receiver.
“And good day to you too, Chief Superintendent,” said
Maisie to the receiver’s continuous dial tone, as she reached forward,
depressed the bar on the black telephone for several seconds to disconnect the
line, then lifted her hand and began to dial the professor’s telephone number
at home, given to her by Maurice.
“Professor Gale? My name is Maisie Dobbs . . . Oh, he
has? I am so sorry to have to disturb you on a Sunday, but I wondered if I
might drive up to Oxford tomorrow to see you—could you spare me an hour of your
time, perhaps? . . . Eleven? Yes, perfect. I’ll see you then. Thank you,
Professor.”
Maisie did not want to discuss any aspect of her work
with John Gale on an unsecured telephone line. She knew operators often
eavesdropped on calls, flagging one another when a “good one” came on the line,
to which they would all plug in and listen. She was sure Maurice had a secure
line, with telephone calls to his number routed via a special government
exchange. And the lines to Scotland Yard, especially to MacFarlane’s office,
would have been subject to the same level of security. But a telephone
conversation with a professor at Oxford would not have been safe, and the last
thing they needed was the mass confusion brought about by panic. She had
already seen, in her career, the terror that can be wrought by an epidemic of
fear.
MAISIE HEARD THE front door close with a thud,
followed by Billy’s uneven footfall on the stairs.
“Afternoon, Miss.”
“Did you find Bert Shorter?”
“I found out where to find him, but he wasn’t there. I
hung around for a while, but he didn’t turn up, so I thought I would come back
here.”
Maisie looked at Billy as he took off his coat and
went to his desk, where he began going through files and his daily list. She
chewed the inside of her lip for a moment, wondering whether to broach the
subject of Doreen’s health, then decided that now was as good a time as any.
“How’s Doreen, Billy? Will she be seeing the doctor?”
Billy sighed, shaking his head. “I’ve got a
confession, Miss.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk in front of
him, and could not meet Maisie’s eyes as he spoke. “She first saw the doctor,
you know, about how she was feeling and some of the things she was doing, a
couple of months after we lost Lizzie. I saw that she was having trouble and I
thought we should do something about it.”
“Oh, Billy, and you’ve been struggling all this time?”
“Well, it wasn’t too bad when we got away to Kent, but
as I’ve told you, as soon as we got back here, it all came rushing back again.
And I blame myself, I do.”
“What do you mean?” Maisie pulled a chair across the
floor so that she could sit in front of Billy’s desk.
“Well, look at what she’s had to put up with. First
there’s me hardly sleeping for years, getting up at night to go for a walk
because if I closed my eyes I didn’t like what I saw. Then because I was
hurting—and you remember this—I took some of that white stuff to help me. I
don’t know what I was thinking, really I don’t.”
“You can’t blame yourself. There are so many men, so
many families struggling as you have.”
“But then Lizzie died, and it tipped her—as I’ve told
you already. So I broke into the Canada money to take her to the doctor, and
now . . . ” He pressed his lips together, as if he might himself break down.
“Now what? What’s happened now?”
“I didn’t want to say anything, because I didn’t want
to worry you.”
“Billy—”
“They came for her early this morning, with the
ambulance.” He supported his head in his hands, and his voice cracked as he
continued. “Things got bad last night. I thought I’d make a cup of hot milk for
Doreen, to help her sleep.” Billy breathed as if he had been running, and held
his chest. “I had the saucepan on the stove, the milk was coming to the boil,
so I turned around to ask
“And good day to you too, Chief Superintendent,” said
Maisie to the receiver’s continuous dial tone, as she reached forward,
depressed the bar on the black telephone for several seconds to disconnect the
line, then lifted her hand and began to dial the professor’s telephone number
at home, given to her by Maurice.
“Professor Gale? My name is Maisie Dobbs . . . Oh, he
has? I am so sorry to have to disturb you on a Sunday, but I wondered if I
might drive up to Oxford tomorrow to see you—could you spare me an hour of your
time, perhaps? . . . Eleven? Yes, perfect. I’ll see you then. Thank you,
Professor.”
Maisie did not want to discuss any aspect of her work
with John Gale on an unsecured telephone line. She knew operators often
eavesdropped on calls, flagging one another when a “good one” came on the line,
to which they would all plug in and listen. She was sure Maurice had a secure
line, with telephone calls to his number routed via a special government
exchange. And the lines to Scotland Yard, especially to MacFarlane’s office,
would have been subject to the same level of security. But a telephone
conversation with a professor at Oxford would not have been safe, and the last
thing they needed was the mass confusion brought about by panic. She had
already seen, in her career, the terror that can be wrought by an epidemic of
fear.
MAISIE HEARD THE front door close with a thud,
followed by Billy’s uneven footfall on the stairs.
“Afternoon, Miss.”
“Did you find Bert Shorter?”
“I found out where to find him, but he wasn’t there. I
hung around for a while, but he didn’t turn up, so I thought I would come back
here.”
Maisie looked at Billy as he took off his coat and
went to his desk, where he began going through files and his daily list. She
chewed the inside of her lip for a moment, wondering whether to broach the
subject of Doreen’s health, then decided that now was as good a time as any.
“How’s Doreen, Billy? Will she be seeing the doctor?”
Billy sighed, shaking his head. “I’ve got a
confession, Miss.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk in front of
him, and could not meet Maisie’s eyes as he spoke. “She first saw the doctor,
you know, about how she was feeling and some of the things she was doing, a
couple of months after we lost Lizzie. I saw that she was having trouble and I
thought we should do something about it.”
“Oh, Billy, and you’ve been struggling all this time?”
“Well, it wasn’t too bad when we got away to Kent, but
as I’ve told you, as soon as we got back here, it all came rushing back again.
And I blame myself, I do.”
“What do you mean?” Maisie pulled a chair across the
floor so that she could sit in front of Billy’s desk.
“Well, look at what she’s had to put up with. First
there’s me hardly sleeping for years, getting up at night to go for a walk
because if I closed my eyes I didn’t like what I saw. Then because I was
hurting—and you remember this—I took some of that white stuff to help me. I
don’t know what I was thinking, really I don’t.”
“You can’t blame yourself. There are so many men, so
many families struggling as you have.”
“But then Lizzie died, and it tipped her—as I’ve told
you already. So I broke into the Canada money to take her to the doctor, and
now . . . ” He pressed his lips together, as if he might himself break down.
“Now what? What’s happened now?”
“I didn’t want to say anything, because I didn’t want
to worry you.”
“Billy—”
“They came for her early this morning, with the
ambulance.” He supported his head in his hands, and his voice cracked as he
continued. “Things got bad last night. I thought I’d make a cup of hot milk for
Doreen, to help her sleep.” Billy breathed as if he had been running, and held
his chest. “I had the saucepan on the stove, the milk was coming to the boil,
so I turned around to ask
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