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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Maisie Dobbs
- Sprache: Englisch
When Catherine Saxon, an American correspondent reporting on the war in Europe, is found murdered in her London digs, news of her death is concealed by British authorities. Serving as a linchpin between Scotland Yard and the Secret Service, Robert MacFarlane pays a visit to Maisie Dobbs, seeking her help. Accompanied by an agent from the US Department of Justice-Mark Scott, the American who helped Maisie escape Hitler's Munich in 1938-he asks Maisie to work with Scott to uncover the truth about Saxon's death. As the Germans unleash the full terror of their blitzkrieg upon the citizens of London, raining death and destruction from the skies, Maisie must balance the demands of solving this dangerous case with her need to protect the young evacuee she has grown to love. Entangled in an investigation linked to the power of wartime propaganda and American political intrigue being played out in Britain, Maisie will face losing her dearest friend-and the possibility that she might be falling in love again.
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Seitenzahl: 546
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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THE AMERICAN AGENT
A Maisie Dobbs Novel
JACQUELINE WINSPEAR
In Memory of Don
One of ‘The Few’, the young men of the Royal Air Force who fought the Luftwaffe in the skies above England during the Battle of Britain. He was killed in June 1940, age twenty-two
CONTENTS
The radio will be for the twentieth century what the press was for the nineteenth century. With the appropriate change, one can apply Napoleon’s phrase to our age, speaking of the radio as the eighth great power. The radio is the most influential and important intermediary between a spiritual movement and the nation, between the idea and the people.
FROM A SPEECH BY JOSEPH GOEBBELS GIVEN ON 18TH AUGUST 1933, AT THE TENTH ANNUAL RADIO EXPOSITION
AGENT.Noun: a person who works secretly to obtain information for a government or other official body. A person or thing that takes an active role or produces a specified effect.
DEFINITION FROM THE OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY
PROLOGUE
I am going to talk to you three times a week from a country that is fighting for its life. Inevitably I’m going to get called by that terrifying word ‘propagandist’. But of course I’m a propagandist. Passionately I want my ideas – our ideas – of freedom and justice to survive.
VERNON BARTLETT, 28TH MAY 1940, DURING THE INAUGURAL BROADCAST OF THE BRITISH BROADCASTING CORPORATION’S NORTH AMERICAN SERVICE
The RAF’s brilliantly successful week raised the public’s spirits enormously. It was hoped that the number of German planes destroyed by the British fighters would be duly noted by a section of the American press which appears to people here to act as though mesmerised by the achievements of the Luftwaffe. Many astonished Britons, taking time off from the war to read how American editors think it’s going, have felt like protesting, like Mark Twain, that reports of their death have been greatly exaggerated.
THE NEW YORKER’S LETTER FROM LONDON BY MOLLIE PANTER-DOWNES, 12TH AUGUST 1940
Each time I entered a new shelter people wanted to know if I’d seen any bombs and was it safe to go home. At one shelter there was a fine row going on. A man wanted to smoke his pipe in the shelter; the warden wouldn’t allow it. The pipe smoker said he’d go out and smoke it in the street, where he’d undoubtedly be hit by a bomb and then the warden would be sorry. At places where peat is available, it’s being consumed in great quantities at night. I have seen a few pale faces, but very few. How long these people will stand up to this sort of thing I don’t know, but tonight they’re magnificent. I’ve seen them, talked with them, and I know.
LONDON CALLING BROADCAST BY EDWARD R. MURROW TO AMERICA, 26TH AUGUST 1940
In September 1939, the talk was of the Navy, the ring of steel that was to starve the Germans. Today the Royal Air Force has captured the respect and admiration which has traditionally been given to the Royal Navy. On the day war was declared any man who predicted that after a year of war, including only ten weeks of battle, Britain would be without effective allies and faced with the prospect of invasion would have been considered mad. Invasion is now one of the favourite topics of conversation. These Londoners know what they’re fighting for now – not Poland or Norway – not even for France, but for Britain.
LONDON CALLING BROADCAST BY EDWARD R. MURROW TO AMERICA, 3RD SEPTEMBER 1940
BLITZ BOMBING OF LONDON GOES ON ALL NIGHT
Two buses hit: hospital ringed by explosions
EAST END AGAIN: MORE FIRES
Goering restarted his great Blitzkrieg on London last night promptly at blackout time – one minute to eight. Half an hour before that time he made a gloating, boasting broadcast to the German people. ‘A terrific attack is going on against London,’ he said. ‘Adolf Hitler has entrusted me with the task of attacking the heart of the British Empire.’
THE DAILY EXPRESS LONDON, MONDAY 8TH SEPTEMBER 1940
London still stood this morning, which was the greatest surprise to me as I cycled home in the light of early dawn after the most frightening night I have ever spent. But not all of London was still there, and some of the things I saw this morning would scare the wits out of anyone.
HELEN KIRKPATRICK, REPORTING FOR THE CHICAGO DAILY NEWS, 9TH SEPTEMBER 1940
CHAPTER ONE
REPORTING LONDON, BROADCAST BY CATHERINE SAXON, LONDON, 10TH SEPTEMBER 1940
Tonight I joined the women of the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service as they rushed to the aid of civilians caught in the relentless bombing of this brave city. Herr Hitler’s bombers have been swarming in for the past three nights, raining down terror on the men, women and children of London as if to pay the country back for the success of Britain’s Royal Air Force as they fought the Luftwaffe over England’s south-eastern counties throughout the summer. Resilience and endurance have been the order of the day and night for the citizens of this country – an experience we Americans should be grateful we have not yet encountered on our soil. Pray to God we shall never see the shadows of those killing machines in the skies above Main Street.
I was aboard an ambulance with two women – both Mrs P and Miss D served their country in the last war: Mrs P with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, and Miss D as a nurse at a casualty clearing station close to the front line. I later discovered Miss D is, in fact, a titled member of England’s aristocracy, a sign that everyone’s pulling together on Britain’s home front. As Miss D drove through the streets at speed, her way lit only by fires either side of a thoroughfare strewn with scorched and burning rubble, the flames threatened to take us with them. When we reached our destination, a street I cannot name and would not know again, Miss D braked hard, and before the ambulance came to a stop, Mrs P had leapt out and was gathering the kit needed to aid bombed-out families. The men of the fire service were hard at work, directing wide arcs of water into houses destroyed by the bombing. Flames rose up as if to spike the heavens, the remaining walls like broken teeth leading into the mouth of hell. Beyond I could see searchlights as they crossed each other scouring the skies for bombers – and many of those searchlights were ‘manned’ by women. The constant ack-ack-ack of anti-aircraft guns added to the ear-splitting sounds of a night with London under attack. Within minutes an injured boy and a girl were made stable and placed in the ambulance. I’d watched their grandmother pulling at fallen masonry even as it scorched her hands. ‘My girls, my girls,’ she cried, as she tried to move bricks and mortar away from the untimely grave that had claimed her two beloved daughters. Miss D gently put her arms around the wailing grandmother and led her towards the ambulance, where she bandaged her hands and reminded her that two small, terrified children were counting on her strength. Minutes later, firemen carried away the bodies of the deceased, the grandmother’s ‘girls’ – the mother and aunt of the two children. This report cannot include a description of the remains of those two women.
The Civil War is still remembered by the elders in our American hometowns. Those men and women were children during a terrible time in our country’s history, and some saw what trauma cannon fire and machine guns will inflict upon the human form. The volunteers who fought with our Lincoln Brigade witnessed Hitler’s Blitzkrieg in Spain – they too know the terror of a bombing raid. We who have seen war know the children in that ambulance will never forget this night – it will be branded into their young minds forever. And it will be branded into the memory of those two women of the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service, and into the heart of this reporter. The children’s father is at war. If he comes home, it will be to what’s left of his family – as will many men who believed they were fighting for the safety of their loved ones.
This is Catherine Saxon, courtesy of the British Broadcasting Corporation in London, England, on the night of September tenth, 1940. God bless you all, and may peace be yours.
‘Well, Miss D – what do you think of that?’ Priscilla Partridge leant towards the wireless set and switched it off, then reached for her packet of cigarettes and lighter. ‘I thought she was quite good. That broadcast went out live last night – New York is five hours behind, so I daresay they heard it at dinner time over there – carefully planned to tear at the hearts of happy families as they sit around the table.’
‘I wish she’d held back on that bit about the aristocracy. It was rather much, and I’d like to tell her, “See these streets? I know my way around Lambeth because I was born here!”’
‘She would probably have missed the irony, Maisie,’ said Priscilla, drawing on her cigarette. She blew a smoke ring into the air. ‘Americans don’t quite understand the many distinctions between one person’s station and another here in Britain, as I am sure we don’t understand theirs – though they know rich and poor. We’re a mystery to each other, if truth be told.’
‘Anyway, I’m just glad she didn’t give out our full names. She must have whipped over to Portland Place and recorded that report immediately she left us last night. Apparently she had been pursuing an opportunity to broadcast for a while. In fact, she told me it was an uphill battle because reporting is a boys’ game.’ Maisie stifled a yawn. ‘Oh dear, I’m worn out, Pris. It was a long night and I’m going home to bed for a couple of hours before I start my day.’ Maisie Dobbs pushed down on the arms of the chair, stood up and leant towards her friend, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘What Miss Saxon didn’t say was that we all need a bath.’
‘I thought she was a good sport,’ said Priscilla.
‘She was,’ said Maisie. ‘She didn’t get in the way and helped when she could. I would imagine she has to walk a narrow line between telling Americans what she’s observed, and not scaring them so much they don’t listen.’
‘You’re right – you wouldn’t hear her describing the poor baker who went out to find out why his drain was blocked, only to find a decomposing foot in it.’ Priscilla paused. ‘It’s only eight in the morning and already I would like a drink.’
‘Do me a favour, Pris – settle for another cup of tea. And some toast. I’m going home now.’
‘All right, Maisie. We’re both fit to drop – it’s just as well you only live up the road.’ She paused. ‘I wonder about those children – the ones we picked up on that run with the Saxon woman.’
‘The girl will pull through, but I wouldn’t put money on the boy’s chances,’ said Maisie. ‘Miss Saxon rather understated their wounds.’
‘Douglas says that truth is always a victim of war.’
‘“No kidding,” as our new friend from the Colonies might say. I’ll see you later, Pris,’ said Maisie. ‘We’re on duty at five.’
Maisie had just begun to draw back the blackout curtains at her Holland Park flat when the telephone in the sitting room began to ring.
‘Blast!’ She had a mind to ignore the call, but thought better of it – she had not been able to return to her property in Kent for several days, and as much as she would like nothing more than to sink into a bath filled with hot water, the call might be about Anna – and there were many things to concern her about Anna.
‘Good morning,’ said Maisie.
‘Busy night?’ The voice was unmistakable.
‘Robbie MacFarlane, you should know better than to ask, and in that tone – it was a terrible night, and it’s not a bloody joke you know.’ Maisie knew her reply was uncharacteristically short, but at that moment she was too tired to deal with Robert MacFarlane.
‘My apologies. Yes, you’re right. I heard you were out on more than a few runs to the hospitals last night. I’m sorry.’
Maisie chewed her lip. It wasn’t like MacFarlane to request forgiveness. She knew him only too well, and if he was rude, it was generally by design, not an error.
‘Why are you calling me, Robbie? You’ve let me know you’re keeping tabs on me, but I am bone-tired and I want to rest my weary head before I try to get some work done today, and then take my ambulance out again.’
‘It’s about an American. One of those press people over here on a quest to keep our good friends on the other side of the Atlantic informed about the war. Name of Catherine Saxon. In fact, Miss Catherine Angelica Saxon, to give the woman her full moniker.’
‘Angelica?’
‘No accounting for the Yanks, Maisie.’
Maisie rubbed her neck, following the path of an old scar now barely visible, and shivered. ‘No, it’s just that … well, she was with us in the ambulance last night, just for a couple of runs because she had to make her first broadcast – she told us that she had previously only had her reports printed in the newspapers. I can’t remember which papers she’s working for. More than one. Anyway, I was just listening to her on the wireless at Mrs Partridge’s house – her report was broadcast for the Americans last night. In fact, she told us she was very excited because it was also going out in London this morning, and she hoped she would get to be as popular as Mr Murrow, who is as well known here as he is over there in America. I’ve heard him a few times myself. Anyway, it’s just that she didn’t strike me as an Angelica, that’s all, even if it’s only a middle name.’ Maisie was aware that she was rambling, staving off whatever news MacFarlane had called to convey. She’d wanted to escape war and death if only for the time it took to wallow in a hot bath.
‘Well, hold on to your seat, Maisie, because she’s with the angels now.’
‘Robbie? What’s happened? Was the poor girl caught in the bombing on her way home? Or were her lodgings hit?’ Maisie felt a chill envelop her. She knew the gist of MacFarlane’s response even before he spoke.
‘No, lass. She’s been found dead in her rooms at a house on Welbeck Street this morning. And we can’t lay this one at Hitler’s feet – she was murdered. Twenty-eight years of age and someone saw fit to slit her throat.’
Maisie felt her own throat constrict, her voice cracking as she spoke. ‘And why are you involved, Robbie?’ Robert MacFarlane worked in the opaque realm between Scotland Yard and the Secret Service. ‘Why not someone like Caldwell – murder is his job.’
‘Maisie, I know you can hear me, even if you’ve almost lost your voice. Get yourself some sleep, then go to your office. I’ll see you there at two this afternoon and we’ll discuss the matter. There will be plenty of time for you to find your way to the ambulance station before tonight’s blitzes start. And they will come back again, those bastards. They won’t leave us alone until we’ve beaten them. See you this afternoon.’ Maisie stood for a moment, holding the receiver, the long tone of the disconnected call echoing into the room – MacFarlane was known to dispense with a formal ‘goodbye’.
She slumped into an armchair and thought about the young woman who had joined them in the ambulance when they’d reported for duty at five o’clock the previous evening. Saxon was almost the same height as Maisie, with shoulder-length, sun-kissed hair – she looked as if she’d spent the summer sailing. At one point she’d twisted it back and pinned it in place with a pencil. Maisie could see her now, laughing. ‘Gotta use the tools at hand,’ she’d said. She’d worn a pair of dark khaki trousers, with a fawn blouse tucked into the waistband – both seemed freshly laundered. And she had brought a brown tweed jacket, though she soon took it off. Her worn but polished lace-up boots were a choice Priscilla had seen fit to comment upon. ‘No one could accuse her of overdressing, could they? That girl could be a mannequin with those looks, yet look at her – she’s almost ready for the trenches!’
Maisie remembered the scuffs of ash and dirt across the blouse as Saxon clambered over hot bricks to talk to a fireman, and later she explained to Maisie and Priscilla, ‘My mother always says that no matter what happens, one should always make a good first impression – hence the pressed blouse, which is now fit for the rubbish! I never told her how I’d let everything go when I was in Spain – there wasn’t time to look as if I’d just returned from a shopping expedition to Bonwit Teller!’ And Maisie had told her that she too had been in Spain, but they’d let the words hang in the air, as if neither wanted to recall or discuss – and there was no time anyway, because now Saxon was reporting on Hitler’s blitzkriegs in another country, and Maisie was drawing upon skills she’d honed in two wars. Saxon had only mentioned that, while her mother seemed to admire her choice of occupation, her father did not approve. ‘In fact, he doesn’t want me to be occupied at all – he’d rather I just sort of languish until a good man finds me. My mother, though, is secretly proud, I think – and sometimes not so secretly, to my father’s chagrin.’ Maisie had shaken hands with Catherine Saxon – Catherine Angelica Saxon – only nine or ten hours ago, bidding her farewell and expressing hope that her first broadcast went well. She’d added that she also hoped her parents were indeed proud of their intrepid daughter. And now she was dead.
‘Miss, you look all in,’ said Billy Beale, Maisie’s assistant. ‘Terrible night, wasn’t it? What time did you get home this morning?’
‘Just after seven, but then I stayed and had a cup of tea with Mrs Partridge. I suppose I climbed into bed at about half past eight.’ Maisie rubbed her forehead. ‘And now it’s past noon. How about you, Billy? You must have been out there on patrol too.’
‘Wish I could go back to the “bore war”, when all I had to think about as an Air Raid Precautions man was knocking on doors and telling people to make sure their curtains were closed properly during the blackout. Anyway, I’m going to make a cuppa.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Maisie reached into her desk and pulled out a small brown bag, twisted at the top and secured with a clothes peg. ‘I think I would like a very strong coffee, Billy. Just put a couple of heaped teaspoons into that other pot I brought into the office last week, add two cups of water and strain it like tea after it’s brewed for a few minutes.’
‘That sounds a bit too strong, miss. That bad, is it?’
‘MacFarlane will be here later on, so I need to be awake.’
Billy took the bag of coffee. ‘What does he want?’
‘It’s about a young woman who came out in the ambulance with us last night. An American correspondent – a reporter. Apparently, she had been given a stab at doing a broadcast by that man – oh dear, I’m so tired, I’ve forgotten his name again. You know – the American.’
‘Mr Murrow?’
‘Yes, that’s it. Anyway, she had been writing for various newspapers in America – some quite important ones, by all accounts – and had been invited to see Mr Murrow. She said something about becoming one of “Murrow’s Boys” – the American reporters based here in London.’
‘She’s not a fella though, is she?’
‘Apparently there was already one woman working for him, and I’ve remembered her name – Mary Marvin Breckinridge. She was married in June, so she’s not working for the broadcaster any more, which led Catherine Saxon to hope that if she made a good account of herself, she would be in the game, reporting from a woman’s point of view. That’s what she said. “In the game”.’
‘So, what’s happened?’ asked Billy as he opened the bag and lifted it to his nose.
‘She’s dead, Billy. Murdered. And MacFarlane wants to see me about it.’
‘Sounds like she got into the wrong game.’ Billy closed the bag. ‘Mind if I have a cup too, miss?’
‘Not at all – I think we’re going to need all the energy we can get.’
‘Why do you think MacFarlane wants to talk to you about it? Sounds more like Caldwell’s alley to me.’
‘My thoughts exactly, Billy. My thoughts exactly. Now then, let’s get that coffee down us and have a look at the cases in progress.’
At exactly two o’clock, the doorbell rang.
‘That’ll be him, Billy.’
‘I’ll go down. Do you want me to make a pot of tea?’
‘No – if he has tea, he’ll be here longer than he needs to be and half of it chatting. Let’s see what he wants first. Probably a statement from me.’
Billy stopped by the door. ‘Miss – don’t kid yourself. He’d have called you down to his gaff and had a clerk take a statement. Nah – be prepared. He wants you working for him again.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve told you before – he’s sweet on you.’
‘I wish you’d stop nibbling on that bone, Billy.’
‘Your Ladyship. Looking in fine fettle, all things considered – though a little powder under the eyes might not have gone amiss.’
‘Robbie, Billy is quite capable of throwing you out of my office, you know.’
‘Aw, just pulling your leg, Maisie. Just pulling your leg. In dark times, a bit of light never hurt anyone. English rose you are – an English rose.’
‘All right, stop there,’ said Maisie. ‘Let’s sit down and you can tell me what’s going on and why you want to talk to me about something the Murder Squad should be investigating.’
‘In your office, Maisie. With doors closed.’ Robert MacFarlane turned to Billy. ‘Ah, the faithful Mr Beale. Couldn’t rustle up a cuppa, could you? No sugar – easier to give up than cut down, if you ask me.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
As Billy left the room, MacFarlane followed Maisie into her private domain. She closed the doors leading from the outer office.
‘Shall we get down to brass tacks?’ said Maisie, taking a seat at the long table where she would usually sit with Billy to discuss a case. She pulled out a chair for MacFarlane.
MacFarlane unbuttoned his jacket, and sat down.
‘The American woman was murdered, Maisie, and I want you to play a part in the investigation.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because you’re qualified.’ He held up his hand, as if to prevent Maisie interjecting, but sat back when Billy knocked on the door, entered the office and placed cups of tea in front of his employer and MacFarlane.
Maisie nodded her thanks, then turned to the Scot as Billy left the room.
‘How am I qualified for this case in particular? You’re going to have to work hard to persuade me, Robbie.’
MacFarlane drank the entire cup of hot tea in several gulps, placed the cup on the saucer, pushed it away from him on the table and brought his attention to Maisie.
‘You’ll scorch your gullet if you keep doing that.’
MacFarlane waved away the comment. ‘It’s like this. We have a delicate situation – American correspondents in Britain, citizens of another country telling their fellow countrymen about our war over here. They’re walking a fine line, taking what we’re going through with Hitler and his bloody blitzkrieg, and putting it into the homes of their fellow Americans.’ He lifted his tie and rubbed at an invisible stain. ‘You could say that Murrow and his ilk are probably the best propaganda tool we have to get the Yanks on our side.’
‘But they are on our side,’ said Maisie.
‘You’re being deliberately obtuse. You know very well what I’m talking about. Yes, they are on our side – but they don’t want to be in any wars over here or anywhere else in the world. It’s not that we want to twist anyone’s arm, but a little support from the citizenry for the help the American president wants to give us would be handy. Money, materiel, that sort of thing. A bit of sugar.’ He sighed. ‘Their reporters are doing a good job, and so are ours. Anyway, back to the delicate situation. Catherine Saxon was murdered. She had been reporting here for a press concern in the USA, and she was about to be a lot better known than she was – Murrow had her pegged to do more broadcasts to appeal to women, and as you know, she was pretty good at that. Didn’t gloss over anything, but as you no doubt heard, she went to the heart with that broadcast last night.’
‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ said Maisie. ‘Why me, and why the secrecy?’
‘We’re keeping the lid on the story inasmuch as there will be a limited announcement in the press, and though her death will be reported in the USA it will be very low down in the papers. Here are the problems. Her father is a politician. A senator. Last thing he wanted was a daughter running towards trouble – and that’s what Miss Saxon did. France, Spain, Berlin. You name it, she’s been there. Now London. The good senator is what they are calling an “isolationist” – he’s built a following by pointing out that one hundred and twenty-five thousand doughboys were lost in the last war, and saying enough is enough, and that Americans want to stay out of foreign wars. The second thing is the way we have to play this one. The American embassy is involved, so is their Department of Justice. They want someone on the investigation from their team, and we don’t think Caldwell or anyone at the Yard can quite do what is really a job requiring the skills of a detective and an ambassador.’
‘Of course they can, Robbie – they know what they’re doing,’ said Maisie.
‘They do, but we – and the Yanks – want to know there’s absolute confidentiality, and we want someone who can work with their investigator.’
‘What makes you think I can work with one of their investigators?’
‘You’ve worked with him before.’ MacFarlane stared at Maisie. ‘In fact, you almost killed him.’
Maisie was silent. She met MacFarlane’s gaze.
‘Well, that did the trick,’ said MacFarlane. ‘Never thought I’d be the one to strike you dumb.’
‘There are other investigators you could call upon,’ said Maisie.
‘But he doesn’t want to work with the others. He wants to work with you. He’s a lot more important now than he was in Munich, and he’s here, in London. And it’s not a flying visit.’ MacFarlane looked at his watch. ‘In fact, any minute now—’ He was interrupted by an insistent ringing of the doorbell. ‘As I was about to say, any minute now he’ll be here in your office.’
Maisie was silent. She heard Billy leave the office, followed by voices in the entrance hall and on the stairs, and then a knock on the door of her private office.
‘Robbie,’ she whispered. ‘It’s Anna’s adoption panel in a week’s time – I can’t put a foot wrong. I cannot get into any trouble, and I cannot be mentioned in the press.’ She felt tears rise.
‘Don’t worry,’ said MacFarlane. ‘I know. I won’t put you in any situation that would risk little Anna’s future.’
Maisie nodded, then called out, ‘Yes, Billy?’
The door opened, and Billy entered, followed by a tall man of about forty-five years of age. At over six feet in height, with dark hair and pale blue eyes, he wore a charcoal grey suit, a white shirt, and a tie with diagonal stripes of black and grey. His black shoes were polished, and he carried a grey fedora with a black band, along with a well-worn nutmeg brown briefcase.
‘Thank you, Billy,’ said MacFarlane. He turned to Maisie. ‘I believe you know Mr Scott.’
Mark Scott smiled as he held out his hand to Maisie. ‘I hope you’re not going to hold a gun to my jugular this time, Maisie.’
She took his hand. ‘Hello, Mark. Lovely to see you again.’ Feeling the colour rise in her cheeks, she turned away and took up the file that MacFarlane pushed towards her. She drew a hand across her forehead. ‘Well then, we’d better get on with business. Gentlemen, please sit down.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘Tell me who found her – and the circumstances,’ said Maisie. She tapped a pencil against her left palm, glancing at Mark Scott before bringing her attention back to MacFarlane.
‘According to her landlady, Mrs Doris Marsh – who lived in the ground-floor flat – she heard Miss Saxon come in at about half past one-ish this morning, which seems about right, considering her broadcast and the time it would have taken to walk home. It’s not that far from Broadcasting House to Welbeck Street. Marsh heard a noise and ignored it – apparently Saxon sometimes pushed a note under the door, asking Marsh to wake her if she hadn’t heard her stirring by a certain time. She was, according to Mrs Marsh, always a little worried about sleeping through the ring of an alarm clock.’
‘Do you know if that concern was warranted?’ asked Maisie. ‘Did she often sleep through her alarm?’
‘Interesting question, Maisie,’ said Scott.
She turned to the American. ‘She’s reported on war, Mr Scott. If you’re used to being so close to battle, you don’t sleep – you catnap. And there were bombs falling last night, yet she went home – not to a shelter – and her landlady was there too.’
‘Yes, I know about war, Maisie – remember, I was also in France last time around,’ said Scott. ‘Anyway, she might have felt safe enough – after all, she wasn’t exactly close to the river, was she?’
‘Neither were some of the bombs, though the Luftwaffe were definitely after the docks,’ replied Maisie. She looked at MacFarlane. ‘I was just wondering about the note, and her fear of oversleeping.’
‘And the answer is we don’t know – but I’m sure it’s because you ask these questions that our American friend requested your presence on the investigation.’ MacFarlane winked at Scott.
‘Do that again, and I’ll have Billy see you both out,’ said Maisie. As soon as she’d spoken, she regretted her tone – it was brusque and smacked of arrogance. She could have ignored the conspiratorial joke between the two men. Lack of sleep and concern regarding the child she wanted so very much to adopt had taken their toll upon her. And now a young woman she had admired was dead.
‘Nothing meant, lass. I’m sorry,’ said MacFarlane. He cleared his throat and continued. ‘You’ll doubtless be speaking to Mrs Marsh, Maisie, and I am sure she will tell you more than she might have been willing to reveal to a man.’
Maisie nodded. ‘Thank you, Robbie – and I’m sorry. Please continue.’
‘Marsh heard the creaking of floorboards as Miss Saxon entered her rooms. She heard the tap running, then Saxon left the room, walked along the corridor, used the WC and returned to her rooms.’ MacFarlane looked from Maisie to Mark Scott. ‘I should add that sound can carry in some of these older houses. And to give you the lay of the land, the door from the upstairs passageway to Miss Saxon’s rooms led into what she used as a sort of sitting-room-cum-study – there’s a settee, an armchair, desk, bookshelves. Looks more like the lair of a university don than a reporter. She had a small typewriter, of the portable type you can carry in a case. Another door led through to the bedroom, and there’s a sink in there – all-purpose, as she also used it to wash up her crockery. There was a small stove in the sitting room – gas, with a couple of rings and a tiny oven. You wouldn’t get the Christmas turkey in there.’
‘Thanksgiving,’ said Scott. He looked up from his notebook. ‘She’s an American – more likely to have turkey at Thanksgiving. Guess you don’t have Thanksgiving here.’
‘No, that’s just for the Colonies,’ said MacFarlane. ‘Our Thanksgiving is on July the fourth.’
‘Aw, Mac – you think I’ve not heard that one before?’ said Scott, landing a playful punch on MacFarlane’s arm.
‘Aye, you take it well, laddie,’ said MacFarlane, though his smile evaporated as he continued. ‘The landlady said she heard Miss Saxon’s footsteps again, crossing the floor into the bedroom. Then Mrs Marsh went back to sleep herself. She rose at quarter to six, and though Miss Saxon liked to be up and about by six – in the past few days she’d been rushing out early to take photographs of the night’s bombing, and talk to people on the streets – Marsh thought she’d give her another ten or fifteen minutes because she knew the lass was very tired, given the hours she’d been keeping since the bombings began. She went up just before quarter past six, knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again three or four times before trying the master key and realising the door wasn’t locked anyway. There was a kettle on the stove almost boiled dry, and Miss Saxon was lying on the floor – dressed in the clothing she’d worn the night before and decidedly deceased.’
‘Therefore time of death might have been within only an hour before she was found,’ said Maisie.
‘Depends upon how much water there was in that kettle,’ said MacFarlane. ‘As I said, it was boiled dry and burnt – could have been put on the gas a couple of hours prior to Marsh going up there.’
‘So, the police were called and very quickly – very quickly indeed – you were involved and Mr Scott was informed, plus you had time to telephone me at roughly half past eight.’
‘That’s correct, Maisie,’ said MacFarlane. ‘The nature of Miss Saxon’s work, and her status as a foreign national indicated that I might be interested.’
Maisie nodded. ‘I see – so Caldwell was at the scene after all. He’s the only person I could imagine who would know it was important to alert you.’
‘Correct again. And he has enough to be getting on with; he doesn’t need complications of this sort. I was duty-bound to contact the embassy, and Mr Scott – who was already at work – assumed responsibility for the “problem” and various diplomatic steps were taken from there.’
‘Nevertheless, that was all very fast,’ said Maisie, looking at Scott.
‘Like Mac said – I was already here, on an assignment in London.’
Maisie nodded, then consulted her notes. ‘Do you have information on Miss Saxon’s friends, associates, and so on?’
MacFarlane tapped the folder he’d passed to Maisie. ‘What we know so far is in there – it’s your starting point. Now then – anything else, before I leave you good people to demonstrate the very best in Anglo-American collaboration?’
‘Yes, there is,’ said Maisie. ‘What about her father? And mother?’
‘What do you want to know?’ said Scott. ‘They’re about three thousand miles away. Her father’s in DC – Georgetown – and her mother is currently in Boston.’
‘Be that as it may, Mr Scott, but I understand people are still coming here from the United States, so I wondered if they had been informed and were on their way.’ She shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I’m interested – very much so, because Miss Saxon indicated that her father was not terribly happy with her choice of profession.’
Scott leant back, balancing the chair on two legs, then came forward so there was an audible scrape as the wooden legs landed. He sighed. ‘Here’s how it is – Senator Clarence Saxon is not exactly a fan of Britain. He is averse to any suggestion that might have been put on the table by the president, to the effect that the United States might come to the aid of the old country. President Roosevelt leans towards some sort of financial assistance over and above that which has already been promised. Saxon is what you might call an “isolationist”. He does not want any entanglements with the Nazis, and if that means leaving Britain to fight the good fight alone until the invasion – so be it. He is on the side of doing business with Herr Hitler if it comes to that. Regarding his family, he has two sons – a few years older than Catherine – who are up and coming, and will most likely follow him into politics. One’s a government employee in Washington, DC, and the other is in banking, in New York. There’s some hefty money in that family. Catherine was expected to toe the line, flutter her debutante eyelids and marry well after graduating Vassar, one of the Seven Sisters, so—’
‘One of the what?’ interrupted Maisie.
‘I was wondering myself,’ said MacFarlane.
‘Women’s colleges – top notch, as you might say. For the young ladies of the very well-off. And they’re not for the academically unfit either – you need a brain to get in and to get on.’
‘I would have assumed so – Catherine struck me as a very bright young woman,’ said Maisie. ‘Anyway – please go on.’
‘Where was I?’ said Scott, leaning back in his chair again. ‘I was about to say that after she graduated Vassar, the senator wanted his daughter to enter into what you might call a dynastic marriage. But much to old Clarence’s dismay, our very smart little Miss Muffet ditched the fiancé, scion of a powerful family of industrialists – and hoofed it off to Paris. Five years ago. And that was the very visible start of Catherine Saxon doing exactly what she wanted. Next thing you know our debutante is doing a bang-up job of reporting the news from Paris, then Spain. She saw what was happening there, so she went all out on Hitler and the Nazis. And then it was off to Berlin, then back to France. She got out of there just in time, soon after the invasion. And I think you might know the rest.’
‘So to go back to my earlier question – have her parents received word of her death?’ asked Maisie.
‘Yes, they were informed by the president this morning,’ replied Scott.
‘Pretty high up bearer of bad news, don’t you think?’ said Maisie, continuing without waiting for a response. ‘Will they come here?’
‘And risk the senator getting slaughtered by a U-boat or the Luftwaffe? I doubt it. We understand that Clarence Saxon Junior – eldest son – might try to fly from New York via Canada to Lisbon, and into Croydon from there. The embassy might not advise it, given what’s been going on in the air over Britain. And the senator says it’s not necessary – already there’s talk of a quiet cremation here in London, followed by a private memorial service in DC at a later date – when the dust has settled on her murder.’
Maisie nodded. ‘I see.’
Scott shrugged. ‘The motivations of a grieving family aren’t my business, but finding the man who murdered an American citizen is. So, Maisie – when do we start? Ready to go tomorrow morning? It’ll give you a chance to read through the files.’
She looked at her watch and turned her attention to MacFarlane. ‘I have to be at the ambulance station no later than half past four today, which means I’ve got about an hour and a half – may I see Catherine’s body?’
‘Catherine?’ interjected Scott. ‘You two became “pally” – see, I’m picking up the language – kinda fast.’
‘Not really, Mr Scott – but I thought she was brave, and I thought she conducted herself with a certain grace, considering the job she had to do, and in the midst of what we encountered last night.’ She paused. ‘If I call her “Catherine” I’ll be reminded that she was a living, breathing, feeling human being, and not simply the headstrong daughter of an important man on the other side of the Atlantic who even as we speak might change his mind and choose to make political hay from her death, when really it sounds as if she disappointed him by following her own path and not his. And there’s another reason – and the most important, to me – I thought she had heart, that she was compassionate, and those qualities were demonstrated in her broadcast. That’s why I want to stand at her side and show my respect.’
After dropping MacFarlane at his Whitehall office, his driver took Maisie and Mark Scott to the mortuary where Catherine Saxon’s body was being held until released by the pathologist. As soon as the vehicle moved off into traffic, Scott turned to Maisie.
‘I’m going to tell you right now, that the reason I asked for you on this case is because I am not an expert when it comes to murder. I know how to conduct an investigation, but I’d be the first to admit that murder isn’t exactly what I excel at.’
‘I thought so,’ said Maisie. She glanced out of the window, then back at Scott. ‘But thank you for putting my name forward, though the timing’s a bit awkward.’
They were silent for a few moments as the driver manoeuvred past a series of bombed buildings surrounded by barbed wire.
‘So, what’s all this I hear from Mac about you and a kid?’
Maisie sighed, rubbing the top of one hand with the palm of the other. ‘It’s all very delicate at the moment. An evacuee – Anna – was billeted at my house in Kent, and it transpired that she was not officially at the school being sent to the village, but instead she was put onto the evacuee train by her ailing grandmother – her only relative. Anna wasn’t even five years of age at the time. After a good deal of searching, we found the grandmother gravely ill in hospital. In order to have some control over Anna’s future – I didn’t want her to end up in an orphanage – the grandmother signed papers for me to become her guardian, although my promise was to find her a family home.’
‘Sounds more like you were trying to place an unwanted puppy!’
Maisie gave a half-laugh. ‘Mark, any other time I might be offended by that comment, but I confess, I sometimes think dogs are treated better than children. Perhaps not any more though, because so many animals were put down when people were told to expect the invasion and bombings. Anyway, one thing led to another, and I decided to adopt her. We have a hearing soon with a panel of officials. There will be someone from the Ministry of Health and others from the local council, plus a magistrate. It’ll be held here in London.’
‘Jeez, all that officialdom. How good are your chances? Pretty good, I would have thought – you’ve got connections, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘I have some good references, yes. But I must be careful not to do anything that might draw attention to my work.’
‘And will you still work, if you officially become her mother?’
‘I’ll work, but just do things differently – spend more time in Kent, which I have been doing anyway. The plan was for my father and stepmother to stay at my house from Monday morning until Thursday evening each week, though since the summer they’ve been there all the time. Believe it or not, that timetable was not due to my work, but the roster for my volunteer position with the Auxiliary Ambulance Service. Strangely, the adoption authorities like the volunteer aspect, despite the fact that it’s the most dangerous thing I do. After all, everyone in Britain has been instructed to do their bit.’
The motor car slowed.
‘Looks like we’re here,’ said Scott.
The driver pulled over to the kerb. Scott stepped onto the pavement and held out a hand to Maisie. He looked at the sign indicating the mortuary.
‘You’re probably better at this than me,’ said Scott.
‘You can always wait here, or just outside the laboratory – or we can speak to the pathologist in his office.’
Scott opened the door, and they walked together towards an office with a window above which a sign instructed callers to ‘Ring Bell’. Maisie pressed the brass button on the wall where indicated. The glass window was pushed aside, and a young woman asked Maisie to state her business. Maisie asked to see the duty pathologist, who she said was expecting her.
‘Yes, of course, Miss Dobbs. I have your name here,’ said the woman, lifting a telephone receiver. ‘Dr Ferguson will be with you shortly.’
A portly man wearing a white laboratory coat pushed his way through double doors into the waiting area. He was an inch shorter than Maisie, with thinning grey hair swept away from his face in strands. Grey bags under the eyes suggested a man who had not slept well in days.
‘Miss Dobbs. I’m Dr Ferguson. MacFarlane said to give you all the help I could. I’ll be square with you – I wasn’t happy because I thought I’d have to scrape a silly woman off the floor; however, when he told me you’d been Maurice Blanche’s assistant, I changed my mind.’ He looked at Scott. ‘Not sure about him though. Green around the gills.’
‘I beg your pardon – I should have introduced you. This is my colleague, Mr Mark Scott,’ said Maisie.
‘And I’m happy to stay right here, Dr Ferguson,’ said Scott, shaking hands with the pathologist. ‘I’ve seen my fair share of dead bodies, in France, back in ’17, but I just don’t like to see them after you good doctors have been at them with a scalpel. Can we ask you a few questions first, before Miss Dobbs goes in?’
‘Ah, an American.’ Ferguson looked as if he was about to make a comment, but thought better of it. ‘Of course – please go ahead.’
‘Do you have an indication of the weapon used to take Miss Saxon’s life?’ asked Maisie.
‘Something very sharp, and very fine. Not your average carving knife, for example. A stiletto, perhaps, though only one side was sharpened. And it didn’t have a serrated edge – it was slick, and the murderer cut her throat with a right-to-left motion. It seems to have been done with speed and with a good deal of power.’
‘So the man was right in front of her,’ said Scott.
‘That would be my first thought, but it could have been done very fast by someone standing behind her – then of course he would be left-handed, given the weapon’s point of entry. If he were in front of her, I would imagine he would have killed her thus.’ Ferguson stood back, took a pencil from his pocket and held it out as if he were grasping a knife. He then made a lateral movement from right to left.
‘Interesting,’ said Maisie. ‘You’ve used your left hand – are you usually left-handed?’
‘No, though I lean towards a conclusion that whoever killed Miss Saxon did so standing in front of her and was left-handed. Take into account that it’s entirely possible I’m wrong in my supposition.’
‘Time of death?’ asked Scott.
‘Hard to say, but I would put it at between two and four in the morning, given the level of rigor mortis when I received the body into the mortuary. I was told she took precedence, and I must admit it was with a sigh of relief that I started work.’ Ferguson shook his head and looked down, pressing a hand against his forehead, and sweeping back his sparse hair. ‘They’re going to have to find other ways of dealing with the dead from these bombings. I can’t keep having unidentifiable remains brought in here to me when it’s quite clear what killed a human being – every morgue in London must be full by now. And the tragedy is, when I say “remains”, I really do mean “remains”.’
Maisie drew a deep breath. ‘Shall we go in, Dr Ferguson? I must report for duty at half past four.’
‘Report for duty?’ said Ferguson.
‘Yes – I drive an ambulance with another woman.’ She turned to Scott. ‘Perhaps you’d like to remain here in the waiting room – I shan’t be long.’
‘Happy to,’ said Scott, turning to sit down on a wooden bench.
Ferguson drew back a white sheet covering the body of Catherine Saxon, folding the fabric just above the dead woman’s breasts, as if he were about to tuck a child into bed. Maisie remembered how Maurice would demonstrate the same respect for the dead, handling a body as if the ability to feel pain and discomfort were still present. She recalled him saying once, ‘I do my job as if the soul were looking on.’
‘May I have a moment to myself?’ asked Maisie.
‘I’ll just be over there,’ replied Ferguson, pointing to a desk at waist height upon which a stack of papers was placed alongside a series of bottles and jars.
Once alone, Maisie swept a stray tendril of hair away from Saxon’s forehead and began to study every aspect of her face and head, down to the wound that had ended her life. The lightly freckled facial skin was now tinged with a pale bluish-grey sheen, and she could see that Saxon’s hair was more of a sun-streaked coppery brown, rather than blonde. She looked behind her ears, and at bruising above and below the place where her flesh had been torn apart. Lifting the sheet, she drew it back just a few inches at a time to focus her attention as she inspected the body. She stopped to study the gentle rise of her belly, and then her legs. Maisie assumed the bruising to Saxon’s calves was a result of clambering over rubble and bomb sites. She paid special attention to the ankles, and then to the spaces between each toe. And after she had reached the little toe, she drew the sheet up slowly, taking account of those places that had caught her attention, before she folded the sheet as Ferguson had done before her. She reached under the sheet and took Catherine Saxon’s hand.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for speaking the truth about what you saw, as far as you could. Thank you for being brave in all those places where you travelled to tell stories of the people. You will not be forgotten, Catherine. And I will find out who took your life. Bless you, and may you know peace.’ Maisie closed her eyes, and remained still for a moment, before resting the dead woman’s hand alongside her body, and pulling the sheet over her head. She walked across the room to Ferguson’s desk.
‘Any questions?’ asked the pathologist.
‘Yes, I do have a couple.’ She paused, considering how to couch her observations. ‘First, I wonder if the assailant might have attempted to strangle Miss Saxon before resorting to a weapon – I know you would expect to see evidence of ruptured blood vessels in line with a swipe with a knife, but just below the ears there seems to be evidence of a contusion due to greater pressure, and I wondered about that. Secondly – and this is a delicate point – it appears to me that Miss Saxon might have been delivered of a child in recent years. Perhaps two or three years ago. There were some faint stretch marks, though she might have experienced a loss of weight – perhaps whilst she was in Spain, reporting on the war. I believe she was there about the same time as me – 1937 or thereabouts. And finally, she has a very small tattoo, barely visible between the big and first toes on her left foot. I had trouble discerning the letters, but I think they form the initials “JT”. Would you have a look and tell me what you think?’
Ferguson removed his spectacles and pressed into the corners of his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. ‘Good Lord, I can’t think how I missed a tattoo – or anything else.’
‘I could be wrong, Dr Ferguson. Like you, I am not exactly on top form due to lack of sleep, and … well, you know. But if you’ve a moment—’
Ten minutes later, Maisie met Scott outside. He was leaning against the building, smoking a cigarette and talking to the driver, who returned to his seat in the motor car when he saw Maisie.
‘I discovered I don’t really like the smell in there. It oozes out of that place where they do the … well, where they do whatever they do,’ said Scott. ‘But the smell out here isn’t exactly fresh – smoke and dust in the air, and I don’t want to think what else I might be breathing in. Anyway, how’d it go?’
‘I have some more information. Catherine Saxon’s murderer likely tried to strangle her first – I noticed some other bruises I thought were suspicious, and Ferguson agreed. She also had a small tattoo, so someone with the initials JT might be of interest.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Scott.
Maisie nodded. ‘Yes. She gave birth, probably around three years ago.’
Scott whistled as he opened the door for Maisie to climb into the back of the vehicle. ‘Well, that puts an interesting slant on things.’
‘It does,’ said Maisie, leaning forward and tapping the driver on the shoulder. ‘I must get to the ambulance station now, and I’m running late. I believe Mr MacFarlane gave you the address.’
‘Right you are, miss. I’ll get you there.’
The driver sounded the vehicle’s warning bell and sped off. Traffic parted for them to pass at speed.
‘I was just thinking, while you were in there speaking to the dead,’ said Scott.
‘And what were you thinking?’ asked Maisie.
‘I was thinking that, really, this here adoption panel has only one important question to ask, and it’s the most important question you have to answer.’
‘And what’s that?’ asked Maisie.
‘Do you love this child?’
Maisie looked out of the window.
‘Well?’ asked Scott.
‘Well what?’
‘That’s the important question. Do you love her?’
Maisie held Mark Scott’s gaze. ‘I adore her, Mark. I love her as if she were my own. And I would give my life for her.’
For a moment she thought she had seen tears well in Scott’s eyes, but he turned away. ‘That’s all you need to say, Maisie. That’s all you’ll ever need.’
‘I don’t know if you realise this, but you’ve never really talked about anyone you meet during the course of your work.’ Priscilla flicked ash out of the passenger window as Maisie drove the ambulance towards the docks, where they would be ready to help any wounded from the air attack when it came – they had ceased to consider the possibility of if it came. ‘So, you’ve been tagged to work with this American.’
‘I mentioned it because you met Catherine Saxon last night.’ Maisie sighed, turned the steering wheel to the left, and drove the ambulance along a narrow street. ‘I cannot believe she’s dead.’
‘You of all people should be used to death,’ said Priscilla. ‘And we’re all pretty used to it by now. I am only shocked that someone feels inclined to murder another person, when we’re onto our fourth night facing nothing short of carnage, and we had months of the Luftwaffe bombing airfield targets and everything from market towns to small villages to get us ready for Hitler’s blitzes.’ She threw the cigarette stub out of the window. ‘Well, are you going to tell me about this Mark Scott?’
‘I’m quite sure I’ve told you everything – I met him in Munich. He’s with the American embassy – well, the Department of Justice, Bureau of Investigation. I was quite surprised to see him in London. He happened to be here, and so Catherine Saxon’s death landed on his desk, and he asked to work with me.’
‘For old times’ sake? You probably impressed him.’
‘I don’t know why,’ said Maisie. ‘He was the one who saved my life, not the other way around.’
‘So, what’s he like? Tall, handsome, matinee idol type?’
‘I couldn’t say – I wasn’t really looking at him from that perspective,’ replied Maisie, aware that Priscilla was staring at her.
‘Well, well, well. You weren’t looking at him from that perspective,’ said Priscilla. ‘Personally, I think it’s about time you looked at someone from that perspective.’
‘No, really – the most I’ve done is consider what it’s going to be like working with him. I think it’ll be all right, though he has a bit of a cheeky side to him,’ said Maisie. ‘He can be funny, but not always.’
‘Given that you owe your life to him, you should invite him to your flat – discuss the case, you know, lay down the plan of attack.’
‘I’ll stick to the office, Priscilla. He’s an American agent, and I’m not going to enter into a social milieu with him.’
‘Hmmm. A socialmilieu eh?’ Priscilla was silent for a moment, then began again. ‘Are you all prepared for your panel?’
Maisie nodded, changing gear as she slowed the ambulance. ‘You ask me that every day. I’ve gone over every possible question with Mr Klein, and Dad and Brenda have been gently talking to Anna about it – I cannot believe it’s been stipulated that she should be present in case they want to level questions in her direction.’
At that moment a siren began to wail, starting low and then winding up to an ear-splitting crescendo.
‘Here they come, the bastards,’ said Priscilla, reaching down to the floor for two tin helmets. ‘Put this on, and let’s get to the depot for instructions. We’ll be back out here soon anyway.’
Maisie allowed Priscilla to fasten her helmet’s chin strap. ‘One thing Mark Scott told me – he said the most important thing the panel could ask is if I loved Anna.’
‘Those stuffed shirts will never ask that sort of question, Maisie, though it tells you something about Mark Scott, doesn’t it?’
‘What’s that?’
‘He has a soft side.’
‘Or he wants me to think he has,’ said Maisie, looking up at the sky. ‘Priscilla—’
‘If you were going to ask about Tom – don’t. He telephoned home this afternoon. He’s on ops – probably right now, in fact. The “all-clear” can’t come soon enough. But then it never can, can it?’
