Khan’s students came from all over the world, accommodated in the many rooms of the large house. In addition to the young men and women who stayed for months at a time, Khan held daily audiences with others who sought his counsel. Those who came represented a broad spectrum of influence, be they men of politics, commerce, or the cloth; it was from such sources that bills for upkeep of the house and property were paid—though the material needs of its occupants were few.
The young man entered again, and Maisie was led to Khan’s rooms. The reception room was much as she remembered it as a girl, though today the floor-to-ceiling windows were closed and the white curtains did not billow majestically as they had on that first visit. She removed her shoes before entering the spartan room. Khan sat cross-legged on cushions, positioned so he faced outward, to the natural light. Maisie moved toward him, and as she came closer he turned. She took the wizened clawlike hand extended to her and leaned forward to brush her lips against his forehead.
“I am glad you are in my house again, Maisie Dobbs.”
“And I too, Khan.”
“You have only a short time, no doubt.”
“Yes.”
Khan nodded as Maisie silently knelt on a cushion close to him and then sat with her legs to the side. She rested one hand on the floor and smiled at Khan, and though he could not see her, he turned to her once more and smiled. As he faced the window again, Maisie saw a single fly land on his forehead and crawl to his ear and then his nose before flying away into the room. Khan did not even flinch. She knew she would have to speak first, and that her words must be from the heart.
“I am afraid, Khan.”
He nodded.
“I have been asked to take on a case that I feel—no, I fear—will compromise my spirit. I do not feel on safe ground with this work, even though I have my practice, my stillness. And I have no evidence of such a threat, though I am required to be in communication with those who claim to open channels to the other side.”
There was silence in the room. Then Khan spoke.
“Then what moves you to take this work?”
“I…well, at first I had thought to decline; however, a young girl needs legal representation, and it appeared that I could secure counsel for her as part of my payment.”
Khan lifted his head as the sun warmed the windowpanes. “And which young girl are you helping?” It might have been Maurice talking.
Maisie’s eyes became moist as she blurted out her confession. “I have missed her so much, Khan, so very much. I’ve always known she was with me, really, and I didn’t want my father to feel he couldn’t be everything to me, I didn’t want him to know I grieved so deeply for my mother. Then, when he almost died, I—”
Khan turned to her, and she began to sob.
“I want to help this girl. I can’t bear it that she could end up incarcerated for the rest of her life. That she be sent away….” Maisie fought to compose herself. “And I have been afraid that if I go to France, the memories—”
Khan allowed her to weep, her shoulders shaking as he laid a hand upon her head. Then he spoke.
“My child, when a mountain appears on the journey, we try to go to the left, then to the right; we try to find the easy way to navigate our way back to the easier path.” He paused. “But the mountain is there to be crossed. It is on that pilgrimage, as we climb higher, that we are forced to shed the layers upon layers we have carried for so long. Then we find that our load is lighter and we have come to know something of ourselves in the perilous climb.”
Maisie looked up as he spoke, his melodious voice compelling her to listen carefully.
“Do not seek to avoid the mountain, my child, for it has been placed there at a perfect time. It will only become larger if you seek to delay or draw back from the ascent.”
Maisie said nothing, but she moved away and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her eyes and nose.
“Know that you are protected, child. That in your practice and belief lies your strength.” Khan closed his eyes and appeared to be sleeping. He was a very old man, and he was tired, but he had one final message. “And you are blessed, both in those who protect you, and in those you seek to protect.”
Maisie came silently to her feet, kissed Khan once more on the forehead, and walked away, slipping on her shoes at the door before leaving the room. A student escorted her to the front door, and she pressed a half-crown into his hand. He bowed, turned, and was gone. The door closed behind her. The mountain loomed ahead. She squared her shoulders to face it. Yes, but what do I believe in?
MAISIE ARRIVED AT the Strand Palace Hotel ten minutes late for her appointment with Priscilla. Though the country was in an economic slump, the modern hotel, with its silver revolving doors and ultramodern design, welcomed guests into a land of optimism, if only for a night, for dinner, or for a cocktail. Priscilla was standing in the lobby waiting. Wearing a slate-gray costume, clearly from an expensive Paris atelier, with matching shoes and bag, she seemed to be observing those who came and went, confident in their admiring glances yet somewhat amused by her surroundings. She saw Maisie and smiled. Maisie noticed immediately that Priscilla carried a large brown envelope.
“Darling!” Priscilla pressed her cheek to Maisie’s, then drew back. “Whatever is the matter with you, Maisie? First, I have never known you to be late in your life and, second, you look like hell.”
“Don’t spare me, Pris.” Maisie straightened. Why did she always feel so small next to Priscilla, even though she loved her friend?
“Are you ill?”
“No. Look, let’s have some lunch. I’m just a bit busy, that’s all.”
“Hmmph! I hope that doctor hasn’t turned out to be a cad.”
Maisie looked around for the dining room. “No, of course not. I’ve just taken on a lot of work recently.”
“Over here.” Priscilla linked her arm through Maisie’s and led the way. “You know what I think? I really do think you need a holiday. Come to Biarritz, Maisie. I’m sure your Billy and your doctor will be able to do without you for a couple of weeks.”
Maisie shook her head as they were seated. “Not a chance, I’m afraid.”
Priscilla raised an eyebrow as she reached into her bag and took out her cigarette holder and a packet of cigarettes. She pressed a cigarette into the holder and lit it with a silver monogrammed lighter that she placed on the table, drawing deeply through the holder. She looked closely at Maisie. Then she reached forward and extinguished the cigarette, leaving the holder in an ashtray.
“You know what I think, Maisie?”
Maisie sighed. “I’m all right, Priscilla.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway, like it or not. Number one, you need a holiday. No two ways about it. If your idea of fun is a weekend with a country doctor while thinking about your work non-stop, it’s about time you had a few more options to choose from.”
Maisie opened her mouth to speak, but Priscilla raised her hand.
“I haven’t finished yet. The other thing I think you should do is get a place of your own—a flat or something.”
“But it’s not as if I haven’t done that before.”
“No, you haven’t, not really. Think about it. You came back from France, recuperated from your injuries—and remember, I know all about wounds—returned to Girton to complete your studies, and of course you spent some time in Scotland, didn’t you? At that gruesome place, what was it, where you worked with some of Maurice Blanche’s cronies? The Department of Legal Medicine. Ugh! Then you came back to London to work for Blanche. And where did you live then? You went straight to Lambeth, where you lived in a rented room for years. Lambeth. Back to the womb, so to speak. There was that little sojourn in a room next to your office in Warren Street; how you could ever have lived in such a place is beyond me. Then you went to live at Ebury Place at Lady Rowan’s insistence, to the home of ‘she who couldn’t come out and say that she really wanted to give you something’ but, ins
tead, couched the invitation as if you were a sort of unpaid overseer while they were away in Kent. All very nice, I must say, but you’ve kept to the safe places, haven’t you? If you don’t watch it, you’ll end up living in a dusty old beamed cottage in Sussex.”
Maisie looked at Priscilla, who shrugged her shoulders, placed a fresh cigarette in the holder, and proceeded to smoke for a moment, saying nothing. Eventually, Maisie broke the silence.
“Not everyone gets the opportunity to have a flat in town on their own, you know. Most women go straight from their father’s home to their husband’s, and a good many live under their in-laws’ roof for a few years before being able to afford the rent on their own flat, if they’re lucky.”
“There you go again, sackcloth and ashes! But you are different, Maisie. A professional woman. You’ve worked pretty damn hard, so for goodness’ sake, enjoy a bit more freedom before Sir Lancelot comes racing up on his charger and drags you off. And, not to digress, but I must say I’d like to know why he’s still a bachelor. After all, it’s not as if there aren’t enough available spinsters. But back to my point—frankly, I’m glad I had a few years on my own, even though it wasn’t exactly my best time.”
Maisie wanted desperately to change the subject. “What’s in the envelope?”
“I’ll get to that in a moment. I haven’t finished yet.” Priscilla waved the waiter away for the second time, then called him back to ask for two gin and tonics. Maisie opened her mouth to protest, but the waiter left the table. “Look,” Priscilla continued. “I’ve decided to invest in some property. It appears I have to, according to my advisers. My inheritance was pulled out of stocks in the nick of time, I really must do something constructive with it, and there’s nothing more constructive than bricks and mortar, is there? I want to buy a couple of flats, perhaps a mews cottage in Chelsea—now there’s an ideal location for a professional woman.”
“But if I rent from you, it’ll be like living at Ebury Place, Priscilla!”
“Not at all. It’s…it’s younger, for a start. None of this crusty old nonsense. Victoria, God bless her cotton socks, is dead. Move on, Maisie.”
“Let’s talk about the envelope. I know it’s for me.”
“All right.” Priscilla rested the cigarette holder on the ashtray, her hands shaking, and leaned toward Maisie. “I’ll come back to my point later.” She picked up the envelope. “It’s to do with Peter.”
Maisie noticed Priscilla’s knuckles become white as she clutched the envelope, and as she began to speak it was not with her usual strong authoritative voice but with a stutter, as if she did not know quite where to begin.
“I—well, I have…no, let me start again.” Priscilla opened the envelope and closed it again. “I have been pondering, you know, since our supper together. I’ve been thinking about asking a favor of you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You see, I think—no, I hope you might be able to help me.” Priscilla reached for her drink. “Look, Maisie, I know you are terribly busy, and I wouldn’t ask if it were not fiercely important to me—to my family—and it’s really only if you are coming to France after all, as you suggested….”
Maisie frowned, observing the tears in her friend’s eyes. “What on earth is it, Pris?”
“It was when you first mentioned this case you are working on and having to go to France. A light went on, and—”
“But how can I help you, Pris?”
“I think…no, I know I must find out where Peter was lost. I’ve wanted to know for ages, wanted to put his memory to rest, lay a few flowers by the nearest village memorial, that sort of thing. I’ve paid my visit to Pat and Phil’s graves, ages ago, but Peter still lingers. For a long time I’ve felt I must do this, if not for me then for my boys, so they know it’s important that I don’t let these things go.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I understand.”
Priscilla waved to the waiter and ordered another drink; then she turned back to Maisie. “I know this isn’t really up your street—I mean, there’s no criminal here to track down—but when you mentioned this case of yours it struck me—I mean, I thought that if you were taking on this sort of thing, you might be able to find where Peter was lost.”
Maisie breathed in deeply. In truth, she did not want to accept such an assignment, even an informal one for a dear friend, any more than she really wanted to prove Lawton’s son dead. She thought that if her mentor, Dr. Maurice Blanche, were to counsel her, he would draw attention to the fact that both calls for help pointed in the direction of France and that there might be something there for her, something for her to learn about herself. She was about to decline, but looked at Priscilla and saw the appeal so clearly etched in her eyes and mirrored in her tension. It was an appeal that touched her heart.
Maisie bit the inside of her lip and thought for a moment longer, picked up her drink and swirled the liquid around without raising the glass to her lips, and looked at Priscilla again.
“Look, Pris, I’ll do what I can for you, but don’t expect any results by a certain time. This must be an informal assignment. It’s the best I can do, the most I can promise.”
Priscilla beamed and reached across the table, taking Maisie’s hands in her own. “Oh, Maisie, that’s good enough for me. I cannot thank you enough. I know it’s a terrible imposition, and I wouldn’t do it if it weren’t—”
Maisie released her hand from Priscilla’s grasp and pointed to the envelope. “So, what have you got for me to look at?”
Priscilla reached into the envelope and began to pass various documents to Maisie one by one. “These are letters after Peter enlisted. He was in Surrey somewhere. They are mainly to my parents, but there’s a couple to me, before I joined the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry.” Priscilla reached into the envelope for more letters. “And these are from France. You can always tell the ones from France; the ink gets noticeably thinner. I think the shops must have had such a run on it they watered it down to make it go farther.” She shrugged, then continued. “Now, these are from England again. From a barracks in Southampton, from which it would seem he made trips to London for courses.”
“Promotion?” asked Maisie.
“I really don’t know. I do know that his communiqués were extremely brief, and he commented that he really didn’t have much time to write.”
“Not surprising, really.”
“Then here are a few more from France.” Priscilla passed the letters to Maisie, becoming quiet as she clutched a final piece of paper. “Oh, blast! It does this to me every time, every single time, no matter how many times I look at the bloody thing!” She took a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “This was the last letter my parents received from him. Just a half page of nothing much at all.”
Maisie took the letter and looked back and forth through the envelopes. “Priscilla, it seems he was in France for some time before the final telegram was received, yet there are only three or four letters postmarked quite close together after he went over again. Of course, we’re assuming this is his last letter.”
Priscilla shrugged. “Yes, I’d noticed the same thing. I expect Mother and Father burned them. I understand they burned all subsequent letters from the Army.”
“But why only the ones for that second posting? Why not all of them?”
Priscilla looked at Maisie directly. “Frankly, I haven’t a clue. Why do people do what they do, especially in a time like that? Perhaps he didn’t actually write any more, though I have to say that would surprise me, knowing Peter; he was always talking, always had a story to tell. But then I thought I’d be writing to my brothers all the time, ‘The Dastardly Wartime Exploits of Priscilla the Younger,’ but apart from a letter here and there I frankly fell exhausted into my bed, such as it was, every single night.”
“Well, I certainly assumed Peter was the sort to write often. From everything you’ve told me, I would have thought he’d have a lot to say.” Maisie inclined her
head and frowned, her curiosity piqued.
“Well, yes. But…oh, I don’t know, Maisie. I just want to know where he might have died, and seeing as I don’t have a ‘regret-to-inform’ letter, I am completely in the dark.”
Maisie collected the papers and placed them in the envelope once again. “Well, this may surprise you, but considering the terror and chaos, fairly good records were kept. It’s interesting that you haven’t been able to locate the information.” She smiled at Priscilla, knowingly yet kindly, for she knew her friend had probably not tried particularly hard to procure details pertaining to Peter Evernden’s death.
Priscilla was thoughtful. “The only thing I can say that might help is that I heard from my parents—this was just before I went over to France—that Peter was being transferred to another job and he was very excited about it. Then the next thing you know, he’d clammed up and they were dying to know what he was doing. My father had a map pinned to one wall of his study so he could follow, as best he could, all four of us. After Southampton he had nowhere to put Peter, because he didn’t know where he was sent next, and I was certainly never told anything about where he went missing. Then, of course, the pins came off one by one until I was the only one left.” Priscilla had relighted her cigarette while speaking; now she drew deeply, blowing a smoke ring as she exhaled. “I came home, Father rolled up the map, and that was that.”
Maisie allowed a silence to seep into the space between Priscilla and herself. She could not help but be drawn by parallels in the two requests, one from a stranger and one from her dearest friend. One inspired by the other. Two men dead in France, two grieving relatives unable to rest, one of whom she loved dearly. She reached over and placed her hand on Priscilla’s arm. “I’ll do everything I can to find out where he was lost, Pris. Now then, come on, let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.” Maisie stared at Priscilla until she turned to her. “And I want to talk to you a bit more about finding a flat. But I don’t want to live in someone else’s property. I’ve been saving my money and I’ve paid off my motor car. I think I want a home of my own.”