Priscilla beamed a mischievous smile, as Maisie knew she would.
“Excellent!”
NINE
Maisie did not return to Ebury Place directly after seeing Priscilla but, instead, decided to consider where she might live, if she moved. There were other things to think about too.
Dusk was descending as she made her way to the Embankment. She loved to walk by the water, though when the tide was out the Thames mud was less than fragrant. Pondering the luncheon with her friend, Maisie wondered why she always found herself giving in to Priscilla whenever they met: One minute she was full of resolve, the next she could hear herself agreeing that a flat of her own was the best thing in the world for her, while at the same time knowing that she would have given the idea short shrift if she were alone or if anyone else had made the suggestion—Maurice notwithstanding. Not only that, but she had found herself agreeing to visit Priscilla in Biarritz when she went to France. But Maisie loved Priscilla and, after all was said and done, she valued her honest opinion, which she was never slow to offer. Without doubt, they were chalk and cheese, but there was a bond that no one could deny. And she had missed her.
Priscilla had said Maisie should draw up a list of attributes her new home should have. Maisie pulled her jacket collar up as a chill breeze nipped at her neck. It was the sort of thing she would have suggested herself, yet apart from being near the water, she really didn’t know what she liked in terms of a place to live. Her accommodations had always been something of a fait accompli, established already rather than chosen to reflect her own tastes. What do I want? Priscilla had decreed that her flat must be close to places where she could go to meet people, a social set.
Turning back, Maisie was now walking in the murky darkness with only the streetlamps for guidance. It would not take long to provide answers to Priscilla’s questions, once she consulted Peter’s records at the War Office Repository, a task she would get out of the way as soon as possible. Maisie considered what sort of training Peter might have been undergoing, especially as he was brought back from France to complete his promotion, if that’s what it was.
Billy would be back on Monday with news of his investigation into the Jarvis girl’s background, and she would also be driving up to Cambridgeshire, to the childhood home of Ralph Lawton. This weekend she would see Maurice on her return from visiting Andrew Dene. She would tell him of her plans to go to France, probably within the next few weeks. Of course she would tell Andrew first, after he had shared the surprise he had mentioned. She wondered about that surprise and hoped very much that it would not be one to force her hand in a way that upset them both.
“OH, M’UM, THERE’S been a telephone call for you, from Dr. Dene.” Sandra reached for Maisie’s coat as she entered through the front door of the Compton mansion at Ebury Place.
“Really? What did he say?”
“Very sorry he was, m’um. Said to tell you he’d been called out in an emergency. Apparently there was an accident on a building site this afternoon, lots of back and leg work, so he said, and he’s been summoned to Hastings General to assist in the circumstances. He’ll be busy all weekend.”
“Oh, dear.” Maisie hoped the relief was not as visible on her face as she felt inside.
“I bet you were looking forward to the weekend away, m’um. You’ve been working hard lately.” Sandra curtsied and began to walk away as Maisie moved toward the stairs.
Thinking quickly, Maisie turned and stepped back into the entrance hall. “You know, Sandra, I think I might not stay in London in any case, so no need to count on my being here this weekend. My bag is ready, so I’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning for Cambridgeshire; it’s just the opportunity I need to see a client at home.”
“Right you are, m’um.”
HAVING TELEPHONED HER father to explain why she would have to postpone the fortnightly visit that had become her routine since his accident in the summer, Maisie made sure that she packed the collection of letters from Ralph Lawton to his parents, most of which were sent specifically to his mother, though there were one or two addressed to his father. She also flicked through Peter Evernden’s correspondence again, replaced the items in the brown envelope, and packed them alongside the other notes and files in her bag. The Lawton country home was in the village of Farthing, about five miles outside Cambridge. She hadn’t been back to the area since her Girton years.
Lord Compton had left Ebury Place for Kent, and once again Maisie was alone. It was unusual for her to have a Friday evening with nothing to do. Not that she was ever idle; no, finding something to do was never an issue to contend with. Yet as she undressed, ran a bath, and lounged in her dressing gown for a while, Maisie sat in the armchair close by the window and sighed. A holiday in Biarritz. She had never had a proper holiday, not a real going-away holiday for which special clothes were packed and salt sea air or long walks in the country anticipated. Before her mother was taken ill, a holiday was two weeks spent picking hops in Kent in September or a few days with her grandparents on her mother’s side. Later in life, her grandfather had taken a job on the waterways as a lockmaster, so the Dobbs family would travel by train to Marlow and then by bus to the hamlet where her grandparents lived in a small cottage alongside the canal.
Now Maisie smiled at the memory, for her grandparents and her mother were long gone. It seemed that with them had gone any inclination to go away on holiday.
She knew she had been driven, at first to forget the war, then to complete her education. She had been determined to excel in her work with Maurice Blanche, and now her energy was directed into making her business a success. Maisie strove to bring each case to a close in a way that ensured that those whose lives she had touched were at peace with the outcome of her endeavors, as far as such a thing might be possible. But there had been no break in that work, except for a day or two here and there and, for several months now, alternate weekends when she spent a day either in Kent with her father or with Andrew Dene in Sussex. They were weekends when she always took work along in her bag, and her thoughts were never far from her office.
She thought of the posters adorning the railway platforms, the temptation to travel overseas that greeted her as she reached the turn-stile at Warren Street station. Hadn’t it been the same since the war, with those who could afford such forays traveling via ship, train, motor car and aeroplane—to the Riviera, to Africa, to the Mediterranean, or even to Devon and Cornwall? Not that travel was expensive, for the ships of war had been converted for civilian use and prices had tumbled. But one had to have some independent wealth to have the time to travel, so Maisie had ignored those compelling illustrations of a grand ship’s prow or a deep azure sea seen through the branches of an orange tree: the lure of travel to take away memories of trenches, of cold, mud, and blood. For those who are free to leave.
And here she was on a Friday evening with nothing to do unless she worked. Or read, which was of course her other distraction; the quest to learn, to expand her knowledge of the world without taking another step overseas. Perhaps that was why her meditation practice had suffered, for Maisie did not always like the message she heard when she was alone at the end of the day. It was a voice that spoke of her isolation and of her choosing not to move beyond the boundaries of those worlds in which she felt a modicum of safety. What was it that Maurice said, one of his favorite challenges? Seek the opportunity to swim beyond your own little pond. She knew every reed, mud-bank, and fish in her pond. Perhaps it was time to look for that flat after all, sooner rather than later.
After bathing, Maisie telephoned the Lawton residence, expecting Sir Cecil to be there. He was known to enjoy various country pursuits and also the company of a circle of academics with whom he dined at weekends. Lawton agreed to her proposed visit to the house in order to look through Ralph’s belongings, personal items that had been saved by his wife, who had believed that her son would return one day. Maisie was extended an invitation to be a guest at the house, but k
nowing that the offer was one of protocol, and in the spirit of her musings on travel, she declined in favor of staying at a good hotel—after all, she had been given a generous expense allowance in advance. Yes, she would splash out, she would spoil herself.
ON SATURDAY MORNING, Billy telephoned, just as Maisie was pulling on her coat, ready to leave Ebury Place.
“Billy, how are you?” Maisie took the call in the library.
“Awright, doin’ well, Miss. Yourself?”
“I’m well. Now then, what news?”
“Turns out Avril Jarvis is from that family. This is what I’ve found out so far: There’s four kids, Avril’s the oldest, but the others ain’t fully related.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her real dad was killed in the war. She never knew ’im, because she weren’t born when ’e went back over there after bein’ ’ome on leave. Mrs. Jarvis was married again after the war to a fella who was in the town lookin’ for work. Little Avril was about four at the time.”
“Go on.”
“The family have gone through difficult times—mind you, so ’ave a lot of people, ’aven’t they?”
“Billy….”
“Well, I’ve found out that the father—the second one, that is—was in some trouble with the law. Done time: theft, burglary. Seems to me as if Avril’s mum married a lot of trouble there, because ’e drinks as well. There are the kids wantin’ for a good meal, and the man’s knockin’ back pints in the local.”
“How did Avril get to London, did you find out?”
“From what I can make out—and I got quite a lot of this from a neighbor—”
“You didn’t say anything?”
“No, said I was from the school board because they ain’t been at school—which was a pretty good guess, because they ain’t. The littl’uns ’ave been put out to work in the fields, doin’ their bit for the family.”
“Poor kids.”
“Poor kids is right. And you should see the mum, all drained and lookin’ double ’er years, she is.”
“Anyway?”
“Well, anyway, apparently the stepdad said that Avril could earn good money in service in London, so—this is what was told to the mum, accordin’ to the neighbor—’e puts ’er on a train to London where a bloke ’e knew arranged for ’er to work at a job in service, with ’er wages bein’ sent to the family, leavin’ the girl with a bit of pocket money to get by. The mum told the neighbor that the ’usband’s mate’d said that accommodations and keep were all found.”
“I’m sure.” Maisie shook her head. “And what about this business with the medicines?”
“That’s on ’er dead father’s side. Turns out they didn’t much like Avril’s new stepdad but couldn’t do anything about it. The family were in a tricky position, what with the business about the woman who’d killed a man with the ’erbs and what ’ave you. From what I know, it was the father’s sister, the girl’s aunt—apparently they was tight, the two of ’em.”
“Can you find out more about that, Billy, and the aunt’s activities?”
“Workin’ on it already.”
“Good. And if you can, find out the name of whom she was sent to in London. By the way, any sign of the newspapers, or even of Stratton’s men?”
“Not a dickey bird. Bit strange, that, ain’t it, Miss?”
“Yes, it is. Anyway, you’ll be traveling back tomorrow afternoon. We’ll talk first thing Monday morning.”
“Very good, Miss. I’m glad I caught you, only telephoned on the off chance. I was a bit surprised when they said you was still up there in the Smoke.”
“Change of plan. I’d best be off now, Billy. See you Monday. Take Doreen out for a nice dinner tonight.”
“Right you are, Miss. Ta-ta.”
Maisie replaced the telephone receiver. So Avril Jarvis was sent to London by a violent stepfather. To whom did he send her? It was common for a family friend to be called uncle—so was this a relative of the stepfather or did uncle have another connotation? Billy would find the answer.
THE MOOR’S HEAD Hotel had been built in the early 1800s. Following a period that could only be described as “genteel decline,” it had been refurbished by new owners in 1925 and was now a rather sumptuous place that regularly drew visiting academics, families of students, and an influx of American travelers keen to enjoy a much-admired city. Maisie arrived just after noon on Saturday and, following lunch in the hotel dining room, claimed her MG from the garage that had once been stabling for carriage horses and made her way to the Lawton country home.
As she drove across the Cambridgeshire fens to the village of Farthing, she remembered how captivated she had been by the flat farmlands, so very different from the soft hills of Kent and Sussex. Farthing was a small yet busy village, with a number of people out and about their business, whether visiting the grocery shop, the post office, or the butcher. It was still too early to see a steady stream making their way to the King’s Arms, though at evening opening time she was sure the local hostelry drew quite a few customers. Saplings, the Lawton home on the edge of the village, had originally been built as a vicarage but was subsequently deemed too grand for a country parson. The Lawtons had bought the house before Ralph was born, when it was customary for a man in Cecil Lawton’s position to own not only a house in London but a country home to which he would travel when his work in the City was done at the end of the week. For some years now, Lawton’s work was frequently “done” on a Thursday and did not continue again until Monday afternoon.
A manservant answered the door and showed Maisie into the drawing room, where Lawton was waiting for her. Instead of the more formal clothes worn in chambers, Lawton was wearing plain gray gabardine trousers, a brushed cotton shirt with small checks, a cravat at his neck, and a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows. He immediately stretched out a hand to greet Maisie.
“Good of you to come so soon, Miss Dobbs. I’m glad you’re cracking on with the work. Any conclusions yet?”
Maisie smiled. “Oh, goodness, no, it’s far too early. As you know, I may have to travel to France after I have conducted inquiries in London at the records office. I hope to have the confirmation you require within the agreed time limit to my investigations, though as you know, there are no guarantees.”
Lawton moved toward the door. “Right you are. Now then, I’m off for the afternoon. Shooting, followed by a spot of tea with Professor Goodhaven, a great legal mind. I’ll have Brayley show you to the room that was Ralph’s and have various boxes of his belongings brought to you.”
“I see.” Maisie frowned. The room that was Ralph’s, not Ralph’s room. “But Sir Cecil, I’d very much like to spend some time speaking with you about Ralph, in a more informal manner.”
Lawton seemed agitated as he reached for the door handle. He stuttered and shook his head. “I—I’m sorry, Miss Dobbs, not today, previous engagements, you see. But to put your mind at rest, I’ve been in contact with that solicitor chappie, the one acting for the girl. I’ll let you have further details next week. Good luck, Miss Dobbs. I hope you find something that might assist you, though frankly I can’t see how Ralph’s personal effects will prove anything. Now then, must be off.”
He’s running away from me. Maisie knew that Lawton, though prepared to support the promise to his wife with action, wanted little to do with the actual depth of inquiry that came with retaining the services of an investigator. What intimidates a man like Lawton? What truth undermines a man in his position? Maisie pondered such questions for a few moments, and then Brayley, Lawton’s manservant, returned to the room and announced that Ralph’s effects had been brought up to the room that he had occupied on the second floor.
The large room had been freshly decorated, the lead paint fumes causing her to hold her hand to her nose.
“Gosh, this is strong.”
“It was only finished recently, m’um.”
“I see.”
“The work was book
ed just after Lady Agnes passed away.”
“What was it like before?”
Brayley moved toward the windows, which he opened wide. “Well, it hadn’t been changed since Master Ralph lived at home. Of course, he was only here on school holidays and exeats, and he hardly came back after joining the Flying Corps, but his mother wanted it left untouched in any case.”
“Because she thought he’d be coming home.”
The manservant moved to the door and paused. Maisie was aware that, whenever she was about to ask a deeper question about Ralph, someone ended up at a door and was about to leave the room.
“Wait…please, just a moment, Mr. Brayley.”
“M’um?” The man’s eyes seemed to blaze for a second, and Maisie knew that his loyalty was to only one person: his employer.
Maisie adjusted her posture, so that she was not in any way reaching or leaning toward Brayley, and she took a step back, knowing that the movement would diminish any sense the man might have of being cornered. He would be more likely to speak freely if there was space around him, though there would clearly be a limit to his revelations.
“Mr. Brayley, I wonder if you could tell me if there was any reason for discord between your employer and his son.”
Brayley became flushed, though only for a second, before composing himself. “I—I wouldn’t say so, m’um. Of course, being father and son, they had their ups and downs, and the boy was very close to his mother, who had different ideas about how to educate him and so on.”