Maisie Dobbs (28 page)

“Maurice, he’s not here,” said Maisie, as she swung the car in the direction of The Retreat, and accelerated.“We’ve got to find him.”

Maisie drove at high speed along the lane to The Retreat, scanning the side of the road as she maneuvered the car. Beside her Maurice was silent. Abruptly she swung the car onto the verge by the beech tree and got out. Kneeling on the verge, she ran her fingers over the rough ground. In the early light of morning, she could see signs of a scuffle.

Yes, they had Billy.

Maurice climbed out of the car, with some difficulty, and joined Maisie.

“I must find him, Maurice. His life is in danger.”

“Yes, go, Maisie. But I would advise that this is the time—”

Maisie sighed,“Of course, you’re right, Maurice. Over here I think we might be in luck.”

Lowering herself into the ditch on the other side of the road, near the perimeter fence of The Retreat, Maisie reached down, and pulled up Billy’s makeshift telephone.

“Thank God! They didn’t find it—they must have arrived just after he replaced the receiver. I’m not really sure how you—”

“Go now, Maisie. I will see to it. I may be old, but such things are not beyond the scope of my intelligence.”

Maisie rushed over to the MG, opened the door, and took out the black jacket that Maurice had handed her when they left the house. Pulling on the jacket, Maisie was about to close the door of the car, when she stopped and instead reached behind the driver’s seat for her bag. She hurriedly took out the new Victorinox knife, slipped it into the pocket of her trousers, and closed the car door. Maisie crossed the road, pausing only to touch Maurice’s shoulder with her hand, before pulling back the wire and squeezing through the hole in the fence. She ran quickly across the field, aided by the grainy light of sunrise.

At first Maisie took care to step quietly past the farm buildings, but soon realized that they were deserted, a fact that did not surprise her. “He will probably want to set an example to the residents,” Maisie had said to Maurice as they left the dower house.“He’ll have an audience. An ‘innocuous’ little man would love an audience.”

Maisie squinted at the silver watch pinned to the left breast pocket of her jacket. The watch that to this day was her talisman.Time had survived with her, but now time was marching on. Billy was in grave danger. She must be quick Within minutes she reached the quarry, and as she ran, the memories cascaded into her mind. She must get to him. Simon had saved him, and so must she. She must get to Billy.

She slowed to a walk and quietly crept into the mouth of the quarry, keeping close to the rough sandstone entrance so that she would not be seen. Maisie gasped as she scanned the tableau before her. A sea of men were seated on chairs, facing a raised platform with a wooden structure placed upon it. With their damaged faces, once so very dear to a mother, father, or sweetheart, they were now reduced to gargoyles by a war that, for them, had never ended. There were men without noses or jaws, men who searched for light with empty eye sockets, men with only half a face where once a full-formed smile had beamed. She choked back tears, her blue eyes searching for Billy Beale.

As the rising sun struggled against the remains of night, Maisie realized that the wooden structure was a rough gallows. Suddenly, the men’s faces moved. Maisie followed their gaze. Jenkins walked toward the platform from another direction. He took center stage, and raised his hand. At his signal Archie and another man came toward the platform, half guiding, half dragging a blindfolded man between them. It was Billy. As she watched, Billy—jovial, willing Billy Beale—who surely would have given his life for her, was placed on his knees in front of the gallows, and held captive in the taut hangman’s noose. It would need only one sharp tug from the two men working in unison to do its terrible work.

The audience stood unmoved, yet in fear; their eyes, behind the terrible deformities war had dealt them, showing terror. And in that dreadful moment when she thought that the strong, fast legs that had borne her to this place had become paralyzed, Maisie was haunted by the past and present coming together as one. She knew that she “ must take action, but what could stop this madness immediately, without the men rising up against her—such was Jenkins’s control over them—and without risking Billy’s immediate death? “Fight like with like,” she whispered, remembering one of Maurice’s lessons, and as she uttered the words, a picture flashed into her mind, a memory, of being on the train with Iris, of watching the soldiers as they marched off to battle, singing as they beat a path to death’s door. There was no secret route along which she could stealthily make her way to Billy’s side. She had only one option. For just a second Maisie closed her eyes, pulled her shoulders back, and stood as tall as she could. She breathed deeply, cleared her throat, and began to walk slowly toward the platform. For Billy she must be a fearless warrior. And as the men became aware of her presence, she looked at their faces, smiled kindly, and began to sing.

There’s a rose that grows

In No-Mans’ Land

And it’s wonderful to see

Though it’s sprayed with tears

It will live for years

In my garden of memory . . .

As she gained on the platform, now keeping her eyes focused on Jenkins, Maisie heard a deep resonant voice join her own. Then another voice echoed alongside her, and another, until her lone voice had become one with a choir of men singing in unison, their low voices a dawn chorus that echoed around the quarry.

It’s the one red rose

The soldier knows

It’s the work of the Master’s hand

’Mid the war’s great curse,

Stands the Red Cross Nurse

She’s the Rose of No-Man’s Land . . .

Maisie banished all fear as she stood on the ground below Jenkins. Dressed in the uniform of an officer who had served in the Great War, he stood with eyes blazing. She avoided looking at Billy, instead meeting Jenkins’s glare while ascending the steps to the platform. The men continued to sing softly behind her, finding solace in the gentle rhythm of a much-loved song. Standing in front of Jenkins, she maintained eye contact. Her action had silenced him, but in mirroring his posture, she knew of his inner confusion, his torment, and his pain. And in looking into his eyes, she knew that he was mad.

“Major Jenkins . . .” She addressed the officer in front of her, who seemed to regain a sense of place and time.

“You can’t stop this, you know. This man is a disgrace to his country,” he pointed his baton towards Billy.“A deserter.”

“By what authority, Major Jenkins? Where are your orders?”

Jenkins’s eyes flashed in confusion. Maisie heard Billy groan as the rope cut into his neck.

“Has this man received a court-martial? A fair trial?”

Voices murmured behind her as Jenkins’s audience, the wounded “guests” of The Retreat, began to voice dissent. She had to be in control of each moment, for if one word were out of place, the men could easily become an angry mob—dangerous not only to this mind-injured man in front of her but to Billy and herself.

“A trial? Haven’t got time for trials, you know. Got to get on with it! Got a job to do, without having to tolerate time wasters like this one.” He pointed his baton at Billy again, then brought it to his side and tapped it against his shining leather boots.

“We
do
have time, Major.” Maisie held her breath as she took her chance. Billy had begun to choke. She had to make her bravest move.

Though Maurice had cautioned Maisie in the use of touch, he had also stressed the power inherent in physical connection: “When we reach to place a hand on a sore knee or an aching back, we are really reaching into our primordial healing resources. Judicious use of the energy of touch can transform, as the power of our aura soothes the place that is injured.”

“Major Jenkins,” said Maisie, in a low voice.“It’s over. . . the war is over. You can rest now . . . you can rest. . . .”And as she whispered the words, she raised a hand, stepped closer to him, and instinctively held her palm against the place where she felt his heart to be. For a moment there was no movement as Jenkins closed his eyes. He began to tremble, and with her fingertips Maisie could feel him struggle to regain control of his body—and his mind.

The onlookers gasped as Jenkins began to weep. Falling to his knees, he pulled his Webley Mk IV service revolver from its holster and held the barrel to his head.

“No,” said Maisie firmly, but softly, and with a move so gentle that Jenkins barely felt the revolver leave his grasp, she took the weapon from his hand.

At that moment, as the audience watched in a stunned silence that paralyzed all movement, she saw lights beginning to illuminate the entrance to the quarry. Uniformed men ran toward the platform, shouting, “Stop, police!” She abandoned Jenkins, who was rocking back and forth, clasping his arms about his body, and moaning with a rasping, guttural cry.

Maisie pushed the revolver into her pocket and moved quickly toward the lifeless body of Billy Beale. Archie and his assistant were nowhere to be seen. Maisie quickly took out her pocket knife and, holding back the flesh on Billy’s neck with the fingers of her left hand, she slipped the blade against the rope, and freed Billy from the hangman’s noose. As Billy fell toward her, Maisie tried to take his weight, and stumbled. She was aware that Jenkins was now flanked by two policemen, and that all around her the frozen moment had thawed into frenzied activity.

“Billy, look at me, Billy,” said Maisie, regaining balance.

She slapped his face on both sides, and felt his wrist for a pulse.

Billy choked, and his eyes rolled up into their sockets as his hands instinctively clamored to free his neck from the constriction that he could still feel at his throat.

“Steady on, Miss, steady on, for Gawd’s sake.”

Billy choked, his gas-damaged lungs wheezing with the enormous effort of fighting for breath. As he tried to sit up, Maisie supported him with her arms around his shoulders.

“It’s awright, Miss. I’m not a goner. Let me get some air. Some air.”

“Can you see me, Billy?”

Billy Beale looked at Maisie, who was now on her knees beside him.

“I’m awright now that you’re ’ere, even if you are a bit ’eavy ’anded. Mind you . . .” he coughed, wiping away the blood and spittle that came up from his throat,“I thought you’d never get over chat-tin’wiv that bleedin’ lunatic there.” Billy pointed toward Jenkins, then brought his hand back to his mouth as he coughed another deep, rasping cough.

“M
ay I have a word, Miss Dobbs?”The man looking down at her beckoned the police doctor to attend to Billy, then held out a hand to Maisie. Grasping his outstretched hand, she drew herself up to a standing position and brushed back the locks of black hair that were hanging around her face. The man held out his right hand again. “Detective Inspector Stratton. Murder Squad. Your colleague is in good hands. Now, if I may have a word.”

Maisie quickly appraised the man, who was standing in front of her. Stratton was more than six feet tall, well-built, and confident, without the posturing that she had seen before in men of high rank. His hair, almost as black as her own, except for wisps of gray at the temples, was swept back. He wore corduroy trousers and a tweed jacket with leather at the elbows. He held a brown felt hat with a black grosgrain band in his left hand. Like a country doctor, observed Maisie.“Yes. Yes, of course, Detective Inspector Stratton. I . . . .”

“. . . Should have known better, Miss Dobbs? Yes, probably, you should have known better. However, I have been briefed by Dr. Blanche, and I realize that you were in a situation where not a moment could be lost. Suffice it to say that this is not the time for discussion or reprimand. I must ask you, though, to make yourself available for questioning in connection with this case, perhaps tomorrow?”

“Yes, but—”

“Miss Dobbs, I have to attend to the suspect now, but, in the mean-time—”

“Yes?” Maisie was flushed, tired, and indignant.

“Good work, Miss Dobbs. A calm head—very good work.” Detective Inspector Stratton shook hands with Maisie once again, and was just about to walk away when she called him back.

“Oh, Inspector, just a moment. . . .” Maisie held out the service revolver she had taken from Jenkins.“I think you’ll need this for your evidence bag.”

Stratton took the revolver, checked the barrel, and removed the ammunition before placing the weapon safely in his own pocket. He inclined his head toward Maisie and smiled, then turned toward Jenkins, who was now flanked by two members of the Kent Constabulary. Maisie watched as Stratton commenced the official caution:“‘You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be put into writing and given in evidence.”

Maisie looked around at Billy, to satisfy herself that he was safe— he was now on his feet and speaking with the doctor—then surveyed the scene in front of her. She watched as Maurice Blanche walked among the terrified audience of ‘old soldiers’ who still seemed so very young, his calming presence infectious as he stood with the men, placing a hand on a shoulder for support, or holding a weeping man to him unashamedly. The men seemed to understand his strength, and clustered around to listen to his soothing words. She saw him motion to Stratton, who sent policemen to lead the residents of The Retreat away one by one. They were men for whom the terror of war had been replayed and whose trust had been shattered. First by their country, and now by a single man. They were men who would have to face the world in which there was no retreat. Maurice was right, they were all innocents. Perhaps even Jenkins.