CHAPTER SIX

Having made her way through the kitchen, Maisie walked towards the entrance hall with its extravagant black-and-white Art Deco tiles, and stopped for a moment to get her bearings before entering each of the downstairs reception rooms, where she lingered for a few moments before deciding there was nothing of interest. She did not want to waste time, so her priority was locating the owner's bedroom, his dressing room, his study and the library.

As she suspected, the interior had indeed been modernised. Good money had been spent on maintaining a balance between respect for the past and a nod to the future, though she found some of the decoration to be austere, with none of the comfort a woman's touch might provide. She went from room to room in a quest to get the measure of the owner, a man who was – if Archie, the Artful Dodger among the group of young squatters, was to be believed – a follower of one of the most brutal leaders ever to have walked the earth. 110

Maisie came upon a door where she had not expected a room to be situated. It was set between two floors, so it was neither on the ground floor nor the first, but accessed through a door at the top of the initial half-flight of stairs. She was not surprised to discover the door was locked, so she reached into her shoulder bag and brought out a small velvet drawstring pouch that was now a little threadbare from many years of use. She pulled out a set of tools, selected one and knelt down to inspect the lock. It took a moment or two of working the pointed tool before she smiled, manoeuvred it one more time and heard the tell-tale click she was hoping for. Coming to her feet, she opened the door and entered the owner's large study.

At first she found nothing of note. A few old newspapers had been set on the desk, along with a book about famous Italian gardens. The drawers were unlocked, but again there was nothing of significance to be discovered. The desk had been set at an angle, so Maisie sat down on the oak captain's chair, and as she looked around, she realised the position gave a view of both the front of the house and part of the side. A seated man could just about view the sheds and garage, but tyres would be heard crunching along the gravel, so with a turn of the head he could see a motor car approaching the front of the house. Anyone visiting on foot could not do so in silence, unless they chose to walk across the lawns.

There was a bookcase behind the chair, two more before her on the other side of the window and a smaller one to the right of the door, which left enough space for a round table and two leather armchairs. A few feet beyond the armchairs, a selection of photographs had been framed and mounted on the wall, so Maisie pushed back the desk chair and walked across to look at the images. Throughout her work as an investigator, if she were in a house 111at the scene of a crime, she had always been drawn to photographs, for they held the story of a person's closest associations. Family members, professional colleagues, lovers, locations, smiles and frowns; all were caught in the moment, revealing something about those gathered, whether there was joy, adoration, discomfort, despair, ease or even hatred.

‘Well, well, well – what a nice crowd the Honourable man mixed with. Hmmm.'

Though she could not have named each of the friends standing alongside the owner of the house in one of the larger photographs, she recognised four as members of the aristocracy; two lords, a sir and, yes, that woman was a countess. Herr Adolf Hitler was at the centre of the group, and if she were not mistaken, the photograph had been taken at the Berlin Olympic Games, in 1936.

‘Oh dear,' said Maisie, as she stared at another photograph. Hawkin-Price was standing alongside the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, with another man on the other side of the newly married couple. Maisie recognised the face, but it took a minute or two to put a name to the smiling man – yes, it was a royal cousin, the German Duke of Coburg. The British royal surname had been changed from the Germanic Saxe-Coburg-Gotha to Windsor during the Great War, when the King decided it would be a good idea to remove any reminder of the monarchy's German ancestry, given the carnage at the Western Front and the great numbers of British youth perishing at the hands of the Kaiser's army. Queen Victoria had died in the arms of her grandson, the Kaiser.

There were other photographs taken on excursions, at elegant soirées and during what seemed to be hunting parties, before Maisie alighted on another photograph that could confirm her suspicion 112regarding the reason for sale of land to a building concern. A much younger Hawkin-Price was standing next to a man who was perhaps a few years older, with the duo bearing enough similarities for Maisie to conclude that they were either brothers or cousins. Whereas the older man's rank badges revealed him to be an army major, Jonathan Hawkin-Price was a junior officer. She would have to discover the truth of the matter, but it seemed her initial impression regarding the more recent history of the property was correct, that the house and land around it had once been part of a grander estate, but following the passing of the wealthy parents and older son – the immediate heir – a substantial acreage had to be sold off to meet crushing death duties due to the exchequer.

Having studied each photograph – and not finding anything endearing about the Honourable Hawkin-Price – Maisie turned to the first bookcase, where she concluded the owner was a widely read man on a broad range of historical subjects.

Maisie moved to another bookcase, where a line of tomes caught her attention.

‘Ah, what have we here?' said Maisie, tapping three books shelved together.

She took out The Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx and leafed through the heavily underlined book. The next two were also annotated – both The Principles of Communism by Friedrich Engels and The State and Revolution by Vladimir Lenin were filled with the Honourable reader's pencilled thoughts about the content – and it was clear he was not impressed and at times the reading even rendered him angry.

Maisie ensured the books were replaced in order and searched for another book she suspected would be in close proximity, but was 113taken by surprise when she found not one, but several copies – one in German, one in English and the third in Italian. It was the German edition that caused Maisie to gasp. Even as she held the book in her hand, she felt as if her fingers might burst into flames. Mein Kampf had been personally inscribed by the author as a gift to the owner of the grand house in which she was committing the crime of trespass. She was handling a book that had once been touched by Adolf Hitler, and she felt as if every last cell in her body had been sullied by the experience. She dropped the book as if it were hot coal from the fire, but picked it up and set it back on the shelf before leaving the study, not even bothering to lock the door as she departed.

I must cleanse myself, she thought, as she ran down the stairs, across the entrance hall with the black-and-white Art Deco tiles so bold they seemed to be shouting at her. She had been caught out, a pawn on the board of a very ugly game. ‘I knew there was evil here as soon as I walked into that room,' Maisie admonished herself aloud. ‘Shame on me for pressing on. Shame on me. I knew better. Much better.' She continued the personal reprimand as she hurried along the corridor to the kitchen and her exit – straight into the back of Billy Beale.

‘Oh, there you are – oops, mind how you step. Miss Dobbs, this is Mr Chalmers, the head gardener here,' said Billy, turning to face her again. ‘I told him you were interested in the property because you were thinking of moving out this way, but apparently we've got it all wrong – it's the house next door that's for sale.' Unseen by the gardener, Billy winked as he spoke to her.

Maisie put her hand on her chest to still her breathing and felt Emma's pointed nose nudging her. She knelt down, not wanting the gardener to notice any anxiety on her part. Emma licked her face, 114something she would do to Anna if the child ever showed a sign of being out of sorts.

‘I'm so very sorry, Mr Chalmers,' said Maisie, coming to her feet. ‘It was quite the exit, tripping over the step there. And I suppose it was rather a cheek, going in when we saw the door was left ajar – but you know, my late father-in-law, Lord Julian Compton, always said one has to strike while the iron is hot, and I thought this was too good a chance to let it pass.'

‘Lord Julian, eh?' said Chalmers, rubbing his stubbled chin. He nodded towards Billy. ‘Mr Beale here said you had to stop the motor car anyway to let the dog out, so you walked along the avenue.'

Maisie smiled, making an obvious point of looking around. ‘It's lovely here. I must say, it's very quiet, so peaceful. Beautiful gardens. And please don't tell me you have to keep up this entire property on your own. The lawns are perfect, even given the weather we've had.'

The gardener touched the peak of his flat cap by way of acknowledging the compliment. ‘The master's away at the moment. Gives the indoors staff a chance to have a bit of a rest. The other two gardeners – only three of us now, all told – are at the bottom of those lawns, next to the woods where you can't see them. They're mending the fencing where some youngsters took it down. There's the chauffeur, but he went off to get some special oil for the motor cars. Him and his wife live above the garages – she's the housekeeper, but she's away too, visiting her mother.'

Maisie knew it was a common arrangement, having the chauffeur live above the garage. George, the Comptons' chauffeur, lived above the garages at Chelstone Manor.

‘Do you live on the estate too?' she asked.

‘Tied cottage, on one of the farms owned by Mr Hawkin-Price. 115Very handy – I only have to walk across those fields and I'm at work.' He pointed into the distance, as if to indicate the bucolic surroundings of his daily walk to and from the estate. ‘Anyway, I reckon I should lock up this kitchen door – we don't want squatters, do we?'

‘Quite right, sir. If a door or even a window is left open, anyone entering can claim squatter's rights, so it's just as well I'm not a squatter, isn't it?' added Maisie.

The gardener raised an eyebrow. ‘I daresay you two and your dog should get on your way. I'll walk down to the gates with you – blimmin' local nippers, having a go at them again. I'll have to get the police back here to keep an eye on the place.'

‘The police?'

Maisie noticed the gardener begin to run his teeth along the side of his lower lip, and understood it was an involuntary movement made the second he revealed something she guessed he would rather have kept quiet about.

‘Nothing special,' said the gardener, regaining his composure. ‘Local bobby comes around and has a gander at the place when the owner is away, on account of children thinking it's a big adventure to break in.'

‘Really – you've mentioned the local children a couple of times. Are they that mischievous?'

‘Not the locals, but there's the old orphanage. They might have changed the name, but they can't change the likes of the nippers they've got in there. And then we had the evacuees.'

If Maisie were a dog, she knew her hackles would have gone up, and as if intuiting her feelings, Emma gave a low growl and her thick coat was indeed proud across her withers. 116

‘Or it could be local children taking advantage of the outsiders' presence – passing blame around,' said Maisie, as they reached the gate. ‘Anyway, thank you, Mr Chalmers. You've been most kind. And again, my apologies for the trespass – I assumed the house was for sale because someone had died.' She looked back at the house, then at the gardener. ‘It has that sort of look about it, doesn't it?'

‘Not for long, madam. Not for long. There will be someone home soon enough.'

Maisie and Billy bid the gardener farewell and went on their way, walking along the road, towards the motor car. As before, Emma leapt into the back seat and curled up as soon as Maisie unlocked and opened the vehicle.

‘Now what?' said Billy, taking the passenger seat next to Maisie.

‘The chauffeur. I want to have a word or two with the chauffeur and his wife, and I'd dearly love to see inside those sheds.'

‘But the thing is, how do we know those squatting saucepan lids – sorry – I mean how do we know the squatting kids are telling the truth? This place doesn't look as if someone was murdered here, does it? And people around these parts would have known if a bloke like Hawkin-Price had gone to meet his maker, wouldn't they?'

‘I wonder …' Maisie tapped the steering wheel as she stared ahead. ‘Billy, I think I'm going to give Caldwell a telephone call.'

‘Not him. I mean, he's alright, as a bloke, but – Detective Chief Superintendent Caldwell? There's usually more egg on his tie than I've seen on anyone's plate for the last six years.'

‘You've got a point, but I've discovered he's good at his job, and we get on well now.'

‘Rather you than me. Anyway, did you find anything inside the gaff?' 117

Maisie started the motor car. ‘Did I find anything inside? Wait until I tell you about the photographs – if nothing else, they persuaded me that the party witnessed by our little friend Archie really did happen, and that leads me to believe there was also a death.'

‘Yeah, but where's the Honourable bloke, and who did it?'

Maisie pulled out onto the empty road, and turned the motor car. ‘Could have been one of the hoity-toity Nazi friends with a weapon in his hand. Or a hired assassin. Or someone else entirely.'

‘Hired assassin? Blimey, I don't know if we should get involved then.'

Maisie looked at Billy. ‘I haven't told you about the hoity-toity friends yet, if you think an assassin is something to worry about.' Maisie shook her head. ‘You will be shocked. But let's get on – and in the meantime, I think you should plan a visit to the children's home, so you have it up your sleeve, should it become necessary. I haven't quite decided yet.'

‘If it comes to that, I'll need a good story.'

Maisie stopped the motor car as they entered Hallarden, pulling onto a grass verge. ‘There's a telephone kiosk over there – I'll place a call to Caldwell now, and with a bit of luck I'll catch him. Dependent upon what he says, we'll decide whether I should drop you at the children's home, where you could present yourself as a reporter for the Sunday Pictorial. Your guise is that you want to know how the children are faring, now the war is over and the evacuees have gone home. You could ask what they think about the future of children's homes, especially given the housing shortage. You could quote the fact that tens of thousands of prefabricated dwellings are being imported from America and—'

‘Are they?' 118

‘Yes.'

‘Anything else you know that I don't?'

Maisie tapped the side of her nose. ‘Have a think about your questions. There's a notebook and pencil in my document case. And could you open a rear window for Emma? I'll be back in a minute or two.'

Maisie nudged open the door to the telephone kiosk while she waited for her call to be put through to Detective Chief Superintendent Caldwell of Scotland Yard's Murder Squad. The kiosk was musty, and a cold condensation seemed to mist every window as soon as she began to dial.

‘Miss Dobbs – or is it Mrs Scott? Can't for the life of me keep up with anything these days. I've not seen you since our little V-J Day party here at the Yard.'

‘Good afternoon, Detective Chief Superintendent. That was a nice get-together, wasn't it? Thank you for inviting me to join you.'

‘What with everyone being pally around the world again, we might as well have raised a glass together. Pity it doesn't feel like we've won anything though, that's all I can say.'

‘You're not the first to say that.'

‘Right then, you're not calling me out of the blue to be jawing about how nice it would be to get your hands on a decent loaf of bread without it falling apart because they're making up the flour with chalk. What's on your mind?'

Maisie could not help but smile. Caldwell never missed a beat. Niceties for about a minute, then down to business – and she respected him for it.

‘Hallarden, Kent, about five miles from Paddock Wood. Local 119manor house and grounds, probably used to be a more extensive estate. Owner – the Honourable Hawkin-Price. Have you been asked to look into a murder at the estate? The victim would be named as Hawkin-Price.'

The line was silent.

‘Caldwell?'

‘I'm here, I'm here.'

‘I can't hear papers rustling, so you're not having to look him up. What's going on?'

Silence again.

‘Cald—'

‘Alright, alright, Miss Dobbs. I'm just thinking.'

‘And?'

‘Trying to make all the dots join up.'

‘And? I know you have your secrets, but could you just do a little sharing of intelligence?'

‘I could ask you the same question.'

‘I asked first.'

‘If you come back as a dog, you'll be a terrier.'

‘If I come back as a dog, I might bite.'

‘Very funny. Right, here's why I was having a think. A few weeks ago I received a telephone call from the local police down there. They'd had a call or two come in from the supervisor at a local children's home, who said four of their inmates—'

‘It's an orphanage, not a prison, Superintendent. They're not inmates.'

‘Well, whatever they call them. Orphans. Four of the older ones had run off. The chief copper was worried because a night or two earlier, a couple of the locals said they'd heard shots coming from 120the home of your Hawkin-Price chappie. Apparently it was reported because people were a bit upset with Hawkin-Price and the fact that he'd had some parties during the war and it was a bit noisy, what with motor cars leaving in the early hours of the morning and people not supposed to go anywhere in a motor car – they complained that it was one rule for the rich and another for everyone else.'

‘It's a well-to-do neighbourhood.'

‘Yes, yet you and I both know there's a big difference between the landowner and the aspiring bank manager and it's the bank manager who gets huffy because he wants to be a toff but isn't.'

‘Be that as it may. But what happened after the complaints were made?'

‘Couple of local bobbies went over and asked to look around. No Hawkin-Price in residence, and only a chauffeur and gardener about. They said it was all quiet, though some youngsters had been seen running from the property one evening and had broken a fence near the woods – the gardener thought they were just having a snoop, you know, wanting to see how the other very big half lives. Hawkin-Price is hardly seen in the village, so from what I've heard, most people don't care about him. But here's the thing – when the coppers arrived, the gardener was hosing down part of the path, cleaning it up. Now, I reckon that was part of his job, keeping the paths clean, and to be fair, they said he was cleaning right around to the veranda.'

‘Did you do anything?'

‘Nearly there, Miss Dobbs – let me get to the point. I didn't like the sound of it. If I had that radar-scanning thing in my brain, it would have been going beep-beep-beep. You know what it's like when you get a feeling about these things. So I thought I'd take a 121run down and see for myself, ask a few questions. I'd called for the motor car to come round and was just about to leave, when I had someone on the blower, a higher-up telling me that it was nothing to be concerned about and that the Honourable man should not be investigated. It was a question of security.' He paused. Maisie did not interrupt. ‘But he asked me if I would set up a search for the absconding orphans, because it wouldn't do anyone any good if the press found out about children going missing, what with the fact that they're having enough trouble with children anyway on account of the war, and so many of them missing school and whatnot, you know, not being able to settle down.' Another pause. ‘I wouldn't mind, but I'm a Murder Squad detective with years behind me on the job, not a nannying service.'

‘Who made the call to you – do you know?'

The line was silent.

‘I promise I will not tell a soul, Caldwell – but given what I've discovered here, I think it would be wise to let me know. If there's no murder, I am sure the press will be very interested in what I've discovered about our Honourable Jonathan Hawkin-Price, and indeed that four young people are now being pursued by a senior detective with the murder squad, who we know has much better things to do.'

‘Now then, don't be like that. I was just having a think. We've done well, you and me, since we decided to share and share alike.' Another pause. ‘You have got to keep this to yourself, alright?'

‘Promise.'

‘It was your friend and mine, Robbie MacFarlane.'

‘I thought it might be.'

‘So I reckon this is where we both have to throw in the towel on 122this one and leave well enough alone – and I can't be looking out for errant youngsters anyway. I've got enough going on with a couple of nasty murders here in London – and since they've started clearing the bombsites, certain deceased have come to light with injuries suggesting they were knocked off by someone closer to home than the Luftwaffe over their heads. War gave a few people a golden opportunity to get rid of a fellow man or woman who was getting on their nerves.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘Oh, you knew, Miss Dobbs. Now then, I've got to get on here. Mum's the word on what I've just told you – alright? You promised.'

‘Don't worry, I'll keep my word.'

‘Right you are. I wish you'd keep your word about spending more time at home with your family.'

‘You won't hear from me ever again after December the thirty-first – those family commitments, you see.'

‘Promise?'

‘I promise.'

The call was disconnected. Maisie set the receiver on its cradle, and left the telephone kiosk, thankful that Caldwell had not pursued the question of what she might know about Hawkin-Price. She did not hurry back to the motor car, though she knew Billy was watching her as she left the kiosk.

‘I reckon the way you strolled back here to the motor car, that chat with Caldwell gave you food for thought, miss,' said Billy, as Maisie took her place in the driver's seat.

‘It did. Yes, indeed it gave me food for thought.'

‘Are we still going to the children's home?'

‘No – and I had a feeling I might change my mind on that one. I 123believe any knocking on that particular door will go straight back to someone else and I'm not sure how he's connected yet.'

‘Go on – who is it?'

‘As I suspected – Robbie MacFarlane.' She recounted the conversation with Caldwell.

‘Blimey,' said Billy. ‘So, we've got one of MacFarlane's secret departments involved, as well as a possible assassin, Scotland Yard being told to let go, a load of Nazi toffs and four orphans still wet behind the ears are on the run. There's a recipe for trouble if ever I heard it. What shall we do next?'

‘We look after the most vulnerable.'

‘That's what I was hoping you'd say. Where will you take them?'

‘I'll put them with someone who can keep them in line and occupied.'

Billy laughed. ‘If I'm right about who you mean, those poor nippers won't know what's hit them.'

Maisie started the motor car. ‘Neither will MacFarlane if he tries to cross Priscilla's threshold.' She looked at Billy and smiled. ‘Priscilla can be very protective. She loves mothering people. Meeting Douglas and having Tom, Timothy and Tarquin was the making of her. It brought her back from the abyss after losing her brothers in the last war, then her parents in the flu epidemic. Now her sons are grown, she snaps up any opportunity to take on the mantle of caring again. She knows what it is to fall down, and I think she's become very good at picking people up again, especially the younger ones. Anyway, all being well, the current guest will be returning to his family soon.'

‘I hope so, miss. I really hope so,' said Billy. ‘I'm a bit nervous, to be honest with you. I don't know what to say to him. Doreen will be 124much better – I reckon I'll leave it to her. I mean, I don't know how to say anything without him thinking I'm telling him what to do. I was in the army and I went through a war, but I never had what he had. I saw terrible things, but I dunno, was it the same? Was it worse? I can't even begin to think about what he went through, what was done to him. Not without getting angry and wanting to scream "Look what you did to my boy! Call yourselves human beings?"'

‘I don't think it's a question of what was harder or whether his war was worse than your war – the outcome is along the same lines. And as we both know, there's no perfect solution, though there are a few things that come to mind.'

‘And what are they? I need all the help I can get or I know I'll lose my son forever. I've got another chance, and I don't want to mess it up.'

Maisie was aware that Billy was looking away, staring at the view from the passenger window. He wiped a broad hand across his damp cheeks.

‘Time. Time and love, Billy. Add a bit of stability and a routine, some fresh air, giving him a chance to talk about what happened, but only if he wants to. And patience. A very good measure of patience. Andrew Dene will take care of his body – but those other elements form the prescription for his mind and heart. That's the way to keep the dragon mollified.'

‘The dragon?'

‘That's how Priscilla described it once. We all have our dragons, we who have seen war, and though the dragon doesn't die, we can stop his tail thrashing around inside us. We can live a good life.'

‘I'd like to kill the bloody thing.'

‘Me too, Billy. Me too.' 125

They said nothing for a while, until Billy began winding down the window next to the passenger seat.

‘Another dragon I'd like to kill is the one giving your dog's insides a nasty dose of wind.'

Maisie laughed, though she kept her thoughts to herself. Oh, Billy, you always find some humour at the darkest of times, and bless you for it.