“You’re all daredevils, that’s what you are.”

  “Like Uncle James, I suppose.” Tom looked at Maisie. “I shouldn’t have said that—but you know I looked up to Uncle James. That’s why I joined the RAF—I wanted to be just like him. He made flying sound like such amazing fun. And even though he died in that awful crash, he was testing a new aircraft on behalf of his country. He was so brave, Tante Maisie.”

  “Yes, I know, Tom. And thank you for helping me out,” said Maisie, without revealing surprise that Tom had spoken of her late husband with such passion. She took her godson’s arm. “Let’s go back and join the others now.”

  “Jim was pretty pleased about his transfers, actually,” said Tom as they walked.

  “I’m sure he was, if it meant he was going into training American pilots on new aircraft—he could still get to fly, but I imagine passing on his knowledge and preparing them for what’s to come is quite a responsibility.”

  “Most of us wouldn’t mind it at this point—but for Jim there was something else. He had a girl and he was head over heels for her.”

  “Really?”

  “Trouble was, he had only known her for a few months, and I don’t think he’d told her about his true feelings.”

  “Oh dear,” said Maisie. “Do you know who she was?”

  “He didn’t say much. But here’s what I think—I reckon she was out of bounds.”

  “What does that mean, to a young man in the RAF?”

  “Could be anything—her father’s the air vice marshal, or she’s engaged to someone else, or heaven forbid, she’s a married woman with a husband overseas. Of course, the worst thing is that she’s already lost her love and she’s inconsolable, you’ve got to be careful with a rebound bride.”

  “A rebound bride?”

  “That’s what one of the boys said about Jim. ‘Perhaps he’s found himself a rebound bride.’”

  “Remember to ask him to get in touch with me, Tom,” reminded Maisie.

  “It’s as good as done. But can you tell me why you’re interested in him?”

  “In confidence—his name came up in an investigation. He was acquainted with someone who is now deceased and I think he can help me with some information. Nothing more spicy than that.”

  Tom was given a lift back to Hawkinge by a fellow airman visiting a friend, while Mark Scott offered to take Douglas, Tim and Tarquin home to their Chelstone cottage. After they had dropped off the boys and their father, Scott drove Maisie to the Dower House.

  “Do you hear that noise?” said Scott as they entered the driveway and turned left toward the Dower House.

  “It’s the bombers on their way toward London. We should get indoors quickly—I daresay the air raid warning was sounded while we were in the motor car.”

  “They won’t drop a bomb here though, will they?”

  “Not on their way to London—but if they’ve anything left on the way back toward the Channel, they might take a chance on hitting a village, after all, they want to break our morale. Look at the bomb at Anna’s school.”

  “I must get back to London,” said Scott.

  “You’ll be stopped by the local police or an air raid warden. You’d best stay until the all clear. We’ll be going down to the cellar soon.”

  “The cellar?”

  “It might not be safer, but it feels like it—put it that way.”

  “I’ll stay on ground level, if you don’t mind,” said Scott.

  Allowing time for the bombers to reach London and then begin their return, Maisie and Brenda prepared a light meal to be enjoyed in the kitchen, and packed sandwiches and a flask of tea to take to the cellar. Mark Scott maintained he would be perfectly comfortable in the conservatory, so Maisie gave him a blanket and pillows.

  “I can pretty much sleep anywhere—all part of my training,” said Scott.

  “Your training for what?” asked Maisie.

  “For almost everything I’ve done in my life,” said Scott.

  “You were very kind today, Mark—taking us to the hospital meant that Tim hardly had time to reverse his decision, and traveling with him on the train would have been very difficult, given his feelings about seeing his mother. And it would have taken ages. You distracted him, which I thought served him well.”

  “They’re a good family.” He sat down on the sofa in the conservatory. “I enjoyed meeting them, though the circumstances could have been better. I don’t meet too many people outside my work, so it was a break.”

  “Yes, well, thank you.” Maisie stood for a second, then turned to leave.

  “It was good to see you out of your working armor too, Maisie. You know—meeting your folks, and Anna, then Tim and his dad and brothers. They’re all your people—you’re lucky.”

  “Don’t you have people?”

  “Parents are dead. Sister was killed in an automobile accident when I was away in the last war. I married my high school sweetheart before I went over to France, but she fell in love with someone else while I was away being a flyboy and getting a few medals pinned to my chest. So much for that. I took up with the government when I had the chance, and now I get to see the world.” He shook his head, looking out of the window at the gaining dusk. “And this place reminds me of home—like I said, home’s a bit flatter, but it’s still farm country, and I’m a farm boy at heart, despite having had the run of a few cities around the world.”

  “Well, if you’ve time tomorrow morning, we can take Anna for a walk across the fields.”

  “I’d like that, Maisie.”

  Maisie nodded and made her way to the stairs leading down to the cellar.

  “Is he all right up there, Maisie?” asked Frankie Dobbs.

  “Oh, I daresay he’ll survive,” said Maisie.

  “He’s a very nice fellow,” added Brenda.

  “And he makes me laugh.” Anna giggled, having offered her assessment of the American.

  It was later, when Frankie, Brenda and Anna were asleep, that Maisie decided to venture upstairs to the kitchen. She was restless as her thoughts ricocheted from the death of Catherine Saxon, to images of Priscilla surrounded by flames, to thoughts of Tom in his Hurricane taking on Luftwaffe fighters sent to protect the bombers, and Tim struggling with his tie. Without a sound she took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with cold water. She sipped the water and stared out of the window, mesmerized as she gazed upon fields illuminated by what the people called a Bomber’s Moon—a full moon so high in the sky that it illuminated the way for enemy aircraft to find their targets with ease. She watched a fox steal across the pasture, and at once felt compelled to walk out into the garden, to be in fresh nighttime air and to be unafraid in the face of an invasion that sometimes seemed all too imminent. She unlatched the back door and stepped outside, meandering a short way so that all the land before her was laid out as if it were a reminder, a gift worth fighting for.

  A light breeze picked up. In the distance, Maisie heard the sound of bombers returning. Having dropped their payload of slaughter upon London, the Luftwaffe were on their way back to Nazi airfields in France. In that moment, she knew she was not alone. Mark Scott was standing next to her, and soon his arm was around her shoulders and she leaned into him. As the V formation of bombers droned overhead, they looked up to see moonlight glinting off metal. He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her.

  “Mark—”

  “Life’s way too short, Maisie. Just stand here with me, that’s all I ask.”

  And as they remained in that place, both looking across the land, they heard a shot and a gun fire at the perimeter of the paddock before them, and the voice of an elderly man was almost, but not quite, drowned by the engines. “Just you take that, you buggers! And again!” Another shot rang out. “You Nazi buggers!”

  “Well, I’ll give you this—your people are really making sure Hitler is given a good run for his money.”

  Maisie laughed. “That’s Mr. Avis,” she said, turning to Scott—who lifted her chin and kissed her.

  I’ve just had a message from an American friend, concluding with this cry: “What a great race you are!” But I shall tell him that our men wouldn’t be so fine if our women at this fateful hour were not so magnificent. There isn’t an airman, submarine commander, or unnamed heron in a bomb squad who hasn’t behind him at least one woman, and perhaps half a dozen women, as heroic as himself.

  J. B. Priestley, during his Postscripts BBC broadcast, September 22nd, 1940

  Mark Scott left Chelstone at dawn on Saturday morning, as soon as the all clear sounded, and before Frankie, Brenda and Anna were awake—he had decided not to remain for a morning walk across the fields. The day unfolded in an easy fashion, with Maisie, Brenda and the cook from Chelstone Manor gathering to work out what could be prepared for Sunday lunch at the Dower House, given the rations allowed, and consideration regarding foodstuffs required for the coming week—they couldn’t use everything to hand in one fell swoop. Fortunately, Canadian officers billeted at the Manor were able to contribute to the feast.

  Tom Partridge telephoned the Dower House just before lunch.

  “Hello, Tante Maisie—I’ve found Jim for you.”

  “Oh, good news, Tom—I’m so grateful. How can I get in touch with him?”

  “He’s still at Biggin Hill, but due to go somewhere-he-won’t-say tomorrow afternoon, and surprisingly not on an aircraft—he has a travel warrant for the train. He said he could meet you in London, if you like, at about half past two. I told him you were always happy to give a young airman a good tea somewhere, so he only had to name the place and time.”

  “And I bet he chose the Ritz,” said Maisie.

  Tom laughed. “Can’t blame the man, can you?”

  “No, I can’t—and it will be an honor to treat an American airman fighting with a brand-new RAF Eagle Squadron to tea. Tell him to ask for Miss Dobbs when he gets there, and I’ll be waiting for him.”

  “I asked him to telephone me back, so I’ll vector him in. I’d better be off. Consider it all arranged.”

  “Thank you, Tom.”

  “Oh, and by the way, I liked your gentleman friend.”

  “He’s a work colleague, Tom.”

  “You might think as much, Tante Maise, but if I may say so, I think he has other ideas.”

  “That’s enough, Tom,” said Maisie. “Are you on ops today?”

  “I’ll be going up as soon as we know Goering’s flying circus is on the way.”

  “Safe landings, Tom.”

  “See you soon, Tante Maisie.”

  The telephone line disconnected.

  “Yes, see you soon, Tom,” whispered Maisie.

  Chapter 14

  83 CHILDREN DIE AS HUNS SINK LINER IN STORM

  Eighty-three out of a party of ninety children being taken to Canada died along with 211 other passengers and crew when a British liner was torpedoed and sunk by the Huns in an Atlantic storm. Seven out of nine adults who were escorting the children were also drowned. A U-boat committed this crime against civilians when the liner was 600 miles from land. The ship sank in twenty minutes.

  The Daily Mirror, Monday, September 23rd, 1940

  Maisie left the Dower House directly after Anna was taken to school by Frankie Dobbs. The two elderly dogs, Jook and Emma, joined them for the ride, sitting on the back of the governess cart, tongues lolling as they were drawn along by Anna’s pony, Lady.

  While changing trains at Tonbridge, Maisie purchased a newspaper. She read no further than the headline story, leaving the newspaper on her lap and staring out of the window as the journey progressed. She could not pull her thoughts back from the terror those children must have felt—such innocent little children being sent to safety overseas, the grand adventure turning to horror with one order from a submarine commander who might well have children of his own. Several times she had to fight to stop herself getting off the train at the next station and boarding the train going in the opposite direction, back toward Tonbridge, and then on to Chelstone and home. She imagined going straight to the school, to take Anna in her arms and tell her how loved she was, and how she would always keep her safe.

  It was eleven o’clock before Maisie reached the office, and picked up the telephone to make her first call of the day.

  “Oh good morning. May I speak to Mr. Tucker?”

  “Speaking,” said the man who answered the call.

  “My name is Miss Maisie Dobbs, and I am investigating the very tragic circumstance of Miss Catherine Saxon’s death at your property on Welbeck Street.”

  “We’ve already spoken to men from Scotland Yard.”

  Was it Maisie’s imagination, or had Tucker placed emphasis on the word men?

  “Yes, that’s right,” she replied, with no change of tone to her voice. “And, of course, I have the notes from your very brief meeting with Detective Superintendent Caldwell. However, along with a representative of the United States consular service, I am conducting an additional inquiry. The consular officer’s involvement is necessary given Miss Saxon’s nationality. So it’s really a formality. I’d like to visit you at your earliest possible convenience, if I may.”

  There was silence on the line, then a gruff response. “Tomorrow morning, ten sharp. You’d be best advised to catch an early train, because I won’t be here if you’re late. Do you have our address?”

  “Yes, I have your address and look forward to seeing you tomorrow at ten. I shan’t be late.”

  Maisie replaced the telephone and rubbed her eyes. “I miss the Alvis,” she said, thinking of her motor car, now retired to the garage at Chelstone for the duration of the war.

  “What did you say, miss?” said Billy, entering Maisie’s office with two mugs of strong tea. “There’s no more of that coffee in the bag, so I just made the tea as strong as I could without it being too bitter. I don’t like to see the spoon standing up in it. Mind you, what with the tea ration just gone down to two ounces a person per week, I don’t know how I’ll get myself going of a morning.”

  “I’ll take the tea however it comes, Billy. Anyway, I’ve just spoken to Mr. Tucker, the owner of the Welbeck Street property—he wasn’t terribly welcoming, but they probably thought the whole investigation had been drawn to a close.” She looked up at Billy. “Let’s get out the case map. I’ve to be at the Ritz by about a quarter past two—I want to get there before a certain Flying Officer Jim Trahey, an American serving with the RAF.”

  “God bless the boy, that’s what I say,” said Billy, placing the mugs of tea on the table and rolling out the case map. “Terrible about those poor little nippers, on that ship.”

  “I can barely think about it,” said Maisie. “And I wonder why we’re only just hearing about it—it happened five days ago. I suppose it took a while to effect a rescue of those who were saved, and to gather the names of the dead.”

  Maisie set a jar of colored pencils between them, and began to add names, which she linked to others on the map. Billy added brief notes of his own, circling them with colored crayon and linking them where he saw a relationship between pieces of evidence. They worked for a while in silence before Billy spoke again.

  “Looks like someone just threw the names up in the air and watched them land. I reckon any one of these people could have killed Catherine Saxon.”

  “Motive? What would be the motive, though?” asked Maisie.

  Billy sighed. “From everything we know, I reckon it was to do with something she said, or was about to say—or write—that would upset someone.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Maisie.

  “What do you reckon then, miss?”

  Maisie tapped Catherine Saxon’s name. “This is a woman people fell in love with. She had a certain magnetism, but she wasn’t overwhelmed by it—what I mean is, she doesn’t appear to have used it, as some might.”

  “But what if someone was in love with her and another person wanted to stop it?” Billy shook his head. “No, that sounds like one of those penny dreadfuls. I still reckon she upset someone with that writing of hers. There’s her family for a start—we’ve heard enough about them, haven’t we? And what about that American agent? I bet he could kill someone and not look back.”

  Maisie held her breath, and exhaled deeply. She shook her head. “If I had to make an assessment of Mark Scott, I would say he could very easily kill someone who represented a threat to his life or the life of someone important to him personally or to his work. But by the same token—he would not have done so with a knife used to sharpen pencils.”

  “So you definitely think that’s what was used?”

  “Yes, I do. But even if I find it, it might not point to the killer.” She studied the case map, taking up another colored pencil and linking more names. “These are possible associations we must have more information on. There might be something more between Polly Harcourt and Catherine Saxon, and between Pamela Lockwood and Saxon. I believe Jennifer Barrington is keeping a secret, and I am trying to find a reason not to follow my instinct on what that secret is. And then there’s the man wearing gray, but as I walked down the street this morning, every man I passed was wearing shades of gray. I mean—look at you. Even you’re wearing gray!”

  “Now we both know I didn’t kill her, miss!” Billy leaned forward. “Are you going to tell me what you really think?”

  “I don’t want to muddy your observations. Once an idea is in the head, it’s hard to see the other possibilities. I do want to speak to Jennifer Barrington’s husband, though, and I have yet to speak to those final two lodgers. Harcourt was at the club where she works at the time of Saxon’s death, and Pamela Lockwood was in a shelter at her work because she could not get home that night. Isabel Chalmers was in a shelter too—underneath the building along Whitehall, and she did not get home until after the time of death. Mrs. Marsh was there too—but we think she was asleep.” Maisie sat back. “Or was she?”