Priscilla stopped and looked into Maisie’s eyes, her own glistening with tears that revealed the depth of her remembered grief. Maisie rubbed her friend’s hand as it rested on her arm. “Come on, let’s have that drink, Pris. I know I’d like one.”
“My, you have changed! Now all I have to do is take you shopping.”
Maisie turned to Priscilla as they were shown to a table. “I knew it would be only a minute or two before you tried to take me in hand.”
“All right, I’ll leave that topic until later. You may be seeing a country doctor—it is him, isn’t it?—but there’s no need to go all frumpy and pearly yet.”
“But I’m not—”
Priscilla held up a hand playfully as she ordered a gin and tonic. Maisie asked for a cream sherry.
“So. Come on, out with it; tell me all about him. Is it that Andrew Dene? Dr. Andrew Dene? The one you wrote about in your last letter?”
“Look, it’s not serious courting, we’re—oh, thank you.” Maisie smiled at the waiter, glad for the interruption of their drinks being set upon the table.
“Not serious? I’ll wager, Maisie, that it’s serious for Dr. Dene! Has he asked you to marry him?”
“Well, no….”
“Oh, come on. Here you are, a successful woman of professional standing, and seeing you blush I feel as if I’m talking to my lovesick nanny.” Priscilla stubbed out her cigarette and took a hefty sip of her gin and tonic. “Who, I might add, has almost given me gray hair by conducting an affair with a man I consider to be a very nasty piece of work.”
“Thank heavens the comparison ends there. Andrew’s actually very nice.”
“So why aren’t you marrying him?”
Maisie sipped her sherry and set her glass down. “If you must know, he hasn’t asked me. For goodness’ sake, we’ve hardly seen each other since we first went to the theater. I enjoy his company—he is such fun, you’d like him—but apart from spending the odd day together at the weekend, or an evening during the week if he’s in town, we are both busy.”
Priscilla pressed another cigarette into the holder, raised an eyebrow, and leaned toward Maisie. “Are you sure you’ve only spent the odd day at the weekend? Not the whole weekend?”
“That’s it; no more, Priscilla Evernden. You are a devil!” Maisie laughed, joined by Priscilla. “Oh, it is good to see you, Pris. Come on, tell me about the boys. Have you found a suitable school for them?”
The waiter returned to take their order for supper, and as he left, Priscilla went on to bring Maisie up-to-date with family life and the search for a school that would accommodate three boys, used to a certain freedom in their fashionable French coastal resort but who must now begin to prepare for a more restrained life ahead. The conversation continued over the meal.
“So, we’re sort of between the devil and the deep blue sea, trying to get them educated without having the life whipped out of them if they so much as put a foot wrong.” Priscilla placed her knife and fork on her plate and reached for her wineglass. “Anyway, I’m to see three more schools this week, plus I have to meet with my solicitors to discuss upkeep of the estate. Part of me wants to sell, but on the other hand I’d love to keep it for the boys.” Priscilla shook her head. “Anyway, far too boring for supper talk. Now then, what about you? What’s your latest case?”
“You know I can’t tell you about my cases.”
“Not even a snippet for a hard-pressed mother?”
“That will be the day!” Maisie smiled. “All right, let’s just say that my next case, if I am awarded the assignment, involves proving that someone who died in the war really is dead.” Maisie was careful not to say aviator and was aware that the information shared with Priscilla was more than she had ever before disclosed to someone not directly involved in an investigation.
Priscilla pulled a face. “Gosh, I wish I hadn’t asked now—mind you, it’s not unusual when you think about it. After all, so many were listed as missing, which caused terrible heartache.”
“And I may well have to go over to France to complete my inquiries,” continued Maisie. “Though I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”
“Then you must come to Biarritz—consider it a break following all that hard work. Heavens, I’ve been trying to get you to come for years!”
“It’s probably a bit out of my way. If you were at your flat in Paris, I might be able to visit you there.”
Priscilla shook her head. “I’m hardly ever in Paris except for the odd shopping expedition. Douglas goes to the flat to write sometimes. There’s a sort of League of Nations bookish set in Paris that he finds stimulating. The Americans are rather fun, but it appears to me that a fair bit of backstabbing goes on, you know.”
“I wouldn’t know, Pris. There’s a similar set in Fitzroy Square, but I hardly see them. We’re not even on nodding ‘good-morning’ terms.”
Priscilla was quiet for a moment, and as she ran a finger around the rim of her wineglass, Maisie regarded her closely. Her demeanor had changed; a tension had moved into her shoulders that Maisie knew came from Priscilla’s heart.
“What is it, Priscilla?”
“Oh, nothing. Nothing, really….”
Maisie leaned back as Priscilla in turn leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. She began to unburden her troublesome thoughts with a nervous half laugh and a joke.
“You know, my father would have sent me from the table for this. ‘Only cooked meat on the table’ was a favorite quip as he pricked you on the arm with a fork.”
“Those who are gone are never far away,” said Maisie.
“Yes, I know. I’m seeing it more and more in the boys as they get older. Though they never knew their uncles, I see reminders every day, even when one of them is just about to box another around the ears! God, I miss them; I still miss my family, Maisie.” Priscilla took up the ebony holder and, despite disparaging looks from two matrons dining nearby, lit another cigarette.
“But there’s more, isn’t there?” Maisie rested her hands on the table, not with palms down but relaxed and slightly upturned.
Priscilla blew a smoke ring and smiled broadly at the neighboring diners. She doesn’t change, thought Maisie.
“It’s that case you mentioned, Maisie.” Priscilla seemed to falter but then continued. “It made me think of my eldest brother, Peter. As you know, I was the youngest; the boys were all older. Phil and Pat were both killed in 1916, within two weeks of each other, but Peter—I don’t know about Peter.”
“Don’t know?” Maisie resisted the urge to lean toward Priscilla, instead leaving room for her to continue her story.
“No. I have no idea.” Priscilla looked at Maisie directly. “It’s my boys growing up so quickly, I think. I pushed it all back after the war, after Mummy and Daddy died. Off I went to France like a shot, drank myself silly for a year, and, thank God, along came Douglas to drag me from the abyss. I adore him, Maisie, and I adore my boys. Douglas and I have helped each other, really, and I don’t want to look back, but…”
“But?”
“We never knew where Peter died. His body was never found, though that wasn’t unusual, was it? I never even saw the telegram. My parents had already lost Patrick and Philip, so they burned it, and I’ve been troubled about it ever since. I’ll put it to the back of my mind for a while, and then something—and sometimes it’s something really simple, not a big thing like this case of yours—brings it all back again.”
Maisie did not respond for some moments. Then she reached across to her friend and took her hands in her own. “Look, Pris, I want you to consider something—and please don’t dismiss my suggestion immediately. I can direct you to someone who, in conversation, can help you to put Peter to rest in your heart. I’m your friend, too close for such work, but Maurice—”
Priscilla pulled her right hand from Maisie’s grasp, holding it up to stop her speaking. “I know what you’re suggesting, Maisie. I’ve heard all about these newfangled
talk therapies, and they’re not my bag. I’d rather listen to an old gramophone record and have a drink and a cigarette until misery finds someone else to pick on.” She paused briefly and changed the subject. “Have you received a letter from Girton asking for contributions to the new fund-raising campaign? I thought I’d send something.”
MAISIE AND PRISCILLA remained together for another hour or so, reminiscing over dinner about their time at Girton College and their lives since the war. They agreed to meet again for lunch before Priscilla flew from Croydon Aerodrome back to France. But as she left her friend, driving back to Ebury Place with the top down on the MG, for it was a warm Indian-summer night, Maisie considered the possibility of a return to France, a prospect she anticipated with dread in her heart.
FOUR
Maisie went to the office for just one hour the next morning, before being collected by a Scotland Yard driver in a black Invicta motor car. However, there was time to spend with Billy before embarking upon her day.
“Mornin’, Miss.” Billy had arrived early at the office. “Nice evenin’ with Mrs. Partridge?”
Maisie removed her coat and hat, hung them on a hook behind the door, and went to her desk, where she placed her handbag in a drawer and her black document case—a gift from the Comptons’ staff when she first went up to Girton in 1914—on the floor next to her chair. She sighed. “Yes, it was a lovely evening. Thank you for asking.”
Billy looked up, not used to hearing fatigue in his employer’s voice. “A late one, was it, Miss? I know you said Mrs. Partridge used to be a bit of a girl for the long nights and parties.”
Maisie nodded and leaned back in her chair. “Well, it was a bit later than usual, but no, that’s not the reason for my malaise this morning, Billy. I can’t say I slept very well.”
“Not comin’ down with somethin’, I ’ope.”
“No—just a few concerns.”
Billy frowned. “What, about that girl from Taunton?”
“Actually, no. There may be another case coming in that I’m not—”
Billy reached across and picked up a buff-colored folder. “Was it”—he turned the folder sideways; a piece of paper flapped on top—“Sir Cecil Lawton?” Billy didn’t wait for an answer but continued, leaving his desk to bring the folder to Maisie. “The dog-and-bone was ringing its ’ead off when I got in this mornin’, and this bloke said to tell you that ’e’d thought about what you’d said and wanted to assign the task—that’s what ’e called it, a task—to you, and could you place a telephone call to ’im in ’is chambers today, so—”
“Oh, damn it!” Maisie leaned forward and rested her forehead on her hands.
Billy’s eyes opened wide as he placed the folder on the desk in front of her. “I beg your pardon, Miss. Did I do somethin’ wrong? I mean, I took the message, got the file ready for the particulars, and—”
Maisie looked up. “No, it’s all right, Billy. I’m sorry, that was rude of me. The truth is, I’m just not sure about this case.”
Billy thought for a moment. “Well, you always said we’ve got the final decision as to whether we accept a job, didn’t you?”
“I know, I know.” Maisie sighed, scraped back her chair, and walked to the window. “And I never thought I would be compromised, but I have a…a very uncomfortable feeling about this.”
“So, why don’t you put a tin lid on it? Tell the man to go to someone else.” Billy joined her at the window. They looked not at each other but across the square before them, where the sun was streaking across leaves beginning to take on hues of copper, deep red, and gold. Leaves that would soon litter the flagstones, rendering them slippery and brown.
Maisie did not answer but instead closed her eyes. Billy stepped away quietly, gathered a tray set for tea, and left the room, understanding that this was one of those times when she required some moments alone. Hearing the door click behind him, Maisie reached for a cushion on an old armchair set in the corner and placed it on the floor. She knew Billy would give her ten minutes before gently knocking at the door and entering with a freshly brewed pot of tea to refresh them both. Pulling up her skirt slightly to allow ease of movement, she sat on the cushion, legs crossed, arms loose in her lap, her eyes now half closed. Soon she would leave the office for Vine Street. For the sake of Avril Jarvis, she must be clear and ready, not fatigued by other concerns.
She allowed her mind to become still, as she had been taught so many years ago by Khan, the Ceylonese wise man to whom she had been taken by Maurice Blanche. Then she asked questions silently, questions she did not struggle to answer, knowing that insights and responses would come to her in the hours and days ahead, as long as she went forward with an openness of heart. What was at the source of her doubts regarding the assignment from Lawton? Was it a question of trust? Certainly she had intuited a certain…a certain…what was that sense she’d had? Reticence? Yes, there was fear, but why? Whatever could a man have to fear from a dead son, a son who was a decorated aviator? Without doubt, Agnes Lawton had exacted a terrible deathbed promise, so it was likely that Sir Cecil was reeling not only from her passing and state of mind in her final years but from the task he had assumed. A task he now wanted to pass on to Maisie.
Was she concerned because she felt Sir Cecil was interested only in making good on his word, giving the case an element of triviality? There would doubtless have to be a return to France, and to Flanders—Oh, God, why? Why? Maisie sat in silence, allowing her mind to clear again, so that mere seconds assumed an expanse that stretched into hours, in the way that, in slumber, one can have a dream of years passing, yet upon waking look at the clock and see that only the briefest of naps has been taken.
Billy knocked gently on the door, waited a moment, and entered. Maisie was standing now and walked toward the desk, her customary strong stride and ready smile greeting him.
“That’s better, Miss. Now, get this down you before the old doorbell goes and you’ve to be off to Vine Street.” Billy poured tea into a well-used tin army mug for Maisie, a vessel she had preferred since her days of service in France, when the hot, strong, almost-too-sweet tea had sustained her in the worst of times. “Do you think she’ll talk—y’know, with Stratton in the room?”
“Oh, yes, I should think so, though perhaps with a little difficulty. Much of it will be repeating the story she told me yesterday.”
“Poor little scrap.” Billy sipped his tea, then continued. “Well, talking of the girl, Avril Jarvis, I’ve sorted it all out with Doreen and we’re off this weekend to Taunton.”
“Oh, good work, Billy.”
“And you know what I’m like about leaving the Smoke! Anyway, me old mum is taking on the nippers, so we’ll be on our own. Doreen says she don’t mind that I ’ave to work, and all, it will be a nice little break.”
“Good. Now then, Billy, please devise a plan for your inquiry, and let’s look at it together before you go—we’ll do that tomorrow. In fact, why don’t you leave on Thursday, to allow a little more time.”
“Right you are, Miss.” A bell rang in the office, activated by a caller at the front door below. “Ay-oop, there’s the Scotland Yard chappie now. You’d better be off, Miss.”
“I’ll see you this afternoon, Billy, all right?” Maisie quickly put on her coat and hat, and opened the door.
“Yes, Miss. Oh—Miss? Did you decide about Sir Cecil Lawton?”
Maisie turned to answer Billy before leaving. “Yes, I’ve made my decision. I’ll telephone his chambers while I’m waiting at Vine Street.”
UPON ARRIVAL AT Vine Street, Maisie was ushered into an office to meet with Detective Inspector Stratton and his assistant, Caldwell.
“We’ve received the postmortem report from the pathologist.” Stratton removed several sheets of paper from a folder but did not pass them to Maisie. “How a slip of a girl managed to kill a man of that size beggars belief, but the evidence is there for all to see: fingerprints all over the murder weapon.”
“She maintains that she didn’t murder the man; he was her uncle—”
“But with respect, Miss Dobbs,” Caldwell interrupted, “she also has no recollection of the actual events, per her confession to you yesterday.”
“I would hardly call her story a confession, Sergeant Caldwell.” Maisie turned to Stratton’s assistant, disguising her distaste for a man she considered an opportunist who rushed to premature conclusions. “Miss Jarvis recounted the events she could remember before her collapse.”
“Yes, with a knife in her hand, right next to the body. She should have thought about her fear of blood before she thrust the knife into her beloved uncle’s neck and chest.”
“I think beloved hardly describes a relationship hallmarked by such brutal behavior, do you?”
“But, with respect, Miss Dobbs—”
Stratton sighed. “All right, that’s enough, Caldwell.” He turned to Maisie. “Let’s see what we get out of this interview, shall we? In the meantime, we are trying to establish whether Harold Upton, the victim, was indeed related to Jarvis. I’ve been in touch with the constabulary in Taunton this morning, and we expect to hear shortly. Her people will be informed in due course.”
“And due course is how long, Inspector Stratton?”
Stratton was about to answer when there was a knock at the door.
“Yes!”
Maisie noted Stratton’s edgy response, an indication that her question would not be answered and that it was likely that Avril Jarvis’s family would not yet be informed that she was in custody. She was curious to know who would be offering legal counsel to the girl.
“Sir, she’s in the interview room now.”
“Very good, Chalmers.”
The policewoman nodded and closed the door.
“Now then—”
“We were talking about her people being notified, Inspector.”