“I’m all right, Miss. Not so bad, anyway,” he replied. He was tapping his fingers on his desk.
Maisie set her briefcase on her desk and continued speaking as she removed her gloves and hat. She was aware of the tap-tapping of Billy’s fingers, and thought he seemed agitated.
“I’ve just remembered, Sandra’s with Douglas Partridge this morning, isn’t she?”
“That’s right, Miss. I thought I’d pop in to tell you something I think might be important on this case—it’s about that boy, the one who’s missing.”
“Billy—you’re supposed to be resting.” Maisie pulled up a chair in front of Billy’s desk. “All right—what about him?”
“Well, I think he’s dossing down somewhere near where them women were found—well, Miss Pramal in particular. Got a feeling he’s not far from Addington Square somewhere.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Maisie.
“I was over there yesterday. I know you said to go home, but I had a right bee in my bonnet about it, so I ended up going across to Camberwell. It must’ve been after you’d been to Addington Square, because I didn’t see your motor car anywhere. Miss, I could have sworn I saw him, walking along near that field over the back. It was a boy who fitted his description anyway—mind you, I’ll admit that his description fits a lot of lads of that age. Anyway, I took the chance and came up on a really early train this morning, to have another look. I reckoned that, if he was sleeping rough, he would come out before anyone else was about—them kids with their great big dog, for instance. Or I thought perhaps he’d stay over there, keep his head down. But I didn’t reckon on seeing what I did.”
“Billy, you’re supposed to be resting, enjoying time at home with your family, digging your garden.” She leaned forward. “What did you see?”
“Miss, there’s only so much digging a garden of that size will take, and I thought I could lend a hand with the case. Anyway, I was walking along—and by then there were a few people about, so it wasn’t as if anyone would notice me because I was the only bloke on the street—and when I got to the street that leads onto the square, Goodyear Street, or Place, or something, the door opened from one of them houses, and a man stood on the doorstep, looked around—of course, I stayed back, behind a tree—and then this lad came out and ran along the road.” He took a breath and wiped his brow. “I reckon the fella might have been a vicar or a verger or something, because he left after the boy had gone, and he went down the road to his church—if you can call it a proper church.”
“Well, that’s a turn-up for the books.” Maisie leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. She looked up at Billy. “I don’t think I’m surprised, to tell you the truth—but of course, it might not be him, and the Reverend Griffith might be offering refuge to a helpless young man in all innocence—that’s part of his ministry, to be a source of comfort to those less fortunate. We have to give him the benefit of the doubt—though I believe you’re probably right.” She paused again. “Billy, you’re all in, what with getting up at the crack of dawn and all that walking around yesterday. I was worried about you then, and I’m worried now—and not about you being bored! Would you go home, please, and rest?”
Billy looked at his hands, then brought his attention back to his employer. “I’ve decided to take that job, you know. At the Compton Corporation. The money’s fair, and it’s regular. Doreen’s pleased already; after all, I won’t get much grief from a broken telephone, or a clerk who’s nicking drawing pins, will I?”
Maisie smiled. “I think you’re right—you’ve made a good decision.”
“One thing that bothers me, Miss. What about the house? I mean, you own that house of ours, Miss, and I’m paying you rent. If I’m not working for you, can we stay there? Is that all right, I mean?”
“Oh, Billy, of course you are staying—it never entered my head that you wouldn’t. In fact, I wanted to talk to you about that—but perhaps not yet. I’ll just put the word in your ear to consider. I was thinking that it would be a good investment for you—for the future—if your rent were to go towards payment of the house. That would mean you would own the house one day, and it would be yours. I can give you the original purchase price, and we’ll take it from there—proper papers drawn up, so no concern on that score.”
“Oh, Miss, that’s an awful lot, ain’t it? I mean, to go from Shoreditch to a semi-detached house in Eltham is a big old leap, eh? And, well—”
“Have a think about it. Talk to Doreen. You wouldn’t be paying any more than you are now, and you would be on the way to owning your house. And you can take your time—I have no other plans to sell the house. It’s your home.”
Billy took a while to answer. Maisie allowed him his silence, while at the same time wondering whether she had overstepped the mark again.
“Thank you for the opportunity, Miss, I really appreciate all this. And I know Doreen will. She’d love to think we might own the house—and do it on our own.”
“Good. Think about it. Now then, Billy—you go home.”
“Miss—”
“What is it, Billy?”
“What’re you going to do? Will Sandra be working for you, taking my place?”
“No one can take your place, Billy. Ever. But I have some plans of my own—and no, don’t ask, I’ve no thoughts about getting married.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “I believe I might close the business for a while. I haven’t told Sandra yet, so keep it under your hat. I have some things I need to take care of.”
“Is it to do with Dr. Blanche?”
Maisie sighed. “Yes, I suppose it is. I am going to honor his memory, in a way. Do something he would have liked me to do.”
Billy nodded and smiled. “Well, good on you, Miss. Good on you for doing it, whatever it is.”
“I’ll keep you posted. Now then, you go on home.”
“You will get on the old dog and bone if you need me, won’t you? This ain’t a straightforward case, is it?”
Maisie laughed. “Come on, Billy—when did we ever have a straightforward case?”
“Yeah, you’ve got a point. I suppose there was that one embezzlement . . .”
Maisie telephoned Jesmond Martin at work, and he grudgingly agreed to see her, though he asked her to come to his office, rather than to his house, later in the day, as she would have preferred. She also left a message with the Allisons’ housekeeper, confirming that she would like to call on Monday afternoon—yes, she knew it was short notice considering they would only just have returned from holiday, but this was an urgent matter in connection with a police investigation. Maisie hated bringing Scotland Yard into the equation, but she knew there were times when her position as an independent inquiry agent was not quite enough to gain a crucial meeting. If asked, she knew that Caldwell would cover for her. Her Friday was taking shape. Jesmond Martin, followed by another trip over to Addington Square—this time with her stout walking shoes. Now there was one more call to make before she left the office. But the telephone began to ring as she reached for the receiver.
“Fitzroy—” She had no time to repeat the exchange number before the caller started to speak.
“Maisie, love, is that you?”
“Dad! Dad, what’s wrong? Are you all right?” Maisie felt her heart begin to beat faster. It was unusual for her father to initiate a telephone call—Frankie Dobbs had never quite become used to the telephone she’d had installed in his cottage following a serious fall he’d suffered some years earlier. On hearing his voice she was immediately fearful that something dreadful had happened.
“Nothing wrong, love. No, nothing wrong. I just wondered if you were coming down here to Chelstone soon.”
“I was just about to telephone you, Dad—I was planning to drive down tomorrow morning. I thought I’d give Mrs. Bromley a call next, to let her know. Are you sure everything is all right?”
“Right as rain, love. I’ll see you tomorrow then. And don’t worry—I’ll let Mrs. Bromley kn
ow you’re on your way; I daresay I’ll be seeing her today.”
“That’ll save me a moment. And I’ll be arriving about midafternoon.”
“That’s all right then. Will Mr. James be with you?” Frankie tended to refer to James as “Mr. James”—he was not at ease with the fact that Maisie was romantically involved with the son of the family by whom he was employed. Maisie knew his discomfort came from a sense of not knowing quite where he stood; Frankie Dobbs was a man who liked a certain order, though he also thought his daughter was worthy of more than James Compton. Maisie always felt that Frankie doubted James, and had he shared his feelings would have said, “I’d like to see more fiber to him, that’s all.” Frankie was still a man who respected work with the hands before toil behind a desk.
“Yes, he probably will—though he will obviously be with his parents for the most part.”
“So, tomorrow then.”
“All right, Dad.”
“Mind how you go, in that little motor of yours.”
“I will, Dad. Not to worry.” Maisie smiled as she replaced the telephone receiver, but at the same time she remained a little unsettled. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times her father had picked up the telephone and dialed her number. She didn’t think it was an idle curiosity about her plans for Saturday and Sunday that inspired the move.
Jesmond Martin’s office was in the City, close to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Maisie loved the City, the smell of the centuries that seemed to rise up from the pavement, waft along alleyways, and linger in ancient doorways. The tall, narrow building that housed Jesmond Martin’s office had recently been treated to a scouring, but would soon be soot-stained and dark once more. It pleased her, though, to see the effort made.
She could not account for her preconceived notion that Martin worked for a larger concern, and was a little surprised to see him supported only by a secretary and two clerks. His offices comprised two rooms. The outer office seemed dour, with oak floors in need of some polish, and three heavy desks. Only the secretary had a telephone, and from the open ledger on her desk it appeared the clerks had to request permission to place a call. Several slightly more comfortable chairs—still straight-backed, but with cushioned seats—were positioned a few feet away from the secretary’s desk, and Maisie was directed to make herself comfortable while Mr. Martin was informed that she had arrived. The secretary knocked on the door at the far end of the outer office, and stepped inside to speak to her employer. Two minutes later, Maisie was summoned.
Jesmond Martin was a tall, thin man with angular features and narrow shoulders that seemed slightly rounded. Maisie wondered if years of trying to protect his heart had led to such a development, or was it simply close work over a desk late into the day? He could once have been a handsome man, one who attracted the attention of women—girls, then—for his eyes, though sad, seemed as if in earlier years they might have been full of life and joy. It was a fleeting impression, but when Maisie looked at those eyes, she thought of an empty fire grate in the cold of morning, after the warmth and light of the night before. Lines stretching to his temples and around his mouth spoke of disappointment and perhaps the strain of observing his wife’s decline along with the more recent disappearance of his son. She had not noticed these elements before, when they first took on the case, but perhaps they were more evident when he was at work.
Jesmond Martin remained standing behind his desk as Maisie stepped forward. He held out his hand towards a chair for her to be seated.
“Miss Dobbs, good of you to call. Do you have news of my son? My wife is not a well woman, and his continued disappearance is having a detrimental effect on her well-being. She waits every day for news, and it has been some time.” He stood until he had finished the sentence, and then sat down at his desk, his hands clenched on top of the blotting pad in front of him.
“I think we might have a good lead, Mr. Martin. I will get straight to the point: I believe your son might be living under an assumed name—though one similar to his own—and in rough circumstances.”
Martin did not seem surprised, though he shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “I just don’t understand. I have done everything I can for that boy. I have raised him to the best of my ability, and he has the love of his mother—what could have caused this? Who has influenced him?” He resumed his former position, hands clasped atop the blotting pad. “He must be intercepted and brought home at once, Miss Dobbs. If I have to order another agency to bring him to his senses, I will.”
“Another agency won’t be necessary, Mr. Martin. We have come this far; however, I am afraid I must ask some more questions. You see, to all intents and purposes, there was no undue influence upon your son—if I have identified him correctly. He left school of his own accord and moved into lodgings in Southwark. From there he was well situated to gain work on the docks—he is young and fit, tall and strong for his age, and he would not be paid the same as a grown man, so he was hired by the day.”
“Working on the docks? But my son is a gentleman, he would not—” Martin had clasped his hands together with such force that his nails left an impression on his skin. “If he wants to work, then so be it—a suitable position could be found for him. Naval rating might do very well; a spell at sea if he wants a harsher life—his has clearly been too soft for him thus far.”
“I know this is very troubling for you, Mr. Martin, but there is more. If we have identified him correctly, then he is also sought by the police. I should add that I have not suggested his identification to my contacts at Scotland Yard, in case there has been an error.”
“The police?” Jesmond Martin pressed his hands on the desk as if to lever himself to stand.
“Please let me finish, Mr. Martin. A young man fitting your son’s description, and living under an assumed name that appears to be derived from his own, was the first to find the body of a woman murdered close to the canal. He has not been implicated in her murder, and he was with another worker when they came across her remains. He was taken to alternative lodgings by the police—for his own protection; this is a difficult case as the woman was not English, and it was the second such murder in several months. And this information, as you might imagine, is highly confidential.”
“My son would never murder—”
“I’m not saying he would, Mr. Martin. This is simply by way of information regarding a young man we believe to be your son. Let me continue.” Maisie cleared her throat and coughed. The room was musty and a fine sheen of dust seemed to linger in the air.
“Would you like tea, Miss Dobbs?” Martin’s manner changed, becoming solicitous.
“A glass of water would suffice, if you don’t mind.”
Martin rang a bell on his desk, whereupon his secretary entered the room, and he requested a glass of water for the visitor. They did not continue speaking until the woman returned, and Maisie had taken several sips to soothe the irritation in her throat.
“The weather is strange for this time of year, isn’t it?” said Jesmond.
“Yes,” replied Maisie. “Drier than usual.” She cleared her throat again, took one more sip, set the glass on the desk, and went on. “Now, back to your son. He is not under suspicion, though he is a most important witness. It is possible he ran away again to avoid being sent home. Which brings me to a point of some delicacy.” She looked at Martin, at the large eyes that now seemed filled with melancholy, at the hunched shoulders and the gray, lined skin at his temples. How old was he, this man who seemed as if he was beyond fifty, though at the same time could be much younger, yet hardened by tragedy? She had seen that very look in the war, in the faces of men marching back from the front, their eyes telling of terrors seen and friends lost. Had this man seen the front lines of battle? But then, not all wars were fought with guns and shells; sometimes the charge came from another quarter. Life itself could provide an onslaught enough to diminish the spirit and challenge the soul, and surely seeing a beloved wife su
ffer was such an engagement, with many conflicts to endure.
“I know we asked you this question before, when you first came to us, but can you think of any reason why Robert might have run away? Of course, I understand his mother is quite infirm, which must be terribly difficult for him, but it has been this way for several years now, has it not? I wonder what might have happened to change his perspective?” She chose her words with care. “When you were late returning for our previous appointment, at your home, I had the opportunity to speak to your wife’s nurse, and she described Robert’s love of his mother and his commitment to her, so I am surprised he left in such a way.”
Martin shrugged. “He might have reached some sort of crisis, Miss Dobbs. Men have been known to experience moments of weakness.”
“But he is not a man, is he?”
“Almost. Man enough to know what he is doing.”
Maisie saw the anger rising, and at once felt as if she were on uneven ground.
“Mr. Martin, I must draw your attention to a compelling coincidence in this whole matter. I did not mention it at first, as I wanted to gain an impression of your son, yet this is a crucial element in terms of his continued disappearance. Though it is to his credit that Robert—the young man we believe to be Robert—and his companion sought help as soon as they discovered the remains of the young woman, I should add that her name was Miss Maya Patel, late of Addington Square.”
“I don’t know any Maya Patel. Nor does my son.”
Maisie waited a second or two longer before replying.
“But you do know Miss Usha Pramal, I believe. Wasn’t she a member of staff in your household until several months ago?”
Jesmond Martin picked up a fountain pen and pulled off the lid, which he then pressed home again. “Miss Dobbs, I am a very busy man. I arrive at my office early, and I leave late. I have to consider not only my wife’s health, the extra expense of her condition and a full-time nurse, but my son’s education and future. I am not a wealthy man in the way of earls and kings, but a man who has to work hard for every penny—and I have a necessary staff here to consider, too. The housekeeper is responsible for all matters concerning the running of the household—I simply pay the bills. I do not know the name of every person employed in my house, small though it may seem by baronial standards. My first consideration is my wife and my son. There you have it.” He threw the pen on the blotting pad and leaned back, his arms folded.