A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [9]
Entering her flat, she glanced at her watch. It was half past five, just enough time to make a cursory check on the new telephone she’d had installed several weeks ago. Tomorrow she would ask Billy—who had once worked as a telephone engineer—to conduct a more thorough investigation. She understood the need for surveillance of even the most trusted person working on a case, but the thought of her private conversations being subject to the ears of a Secret Service minion made her shudder.
At half past six, the doorbell signaled the arrival of her visitor. Maisie guessed that Sandra would be grateful for supper, so had prepared a hot soup with vegetables and pig’s knuckle, and brought home a loaf of crusty bread, which she would serve with a rich slab of cheddar.
“Sandra, how lovely to see you again,” said Maisie, as she opened the door and stood back to allow the young woman to enter. “Come on in, you know the way.”
Sandra nodded, and gave a weak smile. “Thank you for seeing me, Miss Dobbs. I know you’re really busy and—”
“Never too busy for you, Sandra. Just hang your coat on the stand there.”
As the younger woman turned away to remove her coat, Maisie’s heart sank. Billy’s description of Sandra’s appearance was woefully inadequate. The poor girl’s black clothes seemed to hang on her, and her face was drawn and pale. Maisie knew the evening would not be an easy one—something serious had come to pass, and Sandra needed her help.
“Sit down, Sandra—here, try out my new sofa. It’s really quite comfortable. The evening’s cool, and it was so very close last night, wasn’t it? In any case, the gas fire’s on, and I’ve taken the liberty of preparing supper for us.”
“That’s very kind of you, Miss Dobbs.” Sandra smoothed her skirt and sat down on the edge of the new sofa. “I didn’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“This was once your home, Sandra. I wanted it to be welcoming for you—and me, actually. I’ve only just returned to London following a few days in Kent. In fact, I only spend about four nights a week in town these days.”
“Mr. Beale said you were down there. I sometimes wish I’d gone with the staff when they closed up Ebury Place, instead of staying in London.”
“Oh, but you had an excellent reason, Sandra—you were engaged to be married, and your husband-to-be had found a good job.” Maisie held up the sherry bottle. “A small one? I’m going to have a glass before we sit down to eat.”
“That would be very nice, thank you.”
Maisie poured two glasses of sherry, handed one to Sandra, and sat down on the armchair opposite the sofa. She lost no more time in getting to the point.
“There’s something terribly wrong, Sandra. What is it, and how can I help you?”
As Sandra sipped the sherry, tears came to her eyes. She brushed them away and sat with both hands clutching the small glass.
“I’m a widow, Miss Dobbs.”
“Oh, Sandra, my dear girl.” Maisie set her glass on the table and came to her side; and though she instinctively wanted to put her arm around the distraught woman’s shoulders, instead she remained close enough for Sandra to feel a caring presence, but not so close as to stifle her. Maisie calculated the poor girl was only twenty-four years of age, if that.
“What happened? I saw Eric only a few weeks ago, when I took my motor car into the garage for some repair work—it couldn’t have been more than a month past.” Choked with sudden grief, Maisie could barely finish the sentence.
“I buried him a fortnight ago. There was an accident at the garage. The man he worked for had a new customer with a few cars he wanted looked after—a well-to-do new customer, is all I can say—so he had Eric working