Maisie realized it would fall to her to break the news to Tom about his brother—his bravery, and how he now carried the wounds of war. She told Tom the story from beginning to end, and then answered his questions, one after the other in quick succession revealing his fear and concern.
“I’ll put in for compassionate leave. I can’t stay here, flying all over the place like some gnat without a purpose—I’m coming home.”
“Wait until you’ve spoken to your parents,” said Maisie. “Tim will be at the hospital in Hastings for a few weeks, I’m sure—they have to wait to see if any infection emerges. Everyone’s at Chelstone, staying with me—it’s not too far a drive to Hastings from there, and there’s the train too.”
“Can you fit in another, if I can get away?”
“Of course I can, Tom—you’ll have to bunk in with Tarquin though.”
“For once I won’t mind his snoring. I’ll let you know when I’m coming, Tante Maisie. But I’ll try for Friday.”
“I hope to see you then, Tom—and do take care.”
“I’m up in Northumberland—shouldn’t really tell you that, should I? They put us pilots into three big groups, and we’re all over the place—there’s us newish boys, who have to get our practice in, and then there’s the next group, which is a mix, so everyone gets experience flying with more seasoned chaps, and then there are the pilots with the hours on them—they’re a year or so older than me, the old salts! I started flying an old Tiger Moth—doing the sort of aerobatics that Uncle James would have done in the last war. I kept thinking of him, actually.” He paused for breath, and to put more coins in the slot. “Then they put me on this American aeroplane, called a Harvard. I thought it was a lovely kite—even had automatic wheels up. But now I’m really excited, because the very good news is that I’m transferring to RAF Hawkinge next month—they’re moving me into Hurricanes. I’ll have had about ten or twelve hours flying by the time I’m on ops over to France, which isn’t bad as I think some of the men coming up after me will have less, what with one thing and another. And Hawkinge is in Kent, so you’ll see something of me when I’ve a day or two off.”
Maisie nodded, as if Priscilla’s eldest son were in the room. “Telephone your parents at the Dower House this evening—they should be there in an hour or so. Let them know you’re doing well—they will be so relieved.”
“Will do, Tante Maisie. I want to know how my brother is—he’ll get better when he knows I’m coming. The way this family is going, we’ll make a good team of one-armed bandits—I’d better be careful!”
“Yes, you had. Now then, call your parents and I’ll see you at the week’s end. You can tell me then what a one-armed bandit is!”
Maisie replaced the receiver, knowing that Tom’s nonstop light banter at the end of the call was his way of assimilating his brother’s plight, of trying to appear as if everything was normal. All the emotions that Priscilla and Douglas had experienced since they learned that Tim was missing would have hit Tom at once, with relief coming on top of fear, and—she thought—some anger toward his sibling under the surface, in the place where deep brotherly love resided. Every member of the family was affected—that was how it was. And now Tom was being posted to RAF Hawkinge. Northumberland seemed a lot safer. They’re moving me into Hurricanes. Maisie shook her head. It felt as if they had all been moved into a hurricane, right into the eye of the storm.
She went into the kitchen, took a bottle of white wine from her new refrigerator—she still had not become used to the intermittent running noise—and poured herself a glass. She stood for a moment, looking out of the kitchen window across the garden, to her clematis still in bud, and then to the barrage balloons in the sky. Soon she would have to think about closing the doors and drawing the blackout curtains. She thought of Tim, looking back at his homecoming, the image of him being taken from the boat on a stretcher, and the terrible wounds to his arm. And she remembered the description Sylvia Preston, the WAAF, had given her—of driving her ambulance onto Salisbury Plain and picking up the bodies of young men who had failed their first parachute jump. She pictured Tom stationed at an aerodrome in Kent, which—it now seemed—would be on the front line of the invasion, if it came. And then Anna. Anna. How could she ever keep her safe? She sighed. Her heart was heavy. It was time for the next call.
She had no need to look up the number before dialing.
“MacFarlane!” The greeting was as brusque as ever.
“Robbie, when will you answer the telephone as if there’s a human being on the other end of the line, and not a charging bull elephant,” said Maisie.
Robert MacFarlane, formerly a senior officer with Scotland Yard’s Special Branch and now working with the Secret Service as a linchpin between the two, laughed when he heard Maisie’s voice.
“It’s been a while, has it not, hen? And to what do I owe this intrusion into my first wee dram of the day?”
“Bit late for you, isn’t it, Robbie? From my garden the sun is already over the yardarm.”
“I’m a-mending of my ways,” replied MacFarlane. “That sounds almost poetic, doesn’t it? Now then, seeing as you didn’t mention taking me out for a nice four-course luncheon tomorrow, I take it this is a business call.”
“It is, yes.”
“Come on then, tell me what’s going on.”
“I could be wrong, Robbie, but I think I know of the whereabouts of an enemy agent—and even if he’s not German, I think he’s someone who’s probably not on our side.”
“I see. Pray tell,” said Robbie, his tone now weighted with the gravity of her news.
Maisie described her fears, and her reservations. “I just didn’t think it was wise to wait any longer to tell you.”
“No, you’re right there. I’ll get on it. Don’t go into your office tomorrow, and keep those two employees of yours out of the way.”
“Yes. I’ll telephone them both immediately.” She paused, curling the telephone cord around the fingers of her left hand. “Robbie—he’s a nice man. Go easy on him.”
“If the creeping vines are innocent, he won’t even know we’ve been there. I’ll put my little wee white gloves on for him.”
“But not your white boxing gloves.”
There was silence on the line before MacFarlane spoke again.
“My nephew didn’t get out of Dunkirk, Maisie.”
“I’m so sorry, Robbie. Truly I am. But please remember, I could be wrong about the man.”
“I know you, Maisie, so in my gut, I doubt it. Now then, stay away tomorrow—treat yourself to an outing. Go home to the country to see that little girl of yours.”
Maisie was grateful for a chill in the air as she walked along the Embankment toward Scotland Yard. Having confirmed that Sandra would not be required in the office, she had arranged to meet Billy outside the police headquarters at half past nine and instructed him not to go to the office first, as she had just remembered that some essential plumbing work would be in progress.
She had slept little the previous night. Priscilla had called late in the evening to let her know that Tim was weak, but improving, and had been awake long enough to talk briefly about Gordon’s death. He had become distressed and was given a sedative. Andrew Dene had paid another visit, and estimated that it would be another two weeks before Tim would be discharged. He counseled against Tim returning to London, as fresh air and the chance to begin walking each day would help with balance and well-being. Priscilla and Douglas would therefore be looking for a property to rent in Kent, and ideally as close to the village as possible. “We’re family, Maisie. We all need to be near those we love—don’t you think?”
At Scotland Yard, Caldwell took Maisie’s statement, starting with the day Phil Coombes came to her office to talk to her about his son.