Pardonable Lie (13 page)

FOURTEEN

Maisie arrived next at Sir Cecil Lawton’s chambers and was ushered into his office by a pupil, who pulled out a chair for her on the opposite side of the grand desk.

“Good afternoon, Miss Dobbs. How is your task progressing?” Allowing her no time to answer, Lawton collected some sheets of paper and placed them on one side before pulling back the copious sleeves of his gown, resting his jacketed forearms on the desk, and clasping his hands together. “I fear I have given you an almost impossible task. You are no doubt more used to searching for people who are known to be alive, rather than known to be dead.” He pursed his lips.

Maisie nodded, looking across at her client, who could not now meet her eye-to-eye. “As I said before, Sir Cecil, it’s an unusual assignment, but the sort of thing that is not unknown. Of course, the demands of such an inquiry are more difficult for you to bear.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you have assumed I will not find any evidence to suggest that Ralph lived on after his De Havilland went down, and I agree; it seems most unlikely. But”—Maisie paused before continuing—“
but
, Sir Cecil, have you thought of what might happen if he
had
survived the crash? How it might be if he is, as your wife suspected, still alive?”

“As we both know, that is highly unlikely.”

“Sir Cecil, the more I inquire with regard to your son, the more questions I have. I must ask for complete honesty from you.”

“You have had my word already.”

Maisie stood up and walked to the window, where she stood for just a moment before turning back to face Lawton.

“I know we have talked about this before, but I must ask again: If Ralph was alive as Mrs. Lawton maintained, what events, what discord, what fears might have prevented him from being in touch with you, particularly when the war was over?” Maisie looked at Lawton directly as she pressed him.

The man who one moment before had seemed controlled, and in complete command, leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. Maisie made no move. If anything, she assumed a more relaxed position, resting her hand lightly on the windowsill. When Lawton did not change his posture, she took her seat once more, silently, and placed her hands together in her lap. Breathing deeply, Maisie narrowed her eyes. Soon an image formed in her mind’s eye, of a boyish youth standing next to an older man. The young man’s earnest look revealed a wish to please, a wish to be accepted by the older man, whose very demeanor made him appear intractable, resolute. Unmovable.

“I could not accept him as my son.”

Maisie opened her eyes as Lawton leaned back in his chair and swept his hand backward across his forehead and into his hair.

“Go on.”

“His choice of friends and close associates was untenable.”

“But a young man who grows to become a highly regarded Member of Parliament would appear to have been a good choice as a friend for the son of a prominent KC.” Maisie knew she was continuing to push Lawton. She wanted to hear the words that would corroborate the scenario her instincts had led her to imagine.

“He is a respectable MP
now
, Miss Dobbs.”

“And married.”

Lawton’s eyes met Maisie’s for the first time. “Yes. And married. If you have already deduced that my son had no interest in women, Miss Dobbs, why on earth do you ask these questions?”

“I am interested in you and Ralph together, father and son.”

“I know he tried to prove himself to me, that despite”—Lawton turned from Maisie for a moment—“despite his choices and behaviors, he wanted my—well, I don’t know what he wanted.”

“Love?”

“He was my son. I wanted my son to be a man to be looked up to.”

“And that precludes the love of a son by his father?”

Lawton shook his head. “A man in my position cannot have a son running around in the circles Ralph chose, even when he was in the service. Was it too much to ask that he be married and have children?”

“And live a lie?”

“And live within the law.”

Maisie nodded. “Then back to my first question. What if Ralph had survived the crash—and I know his remains were found—but what if?”

“I believe his love of his mother would have risen above his hatred of me.”

“You believe he hated you?”

“Yes. There was no love lost between us. If you must know, notification of his death was…was…”

Maisie was silent. She would not help Lawton find his words, knowing instead that such emotions could be relieved of their chains only in the personal struggle of confession. Some moments passed before the man lauded as a great legal orator could give voice to his thoughts.

“I did not grieve for my son as he was when he joined the army and then the Flying Corps. I grieved for the boy. I grieved for what was not. We were not the only ones to suffer great loss, as you know. One just gets on with it. If anything, it was a relief, for the discord inspired by his choices caused great pain for his mother, as great as losing him.”

“So really, Sir Cecil, you wouldn’t want him found even if he had survived.”

Lawton shook his head. “My son is dead. You have been retained as a mark of respect to my wife. Of course you have a further interest, now that I am defending Miss Jarvis. Thus I fail to see what this interrogation is expected to achieve.”

Now Maisie leaned forward with a gaze so direct that Lawton could not fail to look back into her midnight-blue eyes.

“It was necessary to hear directly from you the nature of Ralph’s personal associations. I cannot and will not toil in a fog of evasion on the part of the very people for whom I am working.”

Maisie left Lawton’s chambers, pondering the cases in hand. Two things in particular occurred to her as odd: It seemed ironic that the only person worthy of her trust thus far was a young girl who stood accused of murder. And then there was the intriguing reference to roses in Peter Evernden’s letter. Yes, that nagged at her constantly now. The rose. Maisie imagined a rose, imagined the bud tight until it was ready to open, the delicate red petals gradually peeling back in the sun, then falling to reveal the rosehip, another locked door. Yes, the rose: delicate, strong, and guarded by thorns that could draw blood in a second if one reached out without due care. The rose. Traditional emblem of secrecy and silence.

S
TRATTON WAS PACING
outside the “caffy” where they had agreed to meet on Tottenham Court Road. Maisie noticed that he repeatedly checked his watch, and she made a mental note to pick up her own precious timepiece from the mender’s on Charlotte Street before returning to the office.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Inspector. Am I very late?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Dobbs. No, you’re not late at all. But I do have another appointment this afternoon, so I must leave promptly.”

“Right you are.” Maisie stepped forward into the café and walked toward a small table near the window that had just been cleared. Communication with Stratton had been rather stilted since the summer, when his invitations to supper or the theater had been met with refusal. Maisie had considered any meetings that went beyond the bounds of their professional relationship a poor decision, though she had entertained the idea for a while. And though she was now walking out with Andrew Dene, there was still something about Stratton that Maisie found rather likable.

They ordered tea, toast, and jam and moved the conversation quickly to the case in hand.

“The Jarvis case will go to trial in January.”

“I see.” Maisie shook her head, declining the sugar pot, which Stratton had pushed toward her. She watched as he scooped two large teaspoonfuls into his cup of tea and stirred briskly.

“She stands accused of murder. There are no other suspects.”

“But what about a lesser charge? The girl was abused, was pushed onto the streets.”

“So are a lot of young girls. Go down to Soho, Miss Dobbs. Whether we like it or not, the streetwalkers are as young as ten or eleven. And they don’t murder the pimps.”

Maisie pressed her lips together. “What if—just what if—she’s innocent?”

Stratton placed his cup down on the saucer with a crack that attracted the attention of onlookers. Maisie did not flinch but, instead, ensured that she looked at him directly. She sipped her tea.

“She is guilty.” Stratton leaned back. “Look, I know you don’t care for Caldwell, and I admit he can be an abrasive tyke.
And
I know you had words with him during my absence—he had every right to insist that any new information was brought to our attention—but he’s a terrier on a case. He has proof beyond doubt that the girl is the killer.”

Maisie nodded.
Yes, I’m sure he has
.

“In any case, I understand that you have engineered it so Sir Cecil Lawton will be defending her in court. She’ll stand a better chance than most.”

“If she survives Holloway.”

“Don’t underestimate the girl. The months spent on the streets will have hardened her. She’ll survive Holloway very well.”

The thought of incarceration in Holloway Prison made Maisie realize that she had had enough of the conversation. She had hoped to find out more about the police case against Avril Jarvis, but the attempt was proving to be fruitless. She pushed her teacup away to indicate that it was time to leave. Stratton seemed surprised.

“Of course, you will be called as witness by the prosecution.”

“As well as for the defense, in cross-examination, Detective Inspector Stratton.”

Stratton smiled. “Of course.”

As they stood, conversation became general in nature. Then, as Maisie brushed her hand against her forehead, she exposed the dressing concealed by her fringe.

“Heavens, what have you done to yourself?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a bit of a whack, I’m afraid. Someone coming through a door as I was leaving, you know the sort of thing.”

“You should be careful. Have you had it looked at?”

“Oh, yes. It’s all right. Just pinches a bit at times.”

“E
VERYTHING AWRIGHT
, M
ISS
?”

“Yes, thank you, Billy.” Maisie had taken off her hat and coat and was settled in a chair by the window, looking at the case map spread out in front of her.

“Stratton any ’elp to us today?”

“Not really, not in terms of Avril Jarvis.”

“Well, we can’t expect much from ’im really, can we?”

Maisie changed the subject. “You’ve got your tickets for Taunton?”

“Yes, I’ll go down on the early train Saturday, then come back on the last train. I want to get ’ome by the end of the day. You’re off to France on Friday then?” Billy was frowning.

“Yes, I’ll be leaving early too.” Maisie bit into her bottom lip.

Billy frowned even more deeply, then slapped his forehead. “Glad you reminded me. Mrs. Partridge telephoned. Never answered the telephone to
abroad
before, so it was nice to talk to ’er.”

“Mrs. Partridge telephoned? What did she say?”

“Oh, it’s all right. She said she’d place a call later, so the ol’ dog ’n’ bone should be ringing any time now.” Billy was interrupted by the loud double ring from the black telephone on Maisie’s desk. “Talk of the devil. Bet that’s ’er now!”

Maisie walked swiftly to the desk and picked up the telephone receiver. “This is Maisie Dobbs.”

“Don’t you give the number anymore? Has that gone out of fashion?”

“Priscilla!”

“I’m glad you recognized me, old girl.”

“Not so much of the old, Pris.”

“Sorry. Look, I just wanted to confirm your dates. When will you come to Biarritz? I know that if I don’t nag, you won’t come.”

“It’s an expensive nag, isn’t it. This telephone call must be costing a fortune.”

“When are you coming?”

“I leave for France on Friday, so I would imagine in a week.”

“Book your seat, then. I want to make sure you are coming, so I will expect a telegram from Paris with your arrival time next Wednesday or Thursday.”

Maisie sighed. “All right.”

“Don’t sound so dull, Maisie. You’ll love it here. You need the break. Now then, how is the flat-hunting going?”

Billy had left the room, so Maisie felt free to speak. “I’ve actually found a very nice property. In Pimlico, a new block. Rather modern, and only a few streets from the water.”

“Ugh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, Pimlico’s not bad, I suppose, but that awful swill they have the cheek to call a river—I bet you were a little mudlark as a child, searching for treasure when the tide went out! But each to her own. When are you moving in?”

“Not so fast, Priscilla. There are some problems.”

“Such as?”

“I’m a woman, a spinster. They don’t like to give property loans to women.”

Priscilla sighed. “Yes, I thought you might run into that old chestnut. But never fear, your friend is here. Leave it to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just leave it to me. There are people, Maisie, who would drive stakes through their toes rather than offend me, so I will appear to be offended if they do not help.”

“Who?”

“My bankers, of course. No, don’t consider arguing. The old boys’ club isn’t just for boys, you know.”

“You’re not to do anything of the sort. In fact, I forbid it, Pris—I can do this alone.”

There was a sigh from Priscilla, who did not counter Maisie’s objection but moved instead to the subject of her brother. “Maisie, what about Peter? Do you think there’s a chance you’ll be able to find out anything?”

“I’ll do my best, as you know, but his records have been hard to trace.” Maisie continued quickly, to avoid an interruption by Priscilla. “You know, there’s something in one of Peter’s letters that I am curious about.”

“Go on.”

“What’s all this about roses? Was he interested in flowers?”

Priscilla laughed. “What do you mean?” There was a brief pause, then before Maisie could speak again, the voice on the line continued. “Oh, yes, I know what you’re talking about now.” Maisie heard her draw upon her cigarette, then cough. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t exactly know what he meant, so I just passed over it. I remember thinking it was a reference to Patrick and I was too dense—and tired—to get the joke.”