Maisie Dobbs (29 page)

Jenkins was now in handcuffs and being led to a waiting Invicta police car that had been brought into the mouth of the quarry, his unsoiled polished boots and Sam Browne belt shining against a pressed uniform. Not a hair on his head was out of place. He was still the perfectly turned-out officer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

S
o, what I want to know,” said Billy, sitting in Maurice Blanche’s favorite wing chair, next to the fireplace in the dower house, “Is ’ow did you get on to Adam Jenkins in the end. And I tell you, ’e certainly ’ad me there. I was beginnin’ t’think ’e was a crackin’ bloke.”

Maisie sat on a large cushion on the floor sipping tea, while Maurice was comfortable on the sofa opposite Billy. She set down her cup and saucer on the floor and rubbed at her cold feet.

“I had a feeling, here.” Maisie touched the place between her ribs, at the base of her breastbone.“There was something wrong from the beginning. Of course you know about Vincent. And the others. That was a mistake on Jenkins’s part, suggesting to Vincent’s family that he be interred at Nether Green because it’s a big cemetery, with lots of soldiers’ graves. It was a mistake because he used it several times.”

Maisie took a sip of her tea and continued.“I questioned the coincidence of several men buried with only their Christian names to identify them. Then I found out that they were all from the same place. The Retreat.”

“And what else?” asked Billy, waving a hand to disperse the smoke from Maurice’s pipe.

“A mistrust—on my part—of someone who wields so much power. The inspiration for The Retreat was admirable. Such places have worked well in France. But, for the most part, those places were set up for soldiers with disfiguring wounds to go to on holiday, not to be there forever. And using only Christian names was Jenkins’s innovation. Stripping away a person’s name is a very basic manner of control. It’s done in all sorts of institutions, such as the army—for example, they called you ‘corporal,’ not ‘Billy,’ or possibly—rarely—even ‘Beale.’”

Billy nodded.

“The irony is, that it was one of the first men to live at The Retreat, Vincent Weathershaw, who gave him the idea for the Christian-names-only mode of address.”

Maisie caught her breath and continued.

“More evidence came to hand after you went to The Retreat. Each cause of death was different—there was even a drowning listed—yet each could be attributed to asphyxiation of some sort. To the untrained eye, an accident. The word of the examiner would not be questioned. No police were involved, they were considered to be deaths from ‘accidental’ or ‘natural’ causes—and as the men were all seeking relief from torment by coming to The Retreat, the families had no lingering questions. In fact, there was often relief that the loved one would not have to suffer anymore,” said Maisie.

“Indeed.” Maurice looked at Maisie, who did not return his gaze. He took up the story. “Then there was Jenkins’s own history. How could someone who had given his superiors cause to refer to him as “innocuous” have gained such power? Maisie telephoned the doctor who had supervised his care at Craiglockhart—the hospital in Scotland where shell-shocked officers were sent during the war. The poet Siegfried Sassoon was there.”

“Well, sir, I ain’t never bin much of a one for poetry.” Billy waved smoke away from his face once more.

“The doctor, who is now at the Maudsley psychiatric hospital in London, informed me that Jenkins’s mental state was not as serious as some,” said Maisie,“But there was cause for concern.”

“I’ll bet there was.” Billy rubbed at the red weal left by the rope at his neck.

“You know what happened to deserters, Billy?”

Billy looked at his hands and turned them back and forth, inspecting first the palms, then his knuckles.“Yes. Yes I do, Miss.”

“They were taken and shot. At dawn. We talked about it. Some of them just young boys of seventeen or eighteen—they were scared out of their wits. It’s been rumored that there was even a case of two being shot for accidentally falling asleep while on duty.”Tears came to Maisie’s eyes and she pursed her lips together.“Jenkins was the commanding officer instructed to deal with a desertion. ‘Innocuous’ Jenkins. Much against his will—and apparently he did question his orders—he was instructed to preside over such an execution.”

“And . . .”

Billy sat forward in the leather chair.

“He carried out orders. Had he not, then he might well have been subject to the same fate. To disobey would have been insubordination.”

Maisie got up from the floor and walked to the window. Maurice’s eyes followed her, then turned to Billy.“The mind can do strange things, Billy. Just as we can become used to pain, so we can become used to experience, and in some cases a distasteful experience is made more palatable if we embrace it.”

“Like putting sugar in the castor oil.”

“Something of that order. Jenkins’s sugar was the power he claimed. One might argue that it was the only way for him to stomach the situation. He was not a man strong in spirit. So close was he to the act of desertion that it made him detest the actual deserter, and in meting out this terrible, terrible punishment, he maintained control over the part of him that would have run away. He became very good at dealing with battlefield deserters. Indeed, he enjoyed a level of success, we understand, that he did not enjoy in other areas of responsibility.”

Maurice looked again at Maisie, who turned to face Billy.“Jenkins’s idea of founding The Retreat was formed in good faith. But once again the need for control emerged. The chain of murders began when one of the men wanted to leave. Jenkins felt the man’s decision keenly. He was, in effect, deserting The Retreat. For Jenkins, his mind deeply affected by the war, there was only one course of action. And then one death made the others easier.”

“Blimey,” whispered Billy.

“Had you been at The Retreat longer, you too would have heard it said that it was difficult to depart with one’s life. Obviously he could not shoot a man—it would not be easy for the medical examiner to disguise the truth of such a wound—but he could use a more dramatic method. This gallows in the quarry would not break a man’s neck, but would deprive the body of oxygen for just about long enough to take a life. A death that it would be easy to attribute to suicide or accident. And he must have been in a hurry with you, Billy, because with the others, a heavy cloth was wrapped around the noose. The rope marks were not as livid as the necklace you’re now wearing.”

Billy once again rubbed at his neck. “I reckon it’s all bleedin’ wrong, this ’ere business of shootin’ deserters. I tell you, ’alf of us didn’t know what the bloody ’ell we were supposed to be doin’ over there anyway. I know the officers, specially the young ones, didn’t.”

Maurice pointed the stem of his pipe at Billy, ready to comment. “Interesting point, Billy. You may be interested to know that Ernest Thurtle, an American by birth, now the MP for Whitechapel, has worked hard in Parliament to have the practice banned—it wouldn’t surprise me if a new law were passed in the next year or so.”

“About bloody time, too! And talkin’ about deserters, what’s the connection with Vincent Weathershaw? Remember me finding out that there was something that went on with ’im?”

“Yes,” continued Maisie. “From what we know, Weathershaw was disciplined because he complained about the practice of military execution. He was vocal about it too, upsetting higher-ups. He was injured before he could be stripped of his commission and courtmartialed for insubordination.”

Billy whistled between his teeth.“This gets worse.”

“It did for Weathershaw. He came to The Retreat in good faith, a terribly disfigured man. He had known something of Jenkins while in convalescence, but at The Retreat he found out about his reputation as a battlefield executioner. Vincent had put two and two together, so Jenkins decided he had to go. He’d suffered terrible depression, poor man, so accident or suicide was entirely believable.”

“Poor sod. What about this other Jenkins?”

“Cousin. We thought Armstrong Jenkins was a brother, but he’s not, he’s a cousin. Surprisingly, Adam Jenkins was not in it for the money. His reward was the sensation of control. King of all he surveyed, and with a legion of serfs who listened to his every word, and despite what they heard, adored him. And that is the part of the puzzle that is most intriguing.”

“Indeed,” said Maurice.“Most intriguing.”

“That despite the rumors, such as they were, and the demise of those who ‘left’ The Retreat, Jenkins was held in very high regard by the men.”

Billy blushed.

“An interesting phenomenon,” said Maurice.“Such control over a group of people. It is, I fear, something that we shall see again, especially in times such as this, when people are seeking answers to unfathomable questions, for leadership in their uncertainty, and for a connection with others of like experience. Indeed, there is a word to describe such a group, gathered under one all-powerful leader, taken from the practice of seeking answers in the occult. What Jenkins founded could be described as a cult.”

“This is givin’ me the shivers,” said Billy, rubbing his arms.

Maisie took up the story again. “Armstrong Jenkins was the one who persuaded his cousin to have the men sign over their assets. And for a man coming into The Retreat, so desperately unhappy that he would willingly cloister himself, it was not such a huge step. Armstrong held the purse strings. He came to this area to work as medical examiner when The Retreat opened. Like his cousin, his is a case of power laced with evil.”

“I’ll say. Gaw blimey, that was close.”

“I made three telephone calls before our last meeting in the lane, and what I learned alerted me to the level of your danger. One was to the Maudsley, to speak to Adam Jenkins’s doctor; one was to the county coroner, to confirm Armstrong Jenkins’s history, and finally one to Maurice’s friend, the Chief Constable, to inform him of my suspicions. It was his intention to begin an investigation of The Retreat the following day—but of course events overtook him. Billy, I wanted you to relinquish your task as soon as you told me that another man wished to leave The Retreat. But you were adamant.”

Billy met Maisie’s eyes with his own. “I told you, Miss, I didn’t want to let you down. I wanted to do something for you. Like you and that doctor did for me. You never did it ’alf-’earted because you was all tired out. You had men linin’ up all over the place, yet you saved my leg. When I got ’ome, the doc said it was the best bit of battlefield leg saving ’e’d ever seen.”

Tears smarted in Maisie’s eyes. She thought the pain had ceased. She hated this tide of tears that came in, bidden by truth.

“And I know it’s a bit off the subject, like, but I wanted to ask you somethin’, and I . . . I dunno . . . I just felt you didn’t want to talk about it, and who can blame you? But . . . what ’appened to ’im? What ’appened to that doctor?”

A strained silence fell upon the room. The excited explanation of events at The Retreat gave way to embarrassment. Maurice sighed, his brow furrowed, as he watched Maisie, who sat with her head in her hands.

“Look, I ’ope I ain’t said anythin’ wrong . . . I’m sorry if it was out of turn. It ain’t none of my business, is it? I thought you were a bit sweet on each other, that’s all. I remember thinking that. So I thought you’d know. The man saved my leg, probably even my life. But I’m sorry. Shouldn’t ’ave said anythin’.” Billy picked up his jacket as if to leave the room.

“Billy. Wait. Yes. Yes, I should have told you. About Captain Lynch. It’s only fair that you should know. After what you’ve done for me, it’s only fair.”

Maurice moved to Maisie’s side and took her hand in his. She answered Billy’s question.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I
t seemed to Maisie that no sooner had she returned to the casualty clearing station, from her leave at home with Simon, than droves of injured were brought in. As day stretched into night, the few hours’ sleep that Maisie managed to claim each night offered only a brief respite from the war.

“Did you remember to tie the scarf, Maisie?” asked Iris, referring to the cloth tied to the tent pole, which would indicate to the orderlies that the nurses inside were on the first shift to be called if wounded came in at night.

“Yes. It’s there, Iris. ’Night.”

“’Night, Maisie.”

Often Maisie would fall into a deep sleep immediately upon climbing into her cot. Time and again her dreaming mind took her back to Chelstone, walking toward her father in the orchard. Yet as she came closer to him, he moved away, reaching up to pick rosy red apples before moving on. She would call out to him, and he would turn and wave, but he did not stop, he did not wait for her. This Frankie Dobbs simply picked the deep red apples, placed them in his wicker basket, and moved through the long grass of late summer.

Such was the weight he carried, that rich red juice ran from the bottom of the basket, leaving a trail for her to follow. She tried to run faster, yet her long, heavy woolen dress soaked up the red juice, clung to her legs, and caught in the grass, and as the distance between them extended, Maisie cried out to him.“Dad, Dad, Dad!”

“Bloody hell, whatever is the matter with you?”

Iris sat up in bed and looked across at Maisie who, in her sudden wakefulness, lay on her back staring straight toward the top of the main tent pole, her violet eyes following drops of rainwater as they squeezed through the canvas and ran down to the ground.

“Are you all right?”

Iris leaned over and nudged Maisie.

“Yes. Yes, thanks. Bad dream. It was a bad dream.”

“Not even time to get up yet. Brrr. Why doesn’t it ever seem to get warm here? Here we are in the third week of May, and I’m freezing!”

Maisie did not answer, but drew the blankets closer to her jaw.

“We’ve got another half an hour. Then let’s get up and go and get ourselves a mug of that strong tea,” said Iris, making an attempt to reclaim the comfort of deep sleep.

One of the medical officers sat down with Iris and Maisie, ready to gossip as he sipped scalding tea and took a bite out of the thick crust of bread.

“Lord, do we need it! There’s never enough doctors, let alone nurses,” said Iris, taking her mug and sitting down on a bench next to Maisie.

“What’s happened?” asked Maisie.

“Think they’re coming in from the hospital up the line. We’ve been getting so many in each day ’ere, and someone pushing a pencil at a desk finally got wind of it. Some docs are being moved. Down ’ere first.”

Maisie and Iris looked at each other. She had written to Simon only yesterday. He had said nothing to her about being moved. Was it possible that he was one of the doctors being sent to the casualty clearing station?

“Mind you, they might not like it much, what with them shells coming in a bit closer lately,” added the medical officer.

“I thought the red cross meant that we were safe from the shelling,” said Iris, cupping her hands around her mug.

“Well, it’s supposed to be safe. Red crosses mark neutral territory.”

“When will they arrive . . . from the hospital?” asked Maisie, barely disguising her excitement. Excitement laced with trepidation.

“End of the week, by all accounts.”

He was here. In the same place. They were together.

Without rushing, and continuing to check her patients as she made her way toward Simon, Maisie struggled to control her beating heart. Just before she drew back the flap of canvas, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, then walked through into the medicines area.

He was on his own, looking through the pile of records, and familiarizing himself with the stocks of medicines and dressings. As Maisie entered, Simon looked up. For a moment neither moved.

Simon broke the silence, holding out his hand and taking hers.

“Why didn’t you tell me in your letter?” whispered Maisie, looking around, fearful that someone might see her speaking with Simon.

“I didn’t know I’d be sent. Not until yesterday.” He smiled. “But now we’re together. Couldn’t believe my luck, Maisie.”

She held his hand tighter.“I am so glad. So glad that you are here. And safe.”

“Good omen, don’t you think? That we’re here in the same place.”

In the distance Maisie heard a wounded soldier calling for her, “Sister. In ’ere. Quick.”

Simon held onto Maisie’s hand for a second before she rushed to attend to her patient.

“I love you, Maisie,” he said, and brought her hand to his lips.

She nodded, smiled, and ran to her duties.

W
orking side by side was easier than either had thought it might be. For three days, wounded were brought in to the hospital and, time and time again, Maisie saw another side of the Simon she loved, the Simon who had stolen her heart as she danced in a blue silk dress. He was a brilliant doctor.

Even under the most intense pressure, Simon Lynch worked not just to save a life but to make that soldier’s life bearable when the soldiering was done. With Maisie at his side, ready to pass instruments to him even before he asked—to clear the blood from wounds as he brought shattered bones together and stitched vicious lacerations— Simon used every ounce of knowledge garnered in the hospitals of England and in the operating tents of the battlefield.

“Right, on to the next one,” said Simon, as one patient was moved and orderlies pushed forward with another soldier on a stretcher.

“What’s waiting for us in the line?”

“Sir, we’ve got about a dozen legs, four very nasty heads, three chests, three arms, and five feet—and that’s only as far as the corner. Ambulances coming in all the time, sir.”

“Make sure we get the ones who can travel on the road as soon as possible. We need the room, and they need to be at the base hospital.”

“Yes sir.”

The orderlies hurried away to bring in the next soldier, while Simon looked down at the wounded man now dependent upon his judgment and skill, a young man with hair the color of sun-drenched wheat, and a leg torn apart by shrapnel. A young man who watched his every move so intently.

“Will you be able to save me leg, sir? Don’t want to be an ol’ peg-leg, do I?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do my best. Can’t have you not able to chase the ladies, can we, Corporal?” Simon smiled at the man, despite his exhaustion.

Maisie looked up at Simon, then down at the corporal, and as Simon removed the shrapnel, she cleaned the bleeding wounds so that he could see the extent of the injury. To keep the soldier’s spirits up— this man so conscious of everything happening around him—Maisie would look up for a second from her work and smile at him. And as Simon cut skin and brought together flesh, muscle, and bone that had been torn apart, the soldier took heart. For though he could not see Maisie’s smile through the white linen mask that shielded part of her face, her warm blue eyes told the soldier what he wanted to hear. That all would be well.

“Right. On your way to Blighty you are, my man. Done the best for you here, and God knows you’ve done your best for Blighty. The sooner you get home, the sooner they’ll get you moving again. Rest assured, Corporal, the leg is staying with its owner.”

“Thank you, Captain, sir. Thank you, Sister. Never forget you, ever.”

The soldier looked intently at Simon and Maisie, fighting the morphine to remember their faces. A “Blighty,” a wound sufficiently severe to warrant being sent back to England—and he would keep his leg. He was a lucky man.

“This one’s ready for transport. We’re ready for the next one.”

Simon called out to the orderlies, and Maisie prepared the table as Corporal William Beale was taken to an ambulance for transfer to a base hospital closer to the port. He would be home within two days.

“I
feel sorry for the ones who are left,” said Maisie.

She and Simon were walking by moonlight along a corridor of ground between the tents, quiet and ready to part quickly should they be seen together. Distant sporadic gunfire punctured their conversation.

“Me too. Though the ones I ache for are the ones who are injured so terribly, so visibly to the face or limbs. And the ones whose injuries can’t be seen.”

“In the London Hospital, there were many times when a woman cried with relief at the passing of her husband or son. They had wounds that the family couldn’t cope with—that people on the street couldn’t bear to see.”