“Yes?”
“A man likes to see himself reflected in his son.”
“And Ralph didn’t reflect Sir Cecil?”
“Well, not in the way of enjoying the same things. Master Ralph did not care for the hunting field or for shooting. He was more like his mother.”
“And how would you describe Lady Agnes?”
“A softhearted soul and a very gentle person is how I would describe her.”
“I see.” Maisie walked to the window and looked out across the extensive grounds. “So it was a surprise when Ralph enlisted?”
“Oh, very much, m’um. We all wondered about that. It was before the war, you know.” Brayley had become warmer. “To tell you the truth, we—I mean the household—thought it might be because he wanted to be off on his own, to prove himself to his father.”
Maisie nodded, deciding to play her ace with the next question. “Mr. Brayley, as far as you know, was Ralph courting? Had he any young women friends that he admired? Did he bring anyone home to meet his parents?”
Brayley blushed again. “Not as far as I know, m’um. Mind you, a young man wouldn’t confide in the likes of me, now, would he?”
Maisie nodded. “Quite right, yes, quite right. Thank you, Mr. Brayley, you’ve been very helpful.”
The manservant executed a short bow and left the room.
MAISIE TOOK AN index card from her black leather case and made several notations. She included not only details of the conversation but a description of Brayley, the lighting in the room, the spare decor, and even the markings on the exterior of the three large boxes.
She placed the card and her pencil on a side table and, taking her Victorinox knife from her bag, proceeded to score the seal on the first box. Closing the knife, she opened the flaps to find a photograph album at the top of a closely packed selection of belongings. Taking up the album, she opened it to the first page, upon which a wedding photograph of the Lawtons had been affixed rather clumsily, as if Ralph had begun compiling the collection in boyhood. The images were mostly set against a formal background, with few taken in the gardens or the house. Indeed, it seemed that Ralph Lawton had been starched along with his shirts, so upright was his posture. Maisie turned over more pages, until she came to the first informal photograph, which seemed to have been taken when the subjects least expected it, but faced with the camera they were only too willing to smile. Two boys, approximately sixteen years of age, were dressed in tennis whites and laughing together, arms around each other’s shoulders. The boy on the left, the one who was not Ralph, was looking straight into the camera and smiling. On the right, Ralph was looking not at the camera but at his friend. Maisie pulled the album closer. It was the look in Ralph’s eyes that drew her, for it reminded her of the way she had once seen Dene looking at her. She had been putting on her hat in front of the mirror and saw his gaze reflected, though he was unaware of the feelings his countenance revealed.
TEN
Back in her room at the Moor’s Head Hotel, Maisie sat on the bed, an array of papers and photographs spread around her. She had begun to sort the items, first in chronological order. Later she would create a different pattern, to reflect her observations and Ralph’s inner life: perhaps letters gathered from one particular friend, a place mentioned in several different documents, a frame of mind revealed in a diary, or a new skill recounted in his flight logs, which she had not expected to find among his belongings.
Ralph Lawton had been shot down behind enemy lines in the murky light of dawn. His demise had been reported to the British by the German authorities, as was the custom, and his aeroplane was noted, along with metal identification tags found, miraculously, in the remains of the inferno that had consumed his De Havilland DH-4. According to a report sent via his commanding officer, a local gardener and several farmworkers venturing early to a field tried in vain to extinguish the blaze. Maisie was always amazed by the detail that could be recorded at such a time, for this was not the first report of a battlefield death she had read nor, she thought, would it be the last.
The letters Maisie had fanned out on the eiderdown were chiefly from his mother, with only a couple from his father and just a few from school friends. Of the school friends, most came from a young man named Jeremy Hazleton. Maisie closed her eyes and tapped her hand with one of his letters. Wasn’t he now a Member of Parliament? Yes, he was the young, outspoken, wheelchair-bound politician whom many predicted would be prime minister in years to come, a man equally well regarded by the unions and a broad spectrum of the voting population. He had been a most vocal supporter of women’s rights in earlier years; in fact, she remembered seeing a newspaper photograph of him being pushed along in his wheelchair by his mother, his young wife marching alongside, as he held a banner demanding VOTES FOR WOMEN. His rage against the equally long lines at labor offices and soup kitchens blazed in angry words across the daily tabloids: MARCH TO WESTMINSTER! HAZLETON TELLS WORKERS. There had been stories covering his visits to Lambeth slums and soot-blackened mining towns, and he had been photographed shaking the hands of workers and landed gentry alike. The trajectory of his political career was underlined by his legendary valor at Passchendaele: a hero for the masses. But, as many knew, Jeremy Hazleton was a rich hero, a man with a legacy from a landowning father. Maisie looked back at the photograph that had intrigued her earlier and compared it to the image she remembered from a newsreel she’d seen at a picture house. The youthful grin toward the camera had given way to a more serious pose in later years, but the likeness was unmistakable. Ralph’s gaze had been directed at a boyish Jeremy Hazleton.
1500 hours. Went up with observer, Cunningham. Crossed over the line at 1540 hours. No movements to report. Followed line north for two miles, observed Fokker formation, and ascended to height of 10,000 ft. Set course for base, crossing back over line at 1600 hrs. Ground: 1700.
One report seemed much like the others; however, the accompanying journal gave details that would never be entered in a flight log. The cloud formations were stunning this afternoon. One could almost imagine flying through candy floss at the seaside. Of course, the Hun on the ground tracing me with their guns was a bit of a blow to an otherwise very pleasant exercise. Then on another page: Went up for training today. Well, went up, came down, went up, came down, up, down, up, down—and all without stopping! It seems I have been tested and, for once in my life, not found wanting. Wish the old man knew about that! Have received top marks for stop-start landings and expect an interesting job or two soon, before I become Fokker fodder.
Clutching the journal, Maisie gazed out of the window. What did he believe in, this young man who was, it seemed, so isolated? What God might he have prayed to, knowing that as an aviator he had taken on war’s most dangerous work? As his craft took flight, what did he cling to when even the slightest malfunction, the tiniest fracture in the wing or fuselage, might send him to a fiery death? And what angels lifted him when that day came, when he crashed to earth behind enemy lines? To whom did he profess love, as surely he must have, when he felt the descent into his grave?
She turned back to the journal and frowned. Would the journal have been returned with personal effects without being read by someone in authority? Possibly. Maisie rooted through the pile of papers and other belongings she had brought back to her room, then pulled out an envelope addressed to Ralph that had been flattened against books and albums. It was postmarked from Folkestone just one day before Ralph died. She placed the journal on top of the envelope, then inside. If the journal had been posted back to Saplings, it would appear that Ralph had sent it home to protect it. Had it not passed the censor? How would such a thing happen? Maisie remembered giving a letter to another nurse who was going on leave, asking her to post the letter when she arrived in England, so that her father might receive it sooner. Yes, it was possible. Instead of leafing through it, Maisie read the journal from the beginning, with the flight logbook on her lap to cross-reference dates.
One
hour later, she knew two things: Ralph Lawton was still in touch with Jeremy Hazleton at the time of his death, though she could find no letters from the latter; and Ralph Lawton was, in fact, an accomplished aviator entrusted with work that was of the utmost importance. His unique experience as an engineer and then as an observer before being given command of an aircraft rendered him a very valuable individual indeed. Maisie leaned back again and frowned, frustrated with her lack of knowledge about the Flying Corps. Why would an aviator need to land and then take off again immediately?
USING THE HOTEL telephone that evening, Maisie made two calls. One was to the home of the Hon. Jeremy Hazleton, MP, in which she introduced herself as a constituent and asked if she might visit the following day. The second was to Chelstone, where she asked for the address in Canada of Lord and Lady Compton’s son, James. He had been an aviator in the war and might be able to furnish her with some of the information she needed without her having to approach the Royal Air Force directly. She wanted answers to questions but did not want to answer any herself.
ON SUNDAY MORNING, Maisie was anxious to be on her way just after breakfast. A light drizzle was falling by the time she settled her account and left the hotel with her bag in one hand and document case in the other, so she was surprised to see Cecil Lawton’s manservant waiting by the MG as she approached. Maisie had hurriedly thrown her mackintosh around her shoulders and pulled a waterproof hat low over her head. The man was drawn and gray, and he too was wearing a mackintosh, though Maisie suspected it might have been a castoff from his employer. Rain bounced off his black bowler hat, and he did not take his hands from his pockets as Maisie approached.
“Mr. Brayley, good morning to you, though it could be better, couldn’t it?”
“Good morning, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie looked around. Rain was splashing down and around them, the shower now promising to turn into a lengthy downpour.
“Well, I know you didn’t come here just to stand in the rain and bid me good morning. If you could help me with my bags—”
“Of course, I beg your pardon, m’um.”
After Brayley helped Maisie stow her bags in the MG, she indicated that they should move into a shop doorway, out of the rain.
“Now then, Mr. Brayley, what can I do for you?”
Brayley took off his hat and turned down the collar of his mackintosh. Maisie could see the starched white shirt underneath, along with a black jacket that seemed a little shiny, as if it had been pressed many times during years of service. Brown liver spots crested his nose and cheekbones. Though balding, what hair remained on his pate had been combed back and oiled. It seemed to Maisie that Brayley bore a striking resemblance to a tired and aging faithful hound.
“I hope you don’t mind, Miss Dobbs, but I wanted to say my piece about the situation with Ralph Lawton.” Brayley had squared his shoulders, a move that, as Maisie knew only too well, is an indication of a person seeking strength they do not really feel.
“Please, feel free to speak in confidence.” Maisie smiled and, as she spoke, placed a hand on Brayley’s arm, just for a second.
Clearing his throat, Brayley continued. “I’ve worked for Sir Cecil since before his marriage—a long time by any standards. Some have said I was wed to my job, though my wife is in service at the house as well.”
Maisie nodded. It was common for a husband and wife to work together, often being given a cottage accommodation on the estate.
“So, you see, I’ve seen a lot in that household.”
“Go on.”
“And what I want to say is that it’s a terrible thing that Sir Cecil has been put through. First they lost two new babies, then a daughter, and they were left with a boy who was not the son his father wanted.”
“Yes, I understand there was some discord.”
“Like I said, he was his mother’s son, but he never did try to be a son to his father. Never tried.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Brayley? Isn’t it true that we never know quite what goes on in the houses where we work?”
Brayley’s eyes blazed, and Maisie saw a loyalty so fierce it might color a true perspective of the situation.
Pausing just a moment, Brayley continued. “All I want to say is this: that she caused him so much grief, she did, with her believing the boy was still alive. My wife said, when she lost the babies, that it was enough to send anyone off their head. Look at her, look at what she put Sir Cecil through. She was a lunatic, right enough.”
Maisie frowned. “And what do you want me to do, Mr. Brayley, for I am sure you have not come out in the pouring rain to tell me something I can deduce for myself?” She looked past Brayley and noticed a black bicycle propped against a neighboring shopfront. Brayley had cycled some five rainy miles into Cambridge. There was definitely more to say.
“She put him through some trouble, visiting those women who are no better than snake charmers. Could have ruined a man in his position. Then, to make him promise on her deathbed to find a son who’s dead? It makes the blood curdle.” Brayley paused to look up and down the street, which was still empty, though the rain had diminished somewhat. “I’m here to ask you, for his sake—because he is only going through the motions, you know—I’m here to ask you to not even bother raking up the past. Just make up a report, whatever it is that you people do, and have done with it.”
Maisie was silent but continued to hold Brayley with her gaze. He looked up and down the street again, and when he turned back to her, she spoke.
“Mr. Brayley, no matter how I might assess the merits of this assignment, I have to bring an integrity to my work. If I did not intend to engage in a full and comprehensive investigation, I would not have agreed to assist Sir Cecil. I can, however, assure you that my work will be utterly confidential and I seek to protect all concerned. I will not fail Sir Cecil.”
“I see.” Brayley pressed his hat on his head again. “I’d better be off, then.” He began to move out from the doorway but turned to Maisie once more. “And you know, don’t you, Miss Dobbs, that I won’t fail him either.” Tipping his hat, he gave a short bow and walked away, collecting his bicycle by the handlebars and walking it along the road. Maisie suspected that he would not sit astride the bicycle to ride home until he was well out of her view, for the man’s body had been rendered so unstable by fear and anger that he might well fall off.
As Maisie started the car and pulled away from the curb, she knew she would have to take great care with Brayley. The loyal servant had the tenacity of a guard dog, and certainly he had attempted to nip at her heels. Indeed, she was abundantly aware that she had just received a veiled threat.
FOLLOWING DIRECTIONS TO the letter, Maisie parked the car outside an Edwardian villa in the village of Dramsford, on the outskirts of Watford. The house had been built on an incline, so the front garden was a series of small terraces leading down to the pavement. It was a blustery day, and quiet because it was Sunday. Jeremy Hazleton had been cordial on the telephone, suggesting that Maisie arrive at midmorning so they would have time to talk before lunch, to which he did not extend an invitation. She watched an older couple leave the house before she alighted from her motor car, concluding that the Hazleton residence was probably open to visits from constituents whenever Jeremy Hazleton was at home rather than at Westminster.
Charmaine Hazleton answered the door herself, smiling broadly at Maisie as she welcomed her. She was a few inches shorter than Maisie and wore her dark blond hair in a chignon at the base of her neck, a style that framed her cheekbones before being drawn back. Her royal-blue dress was fashionably tailored, speaking of elegant good taste rather than indiscriminate expenditure. Her blue leather shoes were both sensible and stylish, a T-strap secured at the side with a delicate leather button.
“Good morning, Miss Dobbs. I trust your journey was not too difficult. The rain really can sweep across Cambridgeshire, can’t it?” She stepped back for Maisie to enter and then led the way along a hallway decorated with f
loral wallpaper. She continued speaking, giving Maisie precious little time to greet her formally. “Jeremy has been busy since seven, with his first caller at eight. The work of an MP is never done.”
Maisie studied Charmaine Hazleton’s carriage as she walked briskly along the hallway. By the set of her shoulders, the short deliberate steps, the hands clasped in front of her, Jeremy Hazleton’s wife revealed that, despite her welcoming smile, she would rather Maisie had never called and wished her husband’s schedule were lighter that day. Though the meeting was to be with Hazleton alone, Maisie suspected that at some point there would be an interruption, and then it would be time for her to leave. Mind you, such skillful closure to the caller’s time with her spouse was the prerogative of a junior MP’s wife.
“Jeremy darling, Miss Dobbs to see you.” Charmaine stepped toward the desk where her husband sat with a box of papers, many tied together with narrow red ribbon. Even in a wheelchair, Hazleton gave the impression of stature. Though it was cool, he had rolled up his shirtsleeves and wore a cardigan pulled carelessly across his shoulders. His brown hair was tightly curled and worn very short. Maisie suspected that if it were any longer it would be unmanageable, especially for a man with physical limitations. Boyish freckles were scattered across his nose, though his skin was fair. Before removing a tea tray that was set on the polished walnut desk, his wife squeezed his shoulder and he in turn patted her hand.
Hazleton turned his wheelchair so that he was facing Maisie and held out his hand. “Delighted. Please take a seat.” He indicated an armchair set alongside the desk and turned to his wife. “Thank you, darling.” There was no offer of tea for Maisie as Charmaine Hazleton left the room.