“Your mother died of natural causes. A postmortem indicated an enlarged heart, and her medical examination upon reception at Holloway revealed an irregular heartbeat, so—”
“An enlarged heart! Yes, she did have an enlarged heart. It was filled with grief, then when there was still room in that heart she tried to help people. Of course she had an enlarged heart. The body does as the soul moves it!”
Maisie’s throat was dry. Though she would have loved to sip the cool water, she knew her retort must be quick. “She tricked poor widows out of their savings. She worked with two others—Frances Sinden and Margaret Awkright—to commit a crime. A dead soldier’s young widow was brought so low by their dealings that she took her own life! Miss Nelson, you must understand, your mother, Sinden, and Awkright acted in a fraudulent manner.” Maisie paused, frustrated. “You were just a child, after all.”
The woman flared, her hair almost silver against a complexion that mirrored her volatility. “I was fourteen! I was old enough to know what was going on, and I remember you.” She poked a finger at Maisie. “Yes, you. In court.” She barely choked back her fury. “I remember you in court, giving your evidence, turning to the jury with those big eyes to talk about the bereaved. I’ll tell you who was bereaved: My mother was bereaved when my father died in France, that’s who was bereaved. She tried to help herself and others in the only way she knew.”
Maisie placed the glass on the table. “She did not have your gift.”
“You killed her!” Nelson stood up and crossed her arms, clutching her elbows as if to soothe herself.
Maisie was silent. In her mind’s eye she saw the image in her dream of her mother reaching out to her while holding the hand of a girl in the shadows. Did I deny this girl a mother’s love? She began to falter but reminded herself that she must not let down her guard. She stood up and looked at Nelson directly. “I did not kill your mother. I was acting in the best interests of the innocent bereaved victims who had been tormented—tormented by the actions of three very misguided individuals. You were too young, and too impressionable to see the truth.”
Nelson leaned closer to Maisie. “Truth? You speak to me of truth? You self-serving creature, you. I will tell you truth. My mother died in a rat-infested damp prison cell with common criminals, with prostitutes, with murderers. A woman with an enlarged heart died with the dregs of London, and I loved her. I adored her.” Her voice caught. “And I vowed that one day, one day, I would call you and that horrible old man to account.” She leaned her head back and began to laugh, stopping suddenly to speak again. “Oh, how I was blessed when you came here to me, how I feasted upon my good fortune! I had been biding my time, but Fate brought you to me and I knew my moment had come.”
“Miss Nelson—Adele.” Maisie realized the woman was barely listening to her, intent only upon what she had to say, words that had been rehearsed every day for almost ten years. She walked to the window, playing for time, wondering how she might pacify a woman so blinded by grief she could barely see. Turning, she spoke. “Miss—”
“You witch!” Adele Nelson was pointing a small ivory-handled pistol directly at Maisie, her eyes blazing, her red lips drawn back across her teeth. In the other hand she held her glass of water, which she raised to her mouth, still focused on her quarry.
Maisie did not move, did not shout, did not cry out in terror, instead drawing upon every lesson from Khan, to ensure that each cell in her body remained calm. Fighting the urge to move too soon, she assumed instead a look of concern, as she would if encountering a child with a grazed knee after a fall.
Nelson laughed, raising the pistol, her finger unsteady around the trigger.
“Adele, don’t be silly, love.” Maisie heard the words come from her mouth, heard herself speak as her own mother might have spoken, so softly, seeing not a woman blinded by the need for revenge but a young girl alone in court, a girl who stared at her as she gave evidence and who, afterward, was left alone to make her way in the world without a soul to accompany her. Then, as Nelson drew back the trigger, slowly, her eyes now duller, Maisie realized that the time for talking had passed. She could soothe neither the woman’s aching heart nor her tormented soul.
As Nelson’s index finger moved again, almost imperceptibly, Maisie launched her whole body at the woman, clutching her wrist as she lunged, raising the pistol into the air. A single shot cracked, and Maisie cried out “Stratton!”
A flurry of activity ensued, the police crashing into the room as Maisie knelt to the ground beside the woman who had called herself Madeleine Hartnell.
“Blimey, she ’ad a gun!” Billy crouched beside Maisie. “You all right, Miss?”
“Yes.” She turned, looking up to Stratton. “Why didn’t you come in earlier? Surely you’d heard enough?”
Stratton reached toward Maisie’s shoulder and pulled her back, kneeling next to Nelson. He pressed two fingers to her carotid pulse, her skin soft against his rough hand. “She’s gone.”
“I know she’s gone, but she didn’t have to do this….”
Stratton stood up and, taking Maisie by the elbow, pulled her aside as Caldwell and the woman went to work, securing the room and using the radios to summon assistance and the pathologist. “I was about to come in.”
Maisie shook her head. “She could have been saved. It did not have to be like this.”
Stratton turned to face Maisie directly. “No, it did not have to be, but it was. And she had every intention of killing herself. It was not your glass that was poisoned, it was hers.”
Maisie looked once more at the lifeless body of Adele Nelson, then walked over to the tray.
“Oi! Don’t touch that, it’s needed for evidence.”
She ignored Caldwell and picked up the glass of water that Adele Nelson had poured for her. She dipped her little finger into the liquid and then touched it with the tip of her tongue. She shook her head and turned to Stratton. “You’re wrong, Inspector. She meant to kill us both.”
EPILOGUE
October and November 1930
The rest of the month allowed Maisie little time on her own, with many hours spent at Scotland Yard before being able to begin the process of putting the cases of the past weeks behind her. The MG had been returned in full working order, and Maisie was once again driving around London and Kent with ever-growing confidence. She wanted desperately to spend time at Chelstone with her father and in Hastings with Dene, but she knew she could not rest until she had completed her final accounting. It was a task made urgent by daily telephone calls from Dene.
She delivered her final report to Sir Cecil Lawton and, though the meeting was brief, saw a man who was now at peace. Maisie found herself hoping for a time when there would be no cause for a man and his son to be divided in such a way, but now, reflecting upon the look on the man’s face, which so resembled that of his son when the younger man spoke of his life in Biarritz, she felt less unease in her decision, though she knew there would always be an element of doubt.
On the return journey from Cambridge, Maisie drove past the house where Jeremy Hazleton lived with his wife. The house bore a banner outside promoting Hazleton, the tenacious public servant. At a recent rally, he had spoken of his fight to walk following the wounds sustained at the Battle of Passchendaele. Using a cane for support, he reached for his wife’s hand and talked to the crowd of his fears, of the resilience a wounded veteran needed to undertake even the simplest tasks. He was outspoken, demanding greater support for the soldiers who had come home injured—and for those who cared for them, as his dear wife had cared for him. Barely referring to his notes, he repeated his commitment to the disenfranchised and outlined a new course, pressing home the need for more help for the many homeless children in London, the young girls forced into a life on the streets, the boys who became hardened criminals before they had reached manhood. He spoke eloquently of new measures to stop those who traded on the young down-and-outs and promised to devote a considerable amount of parl
iamentary time in putting an end to such abuse. He vowed that his voice would become louder and louder until this work was done. His speech over, he was helped from the podium, walking into the cheering throng who gathered around. In private he knew that he dare not draw back, for not only was Maisie Dobbs in the crowd listening to his every word that day but she would be following his career closely in the months and years to come.
Maisie visited two graves to pay her respects. At the grave of Agnes Lawton, she placed fresh flowers and whispered, “He is alive. You can rest.” Later, in the cemetery at Balham, Maisie stood with Mrs. Kemp as Adele Nelson was buried, then placed a single rose on the grave as she walked away. The funeral over, a plain stone memorial bore not her assumed name but the name her mother had given her on the day she was born.
Avril Jarvis did not return to her home in Taunton immediately but was instead taken to Khan’s school in Hampstead, to be healed with compassion and guided by those who would help renew her broken young spirit. Maisie had known instinctively that Avril had certain gifts that must be given room to flourish in the light, unlike Adele Nelson, who had never found peace, living instead in a dark hell. And Maisie knew that she would not rest until she found peace with the outcome of her work. In her years of working alongside Maurice, she had learned that such atonement could come slowly, with a recognition of lessons learned along the way.
Maurice remained in London before returning to Chelstone, more from concern for Maisie’s well-being than his own needs. They spent time together in quiet conversation, each working to repair the fabric of their friendship, so that the past might be remembered with warmth as they worked with the fresh canvas to create a bond for the future. They both knew that her trust in him remained compromised and understood that what had happened could not be undone, only accommodated. But the rupture had brought with it an unanticipated gift. Maisie now felt more independent of her teacher, better able to trust her instincts rather than harking back to her apprenticeship. Yet she knew, too, that to continue her recovery she would need his guidance. She was not out of the woods.
She collected the keys to her new ground-floor flat at the end of October, her hand shaking as she signed the many papers required for purchase of the property in Pimlico. A letter from Priscilla was handed to her following completion of all necessary documents.
My dear Maisie,
However can I thank you; I shall be forever in your debt. It was most unfair of me to land you with the task of finding Peter’s final resting place, but as you probably guessed, I could not do it myself. Not only would I not know where to start, but if anyone were to undertake the search for me, I wanted it to be someone I trusted, and I would trust you with my life, Maisie Dobbs.
I am now a loving aunt to my brother’s wonderful daughter, even if I say so myself. I have learned to be a bit more restrained around old Chantal, though I do believe she thinks my boys should have been beaten like carpets long ago! I am sure you will adore your new flat, and I am thrilled that my solicitors could help you. In fact, I wanted you to have this letter today because it’s such a wonderful day, and I am so delighted for you! Congratulations, Maisie, on your new home! I cannot wait to see it and am sure it will make me hunger for the single life, though that’s just between us.
Douglas, the boys and I will all be in Sainte-Marie for Armistice Day. I’ve had a memorial placed in the woods close to the Clement estate. It so reminds me of England, I can just see Peter walking there to feel as if he were at home. The stone memorial will be placed at the foot of a huge old oak tree. Peter was a magical person, he cast a spell over everyone who met him, so he deserves to be remembered in such a place.
Well, I must go now, the boys…
Maisie closed the letter, replaced it in the envelope and tucked it among the papers she pushed into her document case. She would read it in full later. Shaking hands with the clerks, Maisie thanked them, commenting that she knew they must have worked very hard to secure the mortgage on her behalf, as she was more than aware of her position as a spinster. As she left, the men turned to each other and smiled. Their client, the very wealthy Mrs. Partridge, had given strict instructions that Miss Dobbs must never know that her mortgage was guaranteed by the Evernden family trust.
MAISIE LEFT HER office early on Monday, in the second week of November, for an uncustomary midweek visit to Dene in Hastings and her father at Chelstone on the return journey. But before she closed the door behind her she left a small package on Billy Beale’s desk. She knew he would be embarrassed by the gift, would run his cap through his hands as he thanked her later. She would tell him that the gift was really in the interests of the business, another tool in their work together. But he would be touched by the gesture anyway.
The sea air in Hastings whisked over the clifftops as Maisie strolled with Andrew on the East Hill, stopping to look down across the Old Town. Clouds in a myriad of shades of gray scudded across the sky. Though it was not raining, the wind was full of cold moisture as it whipped up, causing Maisie to clutch at her hat.
“You’ll lose that thing if you’re not careful. I told you it would be better to go without.”
Maisie laughed as she finally gave up, pulling the hat from her head and releasing her black hair to blow around her face. She turned to him as he placed an arm around her shoulders. “So, are you going to reveal the surprise? You’ve kept it to yourself long enough now.” She swallowed, wanting the “surprise” to be over and done with so that she could respond and then deal with whatever came next.
“Oh, yes, that.” Dene grinned at her, as his fringe flopped into his eyes. “I held back—thought I’d wait until all that France business was over. Well now, I don’t know if you will like this, but I’m hoping you will.”
“Go on.” Maisie smiled weakly.
“Well, I’m delighted, to tell you the truth.”
“About what?”
“About the fact that starting in the new year I will be lecturing in orthopedic medicine at St. Thomas’s.” Dene’s grin seemed to fill his cheeks. “But don’t you worry, Miss Maisie-Dobbs-about-town, it’s not a full-time position. In fact, I will only be seeing my students once every fortnight and for special courses, so I won’t be breathing down your neck when I’m in London.” He continued, barely taking a breath. “It’s a wonderful opportunity, all as a result of that paper I wrote on rehabilitation of spinal injuries. The Board of Governors at All Saints are very enthusiastic, of course—it helps the hospital’s reputation—so everything is on the up-and-up, as they say!”
“Oh, Andrew, I am just thrilled for you. It will be lovely to have you in London.” Maisie spoke the words honestly, for she knew that Dene lifted her spirits and brought a brightness to her life that she had not felt in years.
Dene smiled at her, then frowned in mock seriousness. “I suppose you could be having your cake and eating it, eh, Maisie?”
“I suppose.” She teased him in return.
Dene pulled Maisie to him and kissed her. “Well, that will do for now.”
Maisie pulled away, taking his hand. “Come on, let’s get some fish and chips. I know it’s early, but I’m starving!”
As they walked down the steps to Tackleway, and then through a twitten to Rock-a-Nore, where the fishing boats had been hauled up onto the beach following the morning’s catch, Maisie remembered Priscilla’s comment about Andrew Dene.
“Andrew, I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but—”
“Uh-oh, never at rest, eh, Maisie? Go on, fire away!”
“Well, why haven’t you ever married? I’m sure you’ve had plenty of opportunities.”
Dene paused and reddened slightly. “I confess, I have come close to popping the question, but, you know, the life of a doctor is not always conducive to partnership, although the job here is better than working full-time at a London hospital. To tell you the truth, whenever I thought about it, my next thought was that I could be jumping the gun, that the perfect woman for me mi
ght be just around the corner, and I realized that the girl I was with was not the one for me if I was thinking in that way. My reticence told me that I was unsure, which just wasn’t right. And I know—lucky old me to be in that position. It boils down to something my mother said about a cousin who was getting married following a very short courtship: Marry in haste, repent at leisure. And I never was one for repenting, you know.” Dene began to laugh and the wind whipped up again as they walked along the seafront. “Is that a good enough answer for you, Maisie?”
“Yes, it’s good enough, Andrew.”
“Of course, there’s another reason, you know.”
“What’s that?”
He looked out across the sea then, his unruly brown hair flying up into his eyes again. “I’m really a Bermondsey boy, ain’t I?” He grinned as he affected the accent of his boyhood, then grew serious. “And not everyone can understand how I came from there to here, if you know what I mean.”
Maisie turned from him and began to walk toward the fish and chip shop, then looked back to Dene and smiled, holding out her hand.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, November 11, at twenty past ten, Andrew Dene switched on the wireless so they could listen together as the correct time was broadcast from Greenwich at half past the hour for the nation to synchronize watches in readiness for the two-minute silence at eleven o’clock. Maisie looked at her watch and imagined Billy Beale taking out his new wristwatch, then checking to ensure he had the correct time. After pressing bright red fabric poppies into each other’s lapels alongside their service medals, Maisie and Andrew, respectfully dressed in black, made their way to the war memorial. Once there, they joined with other townsfolk in the Armistice Day ceremony to remember the local boys and men who had died in the Great War. When the names of the fallen were read aloud, Maisie looked around her. People were pressing handkerchiefs to their eyes, perhaps nodding as a name was read, or squeezing the hand of a woman who had lost her husband, a couple their son, a child her father. Maisie leaned against Andrew as the speeches were made and prayers said, remembering the events of the past two months, of those whose lives she had touched who had already experienced wartime’s cruel hand of death. She thought of children orphaned, of Avril Jarvis and Madeleine Hartnell, of Pascale Clement. She thought of those who had risked their lives, of Peter Evernden, of Ralph Lawton, and of the wounded Jeremy Hazleton.