Descending into the underground, she was dismayed to find the platform busy, an indication that trains were slow and limited this morning. Though the day had greeted London with an early morning chill, the air around Maisie was already too warm, too humid, and she began to perspire. Taking a white linen handkerchief from her bag, she lifted her hat slightly and pressed it to her brow. She swallowed, the bitter salty taste in her mouth adding to her discomfort. People jostled her as she walked along the platform to a place she thought might be less crowded, but she was pushed and shoved closer to the edge, where warm air rushed from the tunnel. I wish I had stayed at home. I wish, this once, I had called a taxi-cab. I wish—suddenly, Maisie was aware of that other sensation again, that someone was watching her, following her every move. She glanced around, first right, then left. The sweat at the nape of her neck dared her to turn, dared her to look behind her.
She was at the very front of the platform when she saw him and gasped, dropping her case and holding her hands to her mouth. And as the train came from the tunnel, Simon—Simon—shouted to her: “Move, Maisie! Move!” And as she moved, pushing her body sideways at the very moment the train came alongside, she saw a hand reach out. A hand that was meant to connect with her body, meant to push her forward onto the rails.
Arriving passengers forced Maisie backward as they surged onto the platform and then to the exits. Maisie faltered, feeling both hot and cold at the same time. Panic was rising within her. She could not get on the train, could not let her body be sucked into the hot mass of humanity as it shuttled onward to the next stop. Instead, as the train pulled out of the station and disappeared into the dark tunnel, Maisie remained on the empty platform, clutching the retrieved black case to her chest. There was no Simon now. She knew Simon would at this moment be sitting in his wheelchair, which would have just been taken to the conservatory, where he would be left to spend the morning alone until he was pushed away to be spoon-fed a meal that his mind had no ability to identify as breakfast, lunch, or supper. With her hands and legs still trembling, Maisie left the underground as quickly as possible. In her heart she knew Simon had saved her. His spirit had reached out to her as surely as the hand had reached forward to push her to her death.
“I RECKON YOU should tell Detective Inspector Stratton about this, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
“What can he do, Billy? It’s not as if I’m dead!”
“No, but you could’ve been, couldn’t you? Eh? And then where would we be?”
“There’s nothing he could do—or can do, for that matter. I stand a better chance of getting to the bottom of all this myself.”
Billy was thoughtful. “I’m beginning to get a bit worried about you, Miss.” He sat across the desk from Maisie, who was leaning forward in her oak chair, going through the events of the past hour in her mind while flicking through the morning’s mail. “First there’s someone—man or woman—in a mackintosh at Goodge Street station, and now another someone trying to do away with you on the underground. What’s it all about?”
Maisie looked up. “I do not believe it has anything to do with Avril Jarvis, so the connection is with either Lawton or Peter Evernden—and I have to say that the informal investigation on the part of my old friend is looking more complex every day, especially as we have no military records.”
“And you say the brother’s letters to Mrs. Partridge were a bit strange?”
“Yes, though one has to be careful not to leap to conclusions. As you know, probably more than most, everything is different in a time of war. People do and say things they might never otherwise say. We have to avoid passing judgment on what someone wrote when they were about to go back to the Western Front, probably with more responsibility than they had when they enlisted. And with the knowledge that they might very well be taking their last look at home.”
The skin around Billy’s eyes crinkled as he spoke, his face betraying a high level of concern regarding the events of the morning. “But you reckon there’s something in this business of the roses? And as far as you know, ’e wasn’t the gardenin’ type?”
“He knew Priscilla hated roses.”
“If I was playing devil’s advocate, as you would say, Miss, I might point out that ’e could’ve been doin’ that deliberately, pullin’ ’er leg a bit. Or per’aps it was the name of the local pub, you know, and it was another way of sayin’ that ’e’d nipped out for a swift one at the Rose when ’e wasn’t s’posed to. Sounds like a pub to me.”
Maisie smiled. “Nice idea, but I don’t think so.” She looked at her watch. “I have to get on to Lord Julian now.” She reached for the telephone receiver. “I need his help.”
Billy moved to his own desk as the call was placed to Lord Julian’s office in the City.
“Good morning, Lord Julian.”
“And good morning to you, Maisie Dobbs! To what do I owe this telephone call? I hope my friend Lawton is paying you!”
“Yes, of course, Lord Julian. I need some information, and I think you might be able to help.”
“Fire away. Pen at the ready.”
Maisie thought there were times when he sounded remarkably like his wife and reminded herself that it was hardly surprising, given that they had now been married for over forty years.
“It’s about the MP Jeremy Hazleton.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve spoken to him occasionally at Westminster. Quite a firebrand. Could well be prime minister in a few years, wheelchair or no wheelchair—and a man decorated for bravery in a time of war is always apt to be a vote-catcher. But I’m not sure I know more about him than the next man.”
“Probably not, but you do have access to more information than most.”
“My War Office connections?”
“Yes. I am not family, so I have no means of obtaining his service record. I’d like to know more about his military career.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Will you still be in town tomorrow evening?”
“Yes.”
“Right you are. I will be returning to Chelstone tomorrow, but if you come to my office we can speak in confidence. About four o’clock?”
“Thank you. I’ll see you at four tomorrow, Lord Julian.”
“Good. Until then.”
“Yes, until then.”
Maisie replaced the receiver.
“That man’s really got connections, eh? The old school tie and all that. Fancy bein’ able to just pick up the blower and ’ave everything at your fingertips!”
“At least he’s a good man, Billy. Essentially a good man. He’ll get me what I need.”
“Do you think there’s something off about this Hazleton?”
Maisie pushed some papers into a desk drawer and locked it, placing the key in her document case. “Other than his connection to Ralph Lawton? I don’t know yet. Put it this way; I wonder about him…. Now then, I have an appointment. I’ll be back this afternoon; then I have to see both Sir Cecil and Stratton. Could you visit the woman who called this morning regarding her husband? It looks like a case for you while I’m gone.”
“I’ll get to it right away, Miss. Nice to see the work coming in at a steady clip, innit?”
“Very nice, Billy. Very nice indeed!”
MAISIE LEFT FITZROY Square and was about to walk up toward Warren Street station, when she thought again. Looking over her shoulder, then both right and left, she turned back into the square and crossed into Charlotte Street. Breathing a sigh of relief, she felt a weariness that seemed to begin in her head and then seep down even into the bones of her feet. She had told Billy about events on the underground platform, keeping calm, speaking in a controlled manner. She had telephoned Lord Julian, making an appointment that would keep the momentum of her investigation moving forward at a time when she had a great desire to curl into a ball on her bed and never move again.
She remembered feeling this same way as a child. She had gone with her mother to visit the doctor. Not the doctor who ran the clinic on Tu
esdays over on the corner, where her mother would take a florin from her purse, put it on the table, and go though a doorway that led to the doctor’s office while Maisie waited outside, banging her feet together as she sat on the too-high chair, reading her book, waiting and waiting. No, on this occasion they were going to another doctor, a doctor for whom quite a few pound notes had to be taken from the earthenware jar that stood on the mantelpiece over the stove. It was afterward, as they were leaving, that they saw the young dog, and he must have been young because his paws seemed far too big for his legs. His tongue was hanging out with glee as he ran out in front of one of those new motor cars that came around the corner far too fast, popping and banging on its way to kill a poor little dog. Maisie had squealed in terror and her mother, her mother who had herself winced in pain as she lifted up her beloved daughter, brushed Maisie’s hair back with her hand, speaking gently to her. Then later, as she curled onto her bed in the small house in Lambeth, she had been gentled again by the soft hands at her brow and the voice that told her that there should be no tears because the little dog had gone to heaven, which was the best place to be. Maisie had wept until sleep claimed her, knowing in her very soul that her mother’s words were meant to encompass far more than the sudden death of a poor little dog.
And here she was again, that urge to be soothed clawing at her insides each day, the knowledge that those who would readily calm her—Andrew, her father, Maurice, even Khan—could not.
Traveling to her destination by bus and on foot, Maisie was vigilant, keeping a watchful eye around her. As she reached the tall Georgian house, now converted into an office below with flats above, she thought of Madeleine Hartnell again. There are two who walk with you. Should she go to see her again? The thought was quickly countered with another as she recalled her grandmother, the one who could see every bit as well as Madeleine Hartnell and whom they said Maisie took after. Don’t you ever dabble, young Maisie. The minute you start with the spirits, they’ll never leave you alone. She shivered as she entered the oak-floored office with furniture that had been polished to a brilliant shine.
“Good morning. Maisie Dobbs to see Mr. Isaacs.”
A short man in late middle age pushed back his chair at the back of the office upon hearing his name given to the secretary.
“Ah, yes. Miss Dobbs.” His hand was extended in greeting as he came toward her. “Charmed, I’m sure. Now, per our telephone conversation, I have several properties that would be perfect for an up-and-coming, if I may say so, young woman such as yourself.” He flicked through some papers. “All by the river, as you indicated in your telephone call, and all in your price range. It’s a very good time to be investing in bricks and mortar. There’s a new block of flats in Pimlico that are particularly interesting…”
Maisie nodded and smiled, as she took the sheet of paper. Move forward. Do not stop. Keep moving, and the past will be kept at bay. The trouble was, as Maisie knew only too well, her job demanded that she reside in the past for most of her working life. And the past was a dark abyss into which she was quickly descending.
FOURTEEN
Maisie arrived next at Sir Cecil Lawton’s chambers and was ushered into his office by a pupil, who pulled out a chair for her on the opposite side of the grand desk.
“Good afternoon, Miss Dobbs. How is your task progressing?” Allowing her no time to answer, Lawton collected some sheets of paper and placed them on one side before pulling back the copious sleeves of his gown, resting his jacketed forearms on the desk, and clasping his hands together. “I fear I have given you an almost impossible task. You are no doubt more used to searching for people who are known to be alive, rather than known to be dead.” He pursed his lips.
Maisie nodded, looking across at her client, who could not now meet her eye-to-eye. “As I said before, Sir Cecil, it’s an unusual assignment, but the sort of thing that is not unknown. Of course, the demands of such an inquiry are more difficult for you to bear.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you have assumed I will not find any evidence to suggest that Ralph lived on after his De Havilland went down, and I agree; it seems most unlikely. But”—Maisie paused before continuing—“but, Sir Cecil, have you thought of what might happen if he had survived the crash? How it might be if he is, as your wife suspected, still alive?”
“As we both know, that is highly unlikely.”
“Sir Cecil, the more I inquire with regard to your son, the more questions I have. I must ask for complete honesty from you.”
“You have had my word already.”
Maisie stood up and walked to the window, where she stood for just a moment before turning back to face Lawton.
“I know we have talked about this before, but I must ask again: If Ralph was alive as Mrs. Lawton maintained, what events, what discord, what fears might have prevented him from being in touch with you, particularly when the war was over?” Maisie looked at Lawton directly as she pressed him.
The man who one moment before had seemed controlled, and in complete command, leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. Maisie made no move. If anything, she assumed a more relaxed position, resting her hand lightly on the windowsill. When Lawton did not change his posture, she took her seat once more, silently, and placed her hands together in her lap. Breathing deeply, Maisie narrowed her eyes. Soon an image formed in her mind’s eye, of a boyish youth standing next to an older man. The young man’s earnest look revealed a wish to please, a wish to be accepted by the older man, whose very demeanor made him appear intractable, resolute. Unmovable.
“I could not accept him as my son.”
Maisie opened her eyes as Lawton leaned back in his chair and swept his hand backward across his forehead and into his hair.
“Go on.”
“His choice of friends and close associates was untenable.”
“But a young man who grows to become a highly regarded Member of Parliament would appear to have been a good choice as a friend for the son of a prominent KC.” Maisie knew she was continuing to push Lawton. She wanted to hear the words that would corroborate the scenario her instincts had led her to imagine.
“He is a respectable MP now, Miss Dobbs.”
“And married.”
Lawton’s eyes met Maisie’s for the first time. “Yes. And married. If you have already deduced that my son had no interest in women, Miss Dobbs, why on earth do you ask these questions?”
“I am interested in you and Ralph together, father and son.”
“I know he tried to prove himself to me, that despite”—Lawton turned from Maisie for a moment—“despite his choices and behaviors, he wanted my—well, I don’t know what he wanted.”
“Love?”
“He was my son. I wanted my son to be a man to be looked up to.”
“And that precludes the love of a son by his father?”
Lawton shook his head. “A man in my position cannot have a son running around in the circles Ralph chose, even when he was in the service. Was it too much to ask that he be married and have children?”
“And live a lie?”
“And live within the law.”
Maisie nodded. “Then back to my first question. What if Ralph had survived the crash—and I know his remains were found—but what if?”
“I believe his love of his mother would have risen above his hatred of me.”
“You believe he hated you?”
“Yes. There was no love lost between us. If you must know, notification of his death was…was…”
Maisie was silent. She would not help Lawton find his words, knowing instead that such emotions could be relieved of their chains only in the personal struggle of confession. Some moments passed before the man lauded as a great legal orator could give voice to his thoughts.
“I did not grieve for my son as he was when he joined the army and then the Flying Corps. I grieved for the boy. I grieved for what was not. We were not the only ones to suffer great los
s, as you know. One just gets on with it. If anything, it was a relief, for the discord inspired by his choices caused great pain for his mother, as great as losing him.”
“So really, Sir Cecil, you wouldn’t want him found even if he had survived.”
Lawton shook his head. “My son is dead. You have been retained as a mark of respect to my wife. Of course you have a further interest, now that I am defending Miss Jarvis. Thus I fail to see what this interrogation is expected to achieve.”
Now Maisie leaned forward with a gaze so direct that Lawton could not fail to look back into her midnight-blue eyes.
“It was necessary to hear directly from you the nature of Ralph’s personal associations. I cannot and will not toil in a fog of evasion on the part of the very people for whom I am working.”
Maisie left Lawton’s chambers, pondering the cases in hand. Two things in particular occurred to her as odd: It seemed ironic that the only person worthy of her trust thus far was a young girl who stood accused of murder. And then there was the intriguing reference to roses in Peter Evernden’s letter. Yes, that nagged at her constantly now. The rose. Maisie imagined a rose, imagined the bud tight until it was ready to open, the delicate red petals gradually peeling back in the sun, then falling to reveal the rosehip, another locked door. Yes, the rose: delicate, strong, and guarded by thorns that could draw blood in a second if one reached out without due care. The rose. Traditional emblem of secrecy and silence.
STRATTON WAS PACING outside the “caffy” where they had agreed to meet on Tottenham Court Road. Maisie noticed that he repeatedly checked his watch, and she made a mental note to pick up her own precious timepiece from the mender’s on Charlotte Street before returning to the office.