so that’s all right. We could all do with some time away.”
Billy looked at Maisie, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the morning sunshine. “What’s going on, miss?”
“Nothing more than me deciding that we could all do with a little holiday.”
“Right then.” Billy sighed. “I’m off home.” He patted the pocket where he kept his notebook. “Got everything I need here, so I’ll keep them security cases ticking over, and I’ll spend that time with my family. Bobby’s off to his air force engineering college soon, and there won’t be many more opportunities for us all to be together. Thank you, miss.”
Maisie watched as Billy walked away, a spring in his step compensating for a war-wound limp. She turned to walk toward Whitehall.
She had no fixed appointment with Robbie MacFarlane, but throughout the meeting with Inspector Caldwell at Scotland Yard, she was thinking of the report she had made the previous evening, and was curious to know the outcome. MacFarlane would be back in his office by the time she arrived.
Entering the building, she was about to approach a security guard when two young women came down the long flight of stairs to her right. The sound of their footfall and voices distracted Maisie, mainly because they were conversing in French.
“Elinor?”
The woman who had been the nanny to Priscilla’s sons only just managed to disguise her shock at seeing Maisie.
“Hello, Miss Dobbs.” She held out her hand, turning to her friend. “This is my former employer’s neighbor, Miss Dobbs.”
The friend, who was dressed in the uniform of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, as was Elinor, turned to Maisie and smiled. “How do you do—I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“And you,” said Maisie. She was about to comment on how surprised she was that their paths should cross here, when Elinor stemmed any further conversation.
“We’re in rather a hurry, Miss Dobbs,” said Elinor. “Do give my best to Mrs. Partridge.”
Maisie watched the women leave, then brought her attention to the security guard and stated her business. The guard turned to the telephone at his station, and picked up the receiver. Half a minute later he called out to Maisie, who had begun pacing back and forth along the tiled floor.
“Mr. MacFarlane says you know the way—he’s ready to see you in his office.”
Maisie made her way along the labyrinthine corridors until she saw MacFarlane waiting for her in the corridor outside his office. He waved as she approached, and held open the door for her.
“Sit yourself down, lass,” said MacFarlane. He was a tall, heavyset man, indeed, Maisie always thought he appeared less than comfortable seated at a desk. His bulk was more suited to movement, or a much more forgiving chair than those found in government buildings. MacFarlane cleared his throat, as if preparing his deep Scottish burr for oratory. “Following his arrest early this morning—the early bird catches the worm, as the saying goes—we’ve been interviewing your Mr. Walter Miles for several hours now, and look at this pile of notes I’ve amassed already.” He tapped a thick sheaf of papers on the desk. “We might run out of paper with this case, and that’s not an exaggeration. What with shipping affected by the war, even the daily newspapers are worried about supplies.” He cleared his throat. “As you suspected, the blooming clematis was not a clematis after all—well, it was, but it was a very good fake. Its true purpose was as an aerial to connect wireless transmissions. Very nicely tucked away too. Frankly, we knew there was someone in the area up to funny business with a set, but we couldn’t locate him. His English is perfect, but he’s a German citizen, true name of Walter Maier—so he wasn’t far off with his invented identity. Always best to stick to a name you know, if you’re an agent. And he was also a lecturer at the university—so that bit was right. He was a botanist originally, but more recently he taught physics and had been doing so for a year. Took the place of another physicist who is now working for the government—one of those boffins we’ve got tucked away out in the country.”
“I see,” said Maisie.
“Not sure if you do quite yet—because there’s more.”
“Go on.”
“It seems our Walter had a chip on his shoulder, and you were a way he could get rid of it.”
“Me? Now you’ve lost me, Robbie.”
“It’s like this. Your upper classes—of which I could say you are one, though we both know your roots run deep the other way—but as I was saying, your upper classes, until fairly recently, were used to embarking on a very expensive round of traveling known as the Grand Tour, when they reached a certain age, of course. Off they went around the castles and estates of Europe on something of an aristocratic pub crawl. Bavaria, Rome, Florence, Paris—all very nice if you’ve got the wherewithal.” He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together.
“What are you getting at?”
“Turns out that Walter was born out of wedlock, though his mother married eventually, but to a man without the funds his true father would have had to spoil him. I tell you, that Walter is holding nothing back now—the man is throwing his whole life story at us.” MacFarlane cleared his throat. “But if his beloved mother had been a satisfactory match for his sire, then his name would have been Compton.”
“No. I can’t believe it. Not . . . not Lord Julian?”
“Don’t be daft, lass—even I know your father-in-law is too much of a gentleman to get himself into that sort of pickle. Mind you, his brother was less than careful with regard to the family’s reputation, and on this tour went about sowing his wild oats.”
“His brother? His brother died over forty-five years ago or thereabouts. I don’t know much about him—in fact, I can’t remember anyone even
mentioning him to me before I was married.” Maisie was thoughtful. “But now I remember James telling me his late uncle was something of a dilettante. Lady Rowan apparently could not abide him. His name was Rupert—and he died in a hunting accident, in Bavaria.”
“Ah, but Rupert the spare—the one the old lord and lady had just in case the heir, Julian, died—had impregnated a little fraulein at some point on that very excursion, as far as we can establish.”
Maisie looked out of the window, then back at MacFarlane. “So Walter Miles—Walter Maier—is really my late husband’s cousin.”
“And with a hefty chip on his shoulder. He was targeting you, Maisie.”
“He seemed a kind man, though I always thought something was a bit off. Yet you say he was focused on me?”
“He was here in England with a job of work to do for his country—for the Fatherland. And I’m under no illusions as to why he’s giving us his sob story. He’s giving us his poor boy background to try to soften us up before we dig deeper with the really important interrogation. And he wants to avoid the gallows. As if we haven’t had enough trouble with Nazi sympathizers in our own upper classes—and even higher than that!” MacFarlane turned a page of notes. “He was targeting you as a means to gain an introduction to the Compton family, and—he hoped—to receive an invitation to the Chelstone Manor estate. I suppose he wanted to look at a life that had eluded him by a whisker of fate.” Another page turned, and then MacFarlane raised his eyes from the report to look directly at Maisie. “And needless to say, you are not to inform your father-in-law that his nephew—or the man who says he is Rupert Compton’s offspring—is languishing in no less a place than the Tower of London.”
Maisie nodded. “Of course I won’t say anything, though Julian is very well connected—I am sure he’ll know in time. He might even know already.” She paused. “Now, you can do something for me. I just saw two young women, both with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry—one of them was previously my friend Priscilla’s nanny. She still has a room at their house. What’s she doing here?”
“You know better—”
“I do,” interrupted Maisie. “But it’s a fair trade of information, is it not?”
“At the moment, she’s probably just doing clerical work.”
“And in the future?”
MacFarlane seemed to waver. He pushed back his chair and walked across to the window, looking down at the street below, then shaking his head. He turned back to Maisie, but did not take his seat. “It’s a fresh idea from our new prime minister—though you could say he’s not that new, having just had a baptism by fire in the exalted position. The young lady to whom you refer is one of the women we’ve earmarked as having special skills.” He took his seat once more, and turned to his notes, waiting for the penny to drop.
“Seeing as I doubt you’re interested in her quite amazing proven ability to silence three rambunctious boys,” said Maisie, “then I suppose you can only be interested in her fluency in French—especially colloquial French—and her familiarity with French culture. What’s going on, Robbie?”
“Something we were going to speak to you about, in time, Maisie. This new plan from our higher-ups. Not that I hold with it completely, but I see the value in it—especially now.”
“My French isn’t good enough for whatever you have in mind.”
“Of course it isn’t—we had enough trouble with you and German. Languages are not exactly your abiding strength, are they, Maisie? And you won’t leave that little evacuee girl—I know that now. September isn’t it, that you’ve got your hearing?” He raised his eyebrows in a conspiratorial fashion. “Anyway, where was I? Yes—as I was going to say, you may not be the most fluent speaker of French, but you know character, Maisie, and for what we have in mind—someone who can judge whether a man or woman has the very long list of qualities we’ll need—you’re the someone we think could be very valuable in this department.” He paused. “And there’s always the promise of such joyous repartee whenever you and I work together, isn’t there? Anyway, all in good time, all in good time. Can’t say any more now. But it might be what you’re looking for—in a few months, perhaps next year. A way to do your bit without your life being in danger while you’re careening around in an ambulance—yes, I know all about you and your friend putting your best foot forward.” He gathered up the papers in front of him. “Right, that’s enough of that. I’ve thanked you for serving your country and bringing an enemy agent to our attention, and I have given you more information than I should have about our aforesaid spy. Now you have to get on and we’ll both forget we saw each other this afternoon.”
“What will happen to him, Robbie? What will happen to Walter?”
“Eventually? He’ll be hanged. Very, very slowly.”
Maisie shook her head. “But—”
MacFarlane held up his hand to silence her. “Timothy Partridge. Wounded. Gordon Sanderson, a boy of sixteen doing his best for his country. Dead. Francis Able, Caldwell’s former assistant. Dead. And Sandy MacFarlane, eighteen years of age. My nephew. Dead,” said MacFarlane. “If you’d been caught in Munich, you would have faced a firing squad. Need we say more? I’ll be in touch.”
Maisie spent some eleven days at Chelstone. During that time Priscilla and Douglas made the decision to move into a tied cottage that had become vacant on one of the manor’s farms. The former tenant had died several months earlier, and the cottage had lain vacant, so Lord Julian suggested that the family could take up residence while Tim convalesced, though until essential work had been completed on the cottage, they would be staying with Maisie.
Tom had returned to Northumberland, having spent much of his compassionate leave at his brother’s bedside, his uniform working a magic on the matron, who failed to reprimand him when he overstayed visiting hours. Now, on a day when the sun was shining, Maisie and Priscilla had thrown a blanket down on the Dower House lawn, and were lazing in mid-afternoon warmth. Only the occasional cumulus cloud passing across the blue sky cast a shadow before moving on.
“Surprisingly, I am not at all in a hurry to return home to London full-time,” said Priscilla. “Yes, there is the issue of Tarquin finishing the school year, but I have found an excellent tutor locally—a former teacher at Tonbridge School—and Tarquin’s studies will be directed by him until he starts again in September, when he will most likely go to Tonbridge anyway. The man only lives in Plaxtol, so my son can rumble off to see him on that old bike he found in your shed. And if Tarq doesn’t like that school after he starts, then we’ll find him another. My younger two have rather rebelled against the yoke of discipline.”
“That’s got one of you sorted out. And Douglas seems quite content working in the library, though we have to prepare for Tim coming home. Anna is very excited.” Maisie looked at her watch. “She’ll be back from school soon. Dad has taken out the governess cart to collect her—I’m amazed he’s trained Lady to draw a carriage, and Anna thinks it’s wonderful!” Maisie stood up and pointed to the estate’s entrance. “I can tell they’re on their way because Emma is waiting by the gates at the end of the drive. And I bet the first thing Anna does is rush to the conservatory to see if Tim’s home.”
“Perhaps she’ll be able to bring him out of his funk when he’s here. Tom did his best for a couple of days, but I fear it’s going to be terribly hard, getting him to buck up.” Priscilla tapped the silver cigarette resting on the arm of her wooden chair, but did not attempt to light up. “Douglas says we must let him grieve the loss, but at the same time, he must be kept occupied, and then he must also rest. Your stepmother swears by the efficacy of slowly simmered bone broth, and I have lost count of the gallons we’ve taken into the hospital. The staff have been very good about it.”
“Brenda will make sure Tim wants for nothing—and I think it’s given her another cause,” said Maisie. “Brenda likes a cause—for her Maurice was a cause, and so was I. In fact, I believe I’m still one of her causes!”
&
nbsp; Priscilla was about to comment when Anna came running into the garden, her leather satchel bouncing against her hip. She made a beeline for Maisie’s open arms.
“Oh that’s a full satchel!” said Maisie as Anna slithered to the ground, giggling.
“Auntie Pris—is Tim home?”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but not yet. Soon though.”
“Come on, let’s all go inside,” said Maisie. “Auntie Brenda’s made some Eccles cakes and I think they’re still warm.”
Tim had still not been discharged from the Royal East Sussex Hospital when Maisie caught the early train up to London on the morning of June 17th. In the meantime, life at the Dower House had become more settled, despite news of the fall of Paris on June 14th. It was time for Maisie to get back to work, and more especially to embark upon her final accounting. For work to commence on a new case, it was necessary to visit the people and places that had become significant in the course of bringing an investigation to a satisfactory close. It was a wiping of the slate—to a point—because it also encouraged greater understanding of lessons learned, and errors made, so that those mistakes might not be repeated in the future.
Billy was waiting for her in the office following their extended leave. “There you are! Miss, you will never—never—guess what!”
“I’m sure I won’t,” said Maisie, taking off her hat and placing it on the long table in her office. The case map outlining the Joe Coombes investigation had been folded and filed away, consigned to the past after the contents were revealed to Inspector Caldwell. She looked from Billy to Sandra, who came into the office as Maisie was responding to Billy’s greeting. “And good morning to you, Billy, Sandra—did you both have an enjoyable holiday away from Fitzroy Square?”
“I could have done with a holiday from Lawrence’s aunt,” said Sandra. “She’s overstayed her welcome. She is good with Martin though—but we’re relieved she’s leaving at the end of the week.”