They followed the path back to the manicured lawns of Chelstone Manor.
“Will you join me for breakfast, Maisie?”
“No, I’d better be on my way. Before I go, may I use your telephone?”
“You’ve no need to ask. Go on.” Lady Rowan waved Maisie on her way. “And take good care, won’t you? We expect to see your Mr. Beale here by the end of the month!”
Only if I close this case quickly, thought Maisie, as she ran toward the manor.
“Miss Dobbs. Delightful to hear from you. I’ve had another word with Dr.—”
“This isn’t about my father, Dr. Dene. Look, I must hurry. I wonder if you can help me. Do you still know Bermondsey well?”
“Of course. In fact, once a fortnight I work at Maurice’s clinic for a day or two on a Saturday or Sunday.”
“Oh, I see.” Maisie was surprised that she didn’t already know about Dene’s continued connection with Maurice’s work. “I need to find a person who may be hiding in Bermondsey. She may be in danger, and I have to locate her soon. Very soon. Do you know anyone who might be able to help me.”
Dene laughed. “All very cloak-and-dagger isn’t it, Miss Dobbs?”
“I am absolutely serious.” Maisie felt herself become impatient with him. “If you can’t help, then say so.”
Dene’s voice changed. “I’m sorry. Yes, I do know someone. He’s called Smiley Rackham and he can usually be found outside The Bow & Arrow; it’s just off Southwark Park Road, where they have the market. Just make your way along the market until you see a pie ’n’ mash shop on the corner, turn on that side street and you’ll see The Bow. Can’t miss it. Smiley sells matches and you’ll recognise him by the scar that runs from his mouth to his ear. It makes him look as if he’s pulling a huge grin.”
“Oh. Was he wounded in the war?”
“If he was ever in a war, it was probably the Crimean. No, Smiley worked on the barges as a boy. Got an unloading hook caught in the side of his mouth.” He laughed, “Knowing Smiley, it was open too wide at the time. Anyway, even though there are lots of new people in Bermondsey now, he doesn’t miss a trick. He’s a good place to start. He’ll cost you a bob or two though.”
“Thank you, Dr Dene.”
“Miss Dobbs—”
Maisie had already replaced the receiver. She had just enough time to drive to Pembury for morning visiting hours.
Maisie was filled with guilt from the time she left Pembury Hospital until she parked the car in Bermondsey. The conversation with her father had been stilted and halting, each searching for a subject that would engage the other, each trying to move beyond a series of questions. Maisie was too preoccupied to speak of her mother. Finally, sensing her discomfort, Frankie had said,“Your mind’s on your work isn’t it, love?” He insisted that she need not remain and, gratefully, she left the ward, promising that she’d stay longer next time. Next time . . . He’s not getting any younger. With Maurice’s words pounding in her head, Maisie sped toward London. Now she had to locate Smiley Rackham.
The market was a writhing mass of humanity by the time she arrived, and would be alive with people until late at night. Even the women stallholders were dressed like men, with flat caps, worn jackets, and pinafores made from old sacks. They called to one another, shouted out prices, and kept the throng noisy and moving. Maisie finally found The Bow & Arrow. Smiley Rackham was outside, just as Dene had predicted.
“Mr. Rackham?”
Maisie leaned down to speak to the old man. Smiley’s clothes, though dapper, as if they had once belonged to a gentleman, had seen much better days. His eyes sparkled below a flat cap, and his stubbled chin dimpled as he smiled. It was a broad smile that accentuated the livid scar so well described by Dene.
“And who wants ’im?”
“My name’s Maisie Dobbs,” Maisie continued, deliberately slipping into the south London dialect of her childhood. “Andrew Dene said you’d ’elp me.”
“Old Andeeee said to see me, eh?”
“Yes. Andy said you knew everyone hereabouts.”
“Gettin’ tricky, what wiv all these Oxford and Cambridge do-gooders comin’ in.”
Had the situation not been so urgent, Maisie might have grinned. Now she wanted to get down to business. She took out the photograph of Charlotte Waite and handed it to Rackham.
“Course, me old eyes ain’t what they were. Probably need to get some glasses.” He squinted at Maisie. “Mind you, cost of glasses today—”
She reached into her purse and handed Smiley a shining half-crown.
“Very nice pair of glasses, too. Now then let me see.” Smiley tapped the side of his head. “This is where I’ve got to rack ’em, you know, the old brain cells.” He looked at the photograph, brought it closer to his eyes, and squinted again. “Never forget a dial. Got a photographic memory, I’ve been told. Now then”—Smiley paused—“she looks a bit different nah, don’t she?”
“You’ve seen her?”
“I’m not one ’undred percent. It’s me eyes again.”
Maisie handed him a florin.
“Yeah. Dahn the soup kitchen. Only been there a coupl’a days, but I’ve seen ’er comin’ and goin’. She weren’t all dolled up like this though.”
“Which soup kitchen? Where?”
“Not the one run by the Quakers, the other one, on Tanner Street, just along from the old workhouse—” Smiley gave directions.
“Thank you, Mr. Rackham.”
Smiley’s eye’s sparkled. “O’ course my name ain’t Rackham.”
“It isn’t?”
“Nah! My surname’s Pointer. They call me Smiley Rack’em cos that’s what I do.” He tapped the side of his head. “But now I won’t ’ave to do anythin’ for a day or two, thanks to you, Miss Dobbs.” Smiley rattled the coins as Maisie waved and went on her way.
She stood for a while just inside the door of the soup kitchen, in the shadows, where she would be able to observe without being seen. There was one large room lined with trestle tables, all covered with clean white cloths. The staff were working hard to maintain the dignity of people who had lost so much in a depression that was affecting every stratum of life. And at the lowest end there was little or no comfort. Men, women, and children queued for a bowl of soup and a crust of bread, then filed to the tables to find a place among known faces, perhaps calling out to a friend, “Awright, then?” or making a joke, even starting a song going for others to join in. Maisie saw that there was something here that money could not buy: Spirit. As she watched, one man at the front of the line began to shuffle his feet in a dance, then clapped out a tune. Everyone started to sing as they waited, so that even in her anxiety to find Charlotte, Maisie smiled. Boiled beef and carrots,
Boiled beef and carrots,
That’s the stuff for your Darby Kel,
Makes you fat and it keeps you well.
Don’t live like vegetarians,
On food they give to parrots,
From morn till night blow out your kite
On boiled beef and carrots.
Then she saw Charlotte.
It was a different woman whom Maisie watched moving back and forth between the kitchen and the tables, talking to other workers, smiling at the children, leaning over to tousle the hair of a mischievous boy or stop a fight over a toy. Two days. She’s been here only two days and people are looking up to her. Maisie shook her head as she watched Charlotte help another worker. And no one knows who she is. There was something in the way that Charlotte moved and spoke with the people that reminded Maisie of someone. A natural and decisive leader. Charlotte Waite was her father’s daughter.
Maisie made her move. “Miss Waite.” She touched Charlotte’s sleeve as she was returning to the kitchen with an empty cauldron.