A car coming up the hill swerved to avoid a collision as she spun across the road, the man shaking a fist as his motor car climbed the verge. Time was standing still again, just as it did on Tottenham Court Road, just as it did when the hand reached out to push her under the wheels of a train, just as it had in France. She was barely halfway down, the MG gaining speed with each second, screeching in the lowest gear as the motor car shuddered against Maisie’s fight to steer. Her knuckles were white against the wheel, her bottom lip beginning to ooze blood where her teeth had broken the skin. The canopy of trees above the road allowed the sun to glint through, her terror now peppered with shards of light flashing before her. She spun around a corner. “Oh, no!” A slow-moving lorry was lumbering along just a few yards in front. Maisie pulled the wheel to the right, thundered past the lorry and barely avoided another motor car on the opposite side. She spat the salty blood from her mouth as the bottom of the hill finally came into view. The hill began to level out, though the MG was still moving fast. Ahead, the side of the road merged into a graded verge and ditch. With another lorry ahead and a series of vehicles coming in the opposite direction, Maisie pulled the steering wheel hard left, bumped across the verge and closed her eyes as the MG thumped into the ditch and off the other side, into a hedge.
She swallowed deeply, the sweat pouring from her brow stinging her eyes. Slowly she moved to switch off the engine. Two motor cars had pulled over and a man and woman now ran across the grass toward the MG. The man pulled open her door and the woman knelt alongside her.
“Are you all right?”
Maisie nodded. She could not speak.
The man reached into the MG and helped Maisie to her feet. “What happened, brakes go?”
She nodded again, still unable to find words.
The woman took a handkerchief from the pocket of her tweed jacket and pressed it to Maisie’s forehead and then, seeing the rivulet of blood from her lip to her chin, held it against her mouth.
“The driver behind me pulled over and ran back to the police box. They’ll be here in a minute,” said the man, as he looked around toward the road. “Come on, miss. Sit down here on the grass.” He took off his mackintosh and placed it on the damp ground. “Terrible place to have your brakes go, terrible. Mind you, looks like a new motor to me.” He shook his head and smiled wryly. “Someone got it in for you, love?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Maisie sat with her father at the kitchen table of the Groom’s Cottage, Frankie silently watching his daughter as she told another version of the events that led to the MG’s final resting place in a hedge beside the road: It was all the fault of a wayward squirrel who had run into her path and, not wanting to kill an innocent animal, she swerved to avoid the creature. Her father nodded as she recounted the story and observed a certain fire in her eyes that he had not seen for a while.
“You know, Maisie, there was a look your mother could give, and the minute I saw it I knew she was not only determined but that nothing would stand in her way. I’ve seen that look in your eyes twice before, Maisie: when you told me you were going away to the university, and when I told you I had a mind to shop you to the authorities for lying about your age when you enlisted. Now then, I don’t rightly know what’s goin’ on in this ’ere case of yours, my girl, but I do know when I see your mother in you and I can see it now. You just mind you don’t get into any more trouble. Squirrel, my eye!”
Dene arrived later. Maisie was talking with George, the Comptons’ chauffeur, when Dene drove up in his Austin Swallow. Maisie’s bad luck in meeting an errant squirrel on the road was not the only topic of conversation that day as news came in that the famed R-101, largest airship in the world, had met a fiery end, crashing in France.
Dene nodded to George and leaned to kiss Maisie on the cheek. After ensuring that she was unhurt, he addressed both Maisie and the chauffeur. “Talking about the airship, eh? Can hardly believe it, can you? She passed over Hastings last night, though I must say I was not one of the hardy souls out there waiting to watch her go over in the dark. Terrible business, terrible. A horrible way to go. They say there are only about eight survivors, don’t they?”
George nodded and the conversation went on until Dene asked what the plans were to retrieve the MG.
“Well, I had a word with the owner of the garage myself this morning, and apparently the bodywork isn’t badly damaged, surprisingly enough. Some deep scratches and a dent, but nothing that Reg Martin can’t take care of, though I’m sure he’ll have something to say about it all, just having finished the job after the last one!” Maisie gave George a sudden glare as he spoke, which he understood and did not mention the brakes. “Of course, there are a few other mechanical matters to attend to, but all in all, the motor should be ready in a few days.”
Dene turned to Maisie. “You should be careful. Were you driving too fast?”
“Andrew!” Maisie frowned but took the tease in good heart, eager to change the subject.
George departed to continue with his work and Maisie walked toward the paddocks with Dene.
“So, what will you do without a motor car? You’ll have to stay in one place for a few days.”
Maisie shook her head. “I have to put a case to rest before I can take more time off. I already lost time after France, so I have work to do.”
“Do you feel well enough?”
She nodded. “Much better. I must get to the bottom of a question that has been nagging me, but I promise I will come to Hastings as soon as the work is done.”
“And what about a motor car? What will you do about transportation?”
“I will be going back to London on the train tomorrow morning. I have to go to Dramsford on Monday afternoon; then I believe I will not need to leave town to complete my work, so I’ll use the underground and buses. I managed before I had the MG and can do so again, I’m sure.”
“One of the advantages of being in London, I suppose.” Dene looked thoughtful and was quiet for a while, and Maisie suspected that he had been holding on to the possibility that she might choose to live outside London. It was an observation that reminded her that she must contact the solicitors regarding the flat in Pimlico. She was not ready to move to another town, especially one that was far from London.
Maisie turned to Dene, eager to avoid a misunderstanding. “And one of the advantages of being in London is that it is always a pleasure to visit the seaside. I’ll come to Hastings, Andrew, when this particular job has been completed, and it will be soon. Then I will rest and we can make up for time apart.”
Following dinner at the Groom’s Cottage with Frankie Dobbs, Dene left Chelstone, taking Maisie in his arms and kissing her deeply as she walked with him to his motor car.
“I worry about you, Maisie. I know how France must have been for you, and I know you’ve taken on something very important in this case.” He paused, holding her to him. “I will never question your work, Maisie, but I will caution you to take care. I don’t know what I would do if—”
Maisie pressed a finger to his lips. “I know what I am doing, Andrew. Remember who my teacher was.”
Dene nodded and then squeezed her hand as he climbed into his Austin Swallow. “I’ll see you soon, then. Perhaps next weekend?”
She waved to him as she replied. “I’ll telephone you in the week, Andrew.”
Waving as he drove away, Maisie walked slowly back to the Groom’s Cottage, to sit beside the fire with her father before going to bed and rising early the next morning to catch the train to London. Yes, she was still tired, could still feel the weakness lingering in each joint. But her father was right; this accident had galvanized her again, had ignited the fire of her resolve. She would confront Jeremy Hazleton and his wife. And she would find out who wanted her dead.
She stopped alongside the window that looked into the small sitting room where her father reached toward the bellows alongside the fireplace. As he tended the fire ready for her return, flames leaped u
p, creating a flickering light across the framed photograph of her mother, set on the mantelpiece above. Maisie was transfixed by the photograph, and in that moment it seemed as if the image moved, though surely it could not have. But that night Maisie fell asleep feeling as she had in childhood, that she was safe at home with both her mother and father.
MAISIE ARRIVED AT the Hazletons’ house on Monday afternoon. Eric had offered to drive her, saying that Lord Compton had asked him to ensure that the Lanchester be given a good run every now and again, and now was as good a time as ever. He parked the majestic motor car on the street and, as he opened the passenger door for Maisie to alight, he looked up at the house and the winding path that led to the front door.
“Gaw, m’um, wouldn’t like to be the one who has to lug the shopping up them steps.”
Maisie stepped onto the pavement, pulling on her gloves and checking the position of her black hat. “I think the back entrance is a little more forgiving. That’s where they keep their motor car. In fact, it has to be easier, as the owner cannot walk; he was wounded in the war.”
Eric nodded. “I’ll be waiting for you here, m’um.”
“I shan’t be long—that’s if they even let me in!”
Maisie smiled and began walking up the steps. She noticed curtains move and knew that Mrs. Hazleton had already seen her from the drawing room window and was in all likelihood rushing to the door to send her on her way. As she reached the entrance, it was indeed Jeremy Hazleton’s wife and not the housekeeper who answered the doorbell.
“What are you doing here? I thought I made myself clear. You were told not to come to this house again!” Her usual grayness of complexion and attire was hardly dented by the rise of color to her cheeks, which only served to accentuate hollows above her jaw and under her eyes.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hazleton. I would like to see your husband, though my questions will not concern Ralph Lawton directly nor compromise his memory of that friendship. I need only to ask for his assistance in a personal matter.”
“What do you mean?” The woman continued to speak through the narrow margin of space allowed by the partially open door.
Maisie smiled again, concentrating on exuding warmth. “It will take only a few moments, Mrs. Hazleton.”
“Let the woman in, for God’s sake. Let’s get it over and done with,” Jeremy Hazleton’s voice bellowed from the hallway.
Charmaine Hazleton opened the door ungraciously and stepped aside for Maisie to enter. Jeremy Hazleton wheeled his chair forward, then jerked his head to one side. “Let’s go into my study, Miss Dobbs.” He turned to his wife. “It’ll be all right. I’ll take care of her.”
Hazleton steered his wheelchair into the room as his wife stood behind Maisie, her eyes revealing an intense dislike of the unexpected and unwelcome guest. Maisie closed the door behind her but knew Charmaine Hazleton would eavesdrop.
“So what do you want?” Hazleton reached the desk and swung the chair around until he was facing Maisie. His eyes reflected not only his anger but, as Maisie recognized, his fear. “Did you find out everything you wanted about Ralph?”
Maisie remained standing, then paced back and forth, her eyes meeting Hazleton’s. “Yes, I did.” She stopped alongside his desk and picked up a glass paperweight, holding it to the light. It was immediately recognizable as the ornament on the bar in front of Jeremy Hazleton in the photograph taken at the Café Druk in Paris. She now understood that the piece had been a gift from Lawton to his lover. Hazleton seemed uncomfortable but said nothing. Maisie continued to hold the paperweight as she paced and spoke to Hazleton. “I understand the depth of your relationship; however, I am not here this time to talk about Ralph.” She turned the paperweight, then passed it from one hand to the other. “My first question is about me, actually. And about your wife. My life has been threatened, Mr. Hazleton, and I am here to know why your wife ran from Goodge Street station in a bid to make me lose control of my motor car. Perhaps you can tell me.” She looked at Hazleton and increased the distance between her hands as she passed the paperweight back and forth. Still Hazleton said nothing about the ornament, though he did respond to her question.
“What rubbish! My wife has not been anywhere near an underground station for months.”
“And she wasn’t in Belgravia this weekend?”
“Absolutely not!”
Maisie increased the distance between her hands again so that now she was throwing the paperweight slowly back and forth, seemingly lost in deliberation of his response.
“I say, be careful!”
She smiled. “Oh, I am careful, Mr. Hazleton, which was why I was injured and not killed on Saturday.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, I’ve told you!”
Now Maisie held the paperweight in one hand only, but continued to play with it as she paced, throwing it up in the air, first just a couple of inches from her palm, then three, then four. “I think we do need to go back to Goodge Street station, don’t we, Mr. Hazleton?”
Hazleton became flushed, pulling his wheelchair to the side of the desk. “That is a very valuable piece, I’ll have you know!”
“Oh, don’t worry, I was quite good at rounders as a child, though we did play in the streets, so one could always get a good bounce.” Maisie threw the ball some two feet in the air and caught it again, then moved her arm to repeat the throw.
Hazleton made a guttural cry and launched himself at Maisie, who stepped back toward the wall as this man who claimed to be a cripple ran at her. “Give that to me!”
As he reached for the paperweight, Maisie tightened her grip. When Charmaine Hazleton burst into the room, she saw her husband standing in front of Maisie Dobbs.
“What have you done? Look at him!”
“I don’t think I can take any credit for spontaneous healing, can I?”
Hazleton dropped to his knees and began to weep as his wife hurried to his side. “We’re done for. We’re finished.”
Maisie remained calm. “You will be if you don’t start telling the truth.” She flashed a glare at Charmaine Hazleton. “I want to know exactly what is going on here.” Turning to Hazleton, Maisie held out her hand. “Now then, stand up, Mr. Hazleton, because I know you can.”
Hazleton staggered to his feet.
“Sit down, both of you.”
The two were seated, Charmaine Hazleton next to her husband, who had staggered to his wheelchair.
“Which one of you was at Goodge Street?”
The couple exchanged glances; then Hazleton’s wife spoke. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She turned to her husband. “She’s bound to have told the police by now. That’s probably one of them outside in the motor car.”
Maisie did not offer information concerning whom she may have told of her visit. “Mrs. Hazleton, you’d better explain, and quickly.”
“Yes, it was me. First of all, I wanted to speak to you again. I thought if I explained everything, it would stop you in this ridiculous search for Ralph Lawton. I followed you, began to find out where you went, the route you took to your office. I watched you leave your home on that day and, suddenly”—she looked at her hands and then reached across to her husband—“I wanted to scare you, wanted to see you off. I know it was stupid, utterly stupid. I knew I could make it to Goodge Street before you came into Tottenham Court Road. We had too much to lose.” Biting her lip, she held her breath, then began speaking again. “We have built a life here. My husband’s past is…is of no consequence now. He needs me. He needs me.”
Maisie looked from Hazleton to his wife, assessing the situation. She stood up and began to pace again, then stopped in front of the man, now in his wheelchair. “And why on earth have you lied about your condition? You were badly injured, yes, but there was no reason for you to remain in a wheelchair. I’m surprised you haven’t been found out.”
The Hazleton couple seemed dejected, as if all energy had left them, so that they leaned toward each other for streng
th. Had she not been a victim of their deception, Maisie knew that she might almost have felt sorry for them.
“I…it was after the war….”
“Go on.”
“It was when I was still in a wheelchair and beginning in politics. I could walk, but I was still unsteady.” Hazleton swallowed, his throat dry. “There was a meeting of constituents, just a small group. They’d seen me on and off in the wheelchair in the early days, but I was walking. Then I stumbled, came a cropper in front of everyone. It was awful. I wondered what they must have thought.”
“I am sure they had the utmost compassion—after all, anyone can fall.”
“But not a politician!” Hazleton’s voice cracked as he went on. “I lost my footing and could not face it happening again, and Charmaine”—he looked at his wife, a gaze followed by Maisie, who had now got the measure of the delicate balance in their relationship—“Charmaine said it would be best to use the wheelchair when I was out and to walk only in the house, just in case.”
“I see.”
“And there was more. It seemed as if the image of the crippled MP meant something to people. It seemed to stand for what everyone had been through, I suppose. In any case, I became convinced that the fact I was wheelchair-bound helped me to become popular, to win my seat. My wife was another reason. A politician cannot survive without the right people behind him. If my friendship with Ralph came out….” He reached for his wife and held her hand.
Maisie pressed on, touching her forehead. “You could have killed me.”
“We had so much to lose!” Charmaine Hazleton drew her hand to her mouth.
“What about tampering with my motor car last Saturday morning?”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hazleton seemed genuinely perplexed.
A trickle of perspiration ran from Maisie’s forehead as she began to understand that the amateurish attempts by the Hazletons did not run to interfering with motor cars. “And what about on the tube? Was Goodge Street your only visit to the underground in your attempts to kill me?”