gaining confidence in her decision to close the business and depart, bound for the kind of adventure that had been the making of Maurice Blanche.
For Billy to secure a new position, he must be well. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, and upon hearing the horn from another motor car, she pulled over into a side street and stopped the MG. She wanted to think.
When Billy had gone through a breakdown of sorts some four years earlier, she had sent him down to Chelstone, to live with her father and help with the horses on the estate. The fresh air, the slow pace of life, and the down-to-earth counsel of her father had worked magic with Billy. Doreen and the children had visited, and during his sojourn amid the rolling hills of the Kent countryside, Billy had found a measure of peace and had come to know himself again. Could that magic work a second time? Could Billy and the family return to good health following a break from their new house? The children might have a bit of trouble at the local school—their rich Cockney accents would mark them as outsiders—but she was sure they could weather it and make friends in short order. But would they welcome her interfering in their lives again? She could imagine Priscilla taking her to task about it. Then again, perhaps she should ask Priscilla—some of her ideas were on the unpredictable side of fantastic, but on the other hand, when it came to families, she had a strong practical no-nonsense streak that Maisie envied. Yes, she would talk to Priscilla.
Now it was time to return to the office, to collect Sandra and visit the homes of two of the boys who had found Usha Pramal’s body. It was as she slipped the MG into gear that she realized she did not know the name of the person who discovered the murdered Maya Patel.
“Let me see,” said Caldwell. Maisie could hear him turning a page. “Yes. Here we go. It’s not as if I’ve forgotten the name per se, but it’s one of them names that sounds as if it’s backwards. Martin Robertson. No fixed address at the time, though he has one now and we’ve asked him not to move. He’s a laborer living in digs, getting work where he can, mostly on the river. Seventeen years of age.”
“Martin Robertson?”
“That’s it.”
In repeating the name, Maisie identified the sense of familiarity upon hearing Caldwell’s words. It’s one of them names that sounds as if it’s backwards.
“Can you tell me the circumstances of the discovery, Inspector? Was he alone, and was it he who alerted the police?”
“Well, as it happens, he wasn’t alone. He was with another bloke, a—wait a minute.” Papers rustled again. “Sean Walters. Irish lad come over here to find work. Robertson saw her first and Walters ran for help.”
“What does Martin sound like, when he speaks?”
“Funny question, Miss Dobbs. You know something I don’t know?”
“Not sure—but can you tell me what he sounds like?”
“Sounds like your ordinary south-of-the-water lad to me. Why?”
“I’m not sure. It could be nothing. A coincidence, perhaps.”
“I hope you’ll tell me if it’s important, Miss Dobbs. I know how you can keep things to yourself.”
“I will. I just don’t want to be wrong.”
“All right then. Now, this won’t get the eggs cooked, me talking to you all day.”
Maisie held the receiver for a second longer, the continuous tone sounding after Caldwell had ended the call without so much as a swift “good-bye” to bracket the conversation.
Martin Robertson. She picked up the folder pertaining to the missing boy, the case she had given to Billy. Robert Martin. Son of Jesmond Martin, a stockbroker living in St. John’s Wood, and his wife, Miriam. But this boy was not yet fourteen. She looked at the date he was missed from his boarding school, Dulwich College. One week before Usha Pramal’s body was discovered floating on the canal. And Dulwich was only a bus ride from Addington Square, and the Grand Surrey Canal.
Maurice had taught Maisie to trust coincidence. He warned her that such things happen in an inquiry, as if the time and thought put into a case drew evidence in the same way that tides were affected by the proximity of the moon. Coincidence was the way of their world, and many a case depended upon the timely entrance of that serendipitous event. Maurice had taught her so much—and much that she doubted. He had told