Birds of a Feather (17 page)

“Really, Dr. Dene?” Maisie’s tone caused Dene to rephrase his remark “Oh dear, that’s not what I meant.” Dene opened the door of his office and allowed Maisie to enter before him. “That’s me all over: Open mouth, insert foot. What I meant was . . . well . . . sometimes the work sounded so, you know, so tricky that . . .”

Maisie raised an eyebrow.

“I think I’d better just take it all back and get on with the business at hand before I have to show you out on my hands and knees.”

“Indeed, Dr. Dene, I can think of no better punishment at this moment.” She removed her gloves, and took the seat indicated. Despite his faux pas, Maisie thought Andrew Dene was rather fun. “Perhaps we can get down to business.”

“Oh yes, quite.” Dene checked his watch and reached for a manila folder with frayed edges that was already set to the side of the other stacks on his desk. “I have a meeting in twenty minutes. Mind you, I can be late.” He smiled at Maisie. “I understand you want to know more about the convalescent history of one William Beale, Corporal.”

“Yes, please.”

“Well, I’ve already looked at the file. I had to rescue it from what we refer to as the Dungeon down in the cellars. Unfortunately, the attending doctor has passed on now but the notes are all here. Looks like he’s lucky to have kept that leg. Amazing what those doctors were able to do over there, isn’t it?”

“I thought you . . .”

“Oh no. I was in medical school when I enlisted, but I was not qualified. They pushed me into the Medical Corps anyway, though not as a surgeon. As an assistant. Not quite a nurse, not quite a doctor. I ended up in Malta finding out more about surgical procedures on the job than I ever learned when I returned to medical school. By that time I had become more interested in what happened to soldiers when they came back, their recuperation, their post-operative care, and how I could best help them.”

“I see. So what can you tell me about Mr. Beale’s recovery?”

Dene looked through the notes once again, sometimes turning the file to one side the better to see a chart or diagram; then he closed the folder. He looked up at Maisie. “It would be less like finding a needle in a haystack if you were to tell me why you are interested—the medical aspects, that is.”

Maisie was taken aback by Dene’s manner but understood the need, given the array of procedures and therapies that would have been noted in the file. Maisie described her observations of Billy’s behavior, adding that his family life was also disturbed by his mood swings.

“Is this is a recent development?”

“Over the past few months, along with the increased pain in his legs.”

“Ah. Yes.” Dene reached for the file again. “Miss Dobbs, you were a nurse in France, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I—”

“And later, according to what I know, you worked with shell-shocked patients before returning to Cambridge. I understand from Maurice that you spent some time at the Department of Legal Medicine in Edinburgh.”

“That’s all correct.”

“So you don’t need me to tell you what’s going on, do you?”

Maisie looked at Dene intently, her deep blue eyes sparking. “I thought it best to confer with the attending doctor, or his successor, before jumping to conclusions.”

“A wise and very professional decision. Oh, and by the way, I’m
her
successor. Mr. Beale’s attending physician here was Dr.
Mrs
. Hilda Benton.”

Maisie’s cheeks reddened.

Dene leaned back in his chair and made a church-and-steeple with his fingers. It was the same way Maurice sat when considering a problem.

“Here’s what I suspect is at the root of Mr. Beale’s behavior, and I would add that it is not uncommon, though a terror to address. According to the notes,” Dene opened the file and passed two pages to Maisie, “he was initially treated for pain with massive doses of morphine. I would imagine he was hard to medicate, probably one of those who can soak up medication and still feel everything.”

Maisie remembered Billy being brought in to the casualty clearing station in June, 1917, his eyes wide even as the surgeon’s knife cut into his flesh, and his promise that he would never forget the doctor and nurse who saved him.

“Of course, we didn’t know as much about dosage then as we do now. In fact, the military was rather slap-happy with morphine, cocaine, and various other narcotics. You must remember that people could buy heroin kits from the corner chemist’s, even from Savoy &Moore, to send to their soldier loved ones in France, just in case. Then everyone cheerfully expected the need for medication to go away along with the pain as soon as the men were out of uniform. Boom-boom, good-bye, soldier, you’re on your way! Unfortunately in many cases the pain and the craving lingered. And even when both went away, recurrence of pain naturally re-creates that craving for medication. Doctors are a bit more careful now but there’s a healthy black market in cocaine, especially among old soldiers. I don’t want to cast aspersions, but to be candid, Miss Dobbs, I believe that Mr. Beale is struggling with a dependence upon narcotics. Though from what you say, I would imagine he’s not in too deeply. Yet.”

Maisie nodded. “Dr. Dene, I wonder if you could advise me on how I might go about initiating Mr. Beale’s withdrawal from the use of such a substance?”

“I think we can assume that increased physical discomfort was at the root of his initial self-medication. Now we have the addiction itself to cure, and I’m afraid that there is precious little to draw upon. I’m sure there are psychiatrists who would speak of their successes, but frankly I take such claims with a pinch of salt.”

Dene leaned forward on the desk and looked up at Maisie. “If you want to help Mr. Beale I would suggest the following: Get him away from the source of supply, that’s the first step. Then ensure that the pain is acknowledged and experiment with physical therapies. If necessary we can admit him here as an outpatient and I can prescribe controlled doses of painkillers. Finally, fresh air and something to do that he truly feels is of importance while he recovers. I do not hold with cures for such conditions while the mind and body are idle, it only gives the patient time to consider the desirable effects of the substance that is now no longer available.”

Dene watched as Maisie nodded her head in agreement.

“Thank you, Dr. Dene, for your advice and your time. You have been most kind.”

“Not at all, Miss Dobbs. A summons from our friend Dr. Maurice Blanche is as good as a call to arms.”

“Before I leave, Dr. Dene, I wonder if by any slight chance you might have known a Mrs. Rosamund Thorpe? I understand she lived locally before her death in February.”

“How extraordinary that you should ask! Mrs. Thorpe was a visitor to the hospital. There’s a group of women in the town who visit regularly, to read to the patients, talk with them, you know, make the long stay here a little easier to bear. She was widowed not that long before she died, but she never stopped coming here. Mrs. Thorpe was especially good with the old soldiers. Of course she was the same age as most of them, but we do insist upon calling them old, don’t we?” Dene shook his head, and continued. “It was such a shock when we heard. I’d spoken to her many times in the course of my work here, and would never have believed she would take her own life.” He looked again at Maisie. “May I ask why you inquire about her?”

“I am engaged in work that has brought me into contact with one of her friends. I can say no more. I want to know about Mrs. Thorpe’s life, and her death. Is there anything you can tell me, Dr. Dene?”

Dene seemed to consider whether to voice his observations, then continued. “Of course, she had been very sad at the passing of her husband, but I think the death was not unexpected as he was a good deal older than Mrs. Thorpe and toward the end was heavily medicated. In fact they had moved here because of his health, hoping the sea air would effect a cure.” Dene shook his head. “The behavior of the younger Thorpes—her stepchildren, who were closer to her in age— over her late husband’s will was reprehensible, but she seemed to evince none of the gloom one might expect to see in one at risk of suicide.”

“I see.” Maisie hoped that Dene might add more depth and color to the picture he was painting of Rosamund Thorpe. He did not disappoint her.

“I will say, though, that she seemed different from the other volunteers.” Dene allowed his gaze to wander to a view of the sea beyond the pile of books and notes on the sill above the cast-iron radiators. “She was very intense in her work here, always wanting to do more. If visiting ended at four, most of the women were on their way home at one minute after the hour, but Mrs. Thorpe would spend extra time, perhaps to complete a letter or read to the end of a chapter for some poor soul who couldn’t hold a book. In fact, she once said to me, ‘I owe it to them.’ But it was the way that she said it that caused me to remember. After all, we all
feel
that we owe so much.”

Dene turned to Maisie and looked at his watch. “Crikey! I’d better be on my way.” He pushed back his chair, and placed the file to one side, having scribbled on the front: “Return to archives.”

“Thank you so much for your time, Dr. Dene. Your advice is sound. I appreciate your counsel.”

“Not at all, Miss Dobbs, not at all. One caution, though: I need not remind you that in taking on the responsibility of helping Mr. Beale, you are also becoming involved, technically, in a crime.”

“Yes, I am aware of the implication, Dr. Dene. Though I hope—no,
expect—
Mr. Beale to destroy any illicit substances soon after we speak.”

Dene raised an eyebrow as he opened the door for Maisie. “Don’t underestimate the task. Fortunately, Dr. Blanche can assist you.”

As they continued along the corridor, Andrew Dene gave Maisie directions to Rosamund Thorpe’s house and the name of her housekeeper. Clearly everyone knew everyone else in the Old Town.

When they reached the door, Maisie had one more question for Andrew Dene. “Dr. Dene, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you seem to know Dr. Blanche very well, more than one might expect from someone who was simply one of many students in a lecture hall or tutorial. And your assessment of the situation with Mr. Beale and your subsequent advice are very much what I might expect to hear from him.”

Dene affected an accent he had lost long ago, explaining, “I’m a Bermondsey boy, ain’t I?” Then he continued, reverting to his previous Home Counties diction, “My father died when I was young—he was a steeplejack—and then, when I was barely fifteen and out at work at the brewery myself, my mother became ill. There was no money for doctors. I made my way to Dr. Blanche’s clinic and begged him to come to the house. He visited each week and instructed me in her care, so I was able to administer medicine and make her comfortable even at the end. I paid him back by helping him. At first he trusted me with errands, then I helped at the clinics—obviously not with patients, as I was just a boy. If it hadn’t been for Dr. Blanche, I might never have known what I wanted to be, or what I could be. He helped me to apply to Guys, which I attended on a scholarship. Mind you, I had to work night shifts at the brewery to earn my keep. Then the war broke out, and I think you know the rest.”

Maisie smiled. “Yes I do, Dr. Dene. I know the rest very well.”

CHAPTER TEN

M
aisie parked the MG on the West Hill and looked across toward the East Hill, where she had strolled just thirty-five minutes earlier. She had walked down the 158 steps from the top of the cliffs onto Tackleway Street, then through a narrow alleyway known to locals as a “twitten,” one of the many almost-secret paths that crisscrossed the Old Town of Hastings. It led out onto Rock-a-Nore, where she had parked the motor car. No wonder smugglers loved this place, thought Maisie.

It was a fine Spring afternoon. The sun and a light breeze conspired to glance light off whitecaps in such a way that the view across the Channel seemed to be repeatedly punctured by shards of crystal. Maisie shielded her eyes from the prismatic flashes of light as she looked out over the water before making her way to the four-storey Regency house that had been the home of Rosamund Thorpe. She was anxious to interview the housekeeper and be on her way back to Chelstone, to plan the next part of her visit to Kent. She was abundantly aware that the initial meeting with Joseph Waite had taken place almost a week ago, and she was not yet certain she had located her client’s daughter.

A short woman answered the door and smiled warmly at Maisie. “You must be Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie returned the smile. She thought the housekeeper resembled the quintessential grandmother, with her tight white curls, a plain dress in wool the color of heather, and stout black shoes.

“Young Dr. Dene from the convalescent hospital telephoned me and said to expect you. Very nice man, isn’t he? Surprised he’s not married, after all, it’s not as if there’s a shortage of young women. Mind you, he was walking out with that one girl last—Oh, excuse me, Miss Dobbs, I do go on at times! Now then—” Mrs. Hicks showed Maisie into a drawing room with bowed windows that commanded a view across the West Hill. “Dr. Dene said that you were a friend of a friend of Mrs. Thorpe’s and wanted to know more about her passing on.” The housekeeper regarded Maisie intently. “Normally, I wouldn’t be talking to anyone outside the family, but Dr. Dene said it was important.”