Pardonable Lie (14 page)

“Yes?”

“Well, when the boys were younger—and remember, I was the youngest and a girl, so I was left out of just about everything—Pat thought they should form a sort of Evernden secret society. They used to run off into the woods, their jackets fastened around their necks like capes, pretending to be highwaymen—you know what boys are like! They would leave letters under one another’s pillows, that sort of thing, and they had this special wax seal. I think they’d found it in the attic, where they held their inner-circle meetings, raising old pewter cups filled with ginger beer.” Maisie heard Priscilla’s voice catch as she spoke of her beloved brothers. “Anyway, the seal was a rose. They’d leave a trail of red wax all over the place and drive my mother mad. As I said, I was definitely left out of the game, but I thought Peter mentioned it in his letter as a reference to Pat and Phil, that they were both well, or something like that.”

Maisie frowned, running the telephone cord through her fingers, deep in thought.

“Hello?”

“Sorry, just thinking. Look, there’s something you can do for me, Pris. I want you to think—and I do mean
think
; please don’t just say you’ve done it—really think about anything and everything Peter may have said about being in France, even if it’s nothing to do with his service.”

“All right, I’ll think about it. Whatever is going on, Maisie?”

“I’m not sure yet.” The conversation was interrupted by an operator and the call ended. Billy entered the room at that point, so she was slow to replace the receiver. In the one or two seconds before the receiver met with the bar that cut off the line, Maisie heard another click. She lifted the receiver to her ear again. “Hello. Hello? Is anyone there?”

The line was silent.

“S
O WHAT ACTUALLY
’appened, Miss?”

“I told you. The operator disconnected the line and then there was another click.”

“Well, p’raps you missed the first one, where she pulled out the jack.”

“Billy, I heard that. This was different. It was seconds after, as if there was someone else on the line. Listening.” Maisie knew she was becoming tense, could feel the muscles in her neck begin to pull.

Billy frowned. “Miss, you’d ’ave to be pretty ’igh up to eavesdrop on a personal line. Mind you, I will tell you this: My mate who works on the exchanges reckons them operator girls sometimes listen to the calls, you know; they wave to each other if they’ve got a good one on the line so that everyone can get an earful.”

“Charming!”

“But I don’t reckon the calls that come ’ere are very interestin’, not compared to some of ’em, you know, women cryin’ over their ’usbands to each other, the more personal goings-on.” Billy paused. “Who’d want to listen to what you’re sayin’ to Mrs. Partridge?”

Maisie was silent for a moment, then replied, “The search for her brother’s last known whereabouts has just become even more difficult.” She turned and looked at Billy. “It seems that not only are his records missing but, unless I am mistaken in my supposition, he was engaged in very dangerous work during the war.”

“Weren’t we all, Miss? If you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

“Granted. Of course you’re right. But I believe his work might have been a bit more covert, and I think he tried to tell his sister as much.”

“Bit more what?”

“Secret, Billy. I suspect he may have been assigned to an intelligence position—which could be anything from code-breaking to intercepting messages. Who knows? A lot of that kind of work was pretty mundane on a day-to-day basis.”

“And a lot of it weren’t anything a sane person would do, Miss, and that’s a fact.”

“Which is why I’m suspicious about the line.”

Billy nodded. “Look, I’m going to walk around outside and ’ave a dekko to see if I can see anything unusual. Of course, if someone were listenin’ it could be done at the exchange or closer, right ’ere in the buildin’ even.”

“All right, go on, Billy, though I suspect you won’t find any evidence of a listener. In the meantime, we must take care with conversations on the telephone. No details of any cases must be divulged in a telephone call—or in a letter, for that matter. Only in person with the client or anyone with whom we may need to discuss particulars.”

“Right you are, Miss.”

As soon as Billy left the office, Maisie slumped into a chair by the window and placed her hand on her forehead where the wound from the motor car accident was pounding.
Who is following me? Who tried to kill me? Who is out there, listening?
She began to consider those she had made inquiries with over the past two weeks: Avril Jarvis, Priscilla, Madeleine Hartnell. Then there was Jeremy Hazleton and his wife. Sir Cecil Lawton, along with the manservant, Brayley. And of course Stratton.
Think. Think. Who would wish me dead—and why?

A
PART FROM PACKING
, Maisie had only one more commitment before she set off on Friday morning via train for Dover: the meeting with Lord Julian. The travel plans were now finally set. To avoid coming into London, Maurice would join Maisie’s train at Ashford, and they would travel together to the ferry connect with the Golden Arrow’s ferry service. During her absence, work would begin on the MG. She had received the estimate for repairs, and Eric had taken his favorite motor along to the garage where it would remain for several weeks. He had promised to visit the repair shop several times to check on progress, to ensure that the MG came back, in Eric’s words, “spick-and-span.”

Maisie arrived at the red-brick offices belonging to the Compton Company on Arbuthnot Street fifteen minutes early, according to the clock on the outside of the building. She decided to walk for a while to ensure that all the necessary questions were in her mind, ready to put to Lord Julian, should the opportunity arise. Maisie loved the City, the legacy encapsulated in that one square mile of London. There was something about this area and its proximity to the river that was a lifeblood—a poisoned lifeblood—of such a powerful place.
Perhaps there is something here for me
, thought Maisie, as she waited for the moments to tick by until her appointment.

“Maisie, jolly good to see you!” Lord Julian stepped forward from his desk and came around to shake her hand. His secretary left the room with her head slightly bowed.

Maisie took the seat indicated by her former employer. “It’s kind of you to see me, Lord Julian.”

“Not at all, but I’m a bit overextended on time, I’m afraid.” He handed an envelope containing several sheets of paper to Maisie. “Here are some of my notes on Hazleton. Only had access to the files for a very brief period, you understand.”

“Thank you, I’ll read them this evening. Did anything stand out?”

Lord Julian shook his head. “Not really. It all seemed rather a shame, actually. He appears to have been a fine young man—not that he isn’t now; that’s not it. But you’ll see that originally a far better prognosis regarding the outcome of his wounds was put forward. Must have been terrible for the poor fellow to relapse and end up in a wheelchair when at first they thought a couple of canes might do.”

“I see.” Maisie frowned and flipped open the envelope. Remembering Lord Julian’s limited time, she apologized, replaced the notes, and put the envelope into her document case.

“I am most grateful. Thank you, Lord Julian,” said Maisie, standing.

“A pleasure. Anything else while I am still here?” It was a perfunctory offer, with no reply anticipated. She was quick to respond.

“Actually, I do have one question,” said Maisie. “And no answer is required at this moment, but please let me know if anything comes to mind.”

“Go on.”

“Lord Julian, do you have any contacts in military intelligence? Anyone you served with at the War Office who would be able to trace records belonging to someone who may have been with the intelligence corps? I need confirmation of an affiliation.”

Lord Julian shook his head. “Not me. I can’t think of anyone I could call upon; there were, after all, different intelligence organizations. And wasn’t the corps—such as it’s been since the war—disbanded last year?” He paused. “Of course, there are those I know, but with that sort of work, we’re going into a different type of terrain.” He paused, then smiled. “But Maisie,
you
know the very person who could probably answer all of your questions.”

“I know someone? Who?”

Lord Julian laughed. “And I thought you knew everything!”

“Who is it?”

“Why, Blanche, of course. Talk to Maurice.”

“Maurice?”

“Yes. What do you think he was doing in the war, Maisie?”

Maisie shook her head, now spinning with convergent thoughts once more. “I—I knew he worked all over Europe, and even in Mesopotamia. And I knew it was highly confidential. I just always thought it was political, to do with his contacts, those people he’d known forever. But intelligence?”

“Our Maurice has a finger in a lot of pies, Maisie. He is the sharpest, most acute man I have ever known. I expect he will take the true extent of his wartime exploits to his grave, but I do know one thing: He was involved with the secret service and with several branches of military intelligence.”

Maisie nodded, thanked Lord Julian again, and left the building quickly. Rushing along the narrow streets with tall buildings on either side, she made her way toward the water. Dusk was falling, the smog a yellow vapor around her, the light casting shadows that appeared alongside her as if they were ghostly street urchins from another time. Maurice.
Maurice?
Was his request to join her on this excursion a coincidence? Or was it motivated by something else.
I knew that something was wrong.
But what did she know? Maurice’s voice echoed down the years.
It’s guesswork, hard work, guesswork again and supposition, taking what we have learned and applying it to what we know now, even when the cases are different. All cases challenge us: to reconsider who we are, how we see ourselves in this world, and how we view the past, the present, and the future from the unique observation point of our individual humanity. The needling out of information, of knowledge, is like trying to remove the tiniest splinter from a finger. The trick is to tease out truth without causing blood to flow—literally and figuratively—our own or that of another human being.

Could it all be coincidence? No.
No.
One of her first lessons from Maurice, the one that was repeated time and time again in case after case until it was imprinted on her very soul, was:
Coincidence is a messenger sent by truth
.

And what was the truth of Maurice’s insistence on traveling with her?
I will have to remember every single lesson, every single move and conversation
. The words came to Maisie instinctively as she watched the water flow murkily on its way downriver, toward the gushing torrent where the Thames met the sea. And she hoped against hope, especially now, especially when she needed her mentor more than ever before, that she and Maurice would be working not against each other, but together.

PART TWO

France, September 1930

FIFTEEN

Maisie left London before seven in the morning, her clothes, books, and papers packed in a small case of dark brown leather with straps across to ensure her belongings were secure. She carried her black document case and wore a gray-and-blue tweed jacket with a pale gray silk blouse, light gray woolen trousers, black shoes, and, to top off her ensemble, a dark gray hat with a broader brim than usual, a black band and a dark blue feather on the side, which was attached to the band with a deep blue stone in a sapphire cut. She had collected her watch from the mender’s yesterday, and it was now pinned in its customary place on the left-hand lapel of her jacket. The clothes were not new, though she had retrimmed the hat herself recently. But the case was very new, a gift from Dene delivered the day before. Two hours after that first delivery, a large box of chocolates arrived for Maisie, and included a simple message:
With love
. The second gift caused Maisie to shake her head, for she knew Dene to be impulsive at times and had recently taken to sending her chocolates. She had not the heart to tell him she did not care for such sweets and, as usual, left the box in the kitchen with a note:
Help yourselves!

Carrying her mackintosh over her arm, she boarded the train clutching her luggage tightly. She had telephoned her father the night before, wishing deeply that she were traveling to his cottage and the embracing familiarity of the place that was now firmly his home, though he was London born and bred.

“Who’s that?” Her father’s words upon picking up the telephone receiver always caused Maisie to smile.

“It’s me, Dad, unless you were expecting someone else.”

Her father laughed. “It’s this bloomin’ piece of nonsense. Can’t get used to the thing.”

“At least I know I can reach you if I need to.” Maisie paused. She could feel her father’s tension, though he did not speak. “Well, I’m off tomorrow, so I thought I would telephone. I’ll see you on the way back. I’ll come straight to Chelstone from Dover when we arrive back in England.”

“Will you be awright, love?”

“Yes, of course, you know me. I’m always all right.”

There was a pause before her father continued. “I do know you, Maisie, and I know this little shindig over there is botherin’ you.”

“I said I’ll be all right.”

“Well, I know what your mother would say.”

Maisie shivered and once again felt a sudden urge to turn around.

“What did you say, love?”

“I said, what would Mum have said?”

Frankie Dobbs was slow in responding, and Maisie knew that even after all these years, he ached for the company of his wife. “I reckon she would have told you to get on over there to France. She would have told you to slay your dragons, Maisie. Do your work and slay your dragons. Then come home.”

Maisie reflected upon his words as the train pulled out of Charing Cross Station and knew he was right. Her father, whom she had never taken to be a philosopher, was absolutely right. She must do her work, slay her dragons, and then come home.

T
HE TRAIN PUFFED
and chugged its way though Kent. Sitting by the window, Maisie delighted in seeing a fresh ground-mist lingering above the fields. She loved this time of year in Kent, when autumn was in the air, the leaves just beginning to turn, their pale yellows and deeper greens a promise of the rich reds, browns, and golds to come. And this was hop-picking time, the train almost full of Londoners on their way to Paddock Wood, to Goudhurst, Charing, Yalding, Cranbrook, and Hawkhurst, and to every other Kentish town and village with farms where the hops were hanging heavy on the bines, waiting to be picked. Of course, many had already traveled by charabanc, others in lorries laden to the gills with boxes, but many would take the train to Tonbridge, then change for the branch lines that would deliver them to their final destination. Pots and pans, folded bed linens pushed into old pillowcases and tied with string, shabby suitcases, boxes, and tilly lamps were stowed in the luggage racks, and throughout her journey, Maisie sat silently and smiled, listening to the banter she knew so very well. The talk was of how the hops might be in this field or that field, for this grand exodus of Londoners went to the same farms each year and knew the land as well as any country farmworker. They talked about the hopper huts, whom they might see, and the singsongs they would have at night when the picking was done. Maisie almost wished she were going with them instead of to France.

The next stop was Ashford, and as the train began to slow, Maisie pulled down the window, looking out for Maurice. Finally she saw him, standing on the platform, two suitcases held by the Comptons’ chauffeur.

“Maurice!”

“There she is, sir, over there.” George pointed to Maisie, and Maurice looked up.

Expecting Maurice to step up into the carriage, Maisie frowned when a porter joined them and then boarded the train while they waited on the platform.

“This way, miss.” He took Maisie’s luggage from the rack and indicated for her to follow him.

“Where are we going?”

“Gentleman said you’d be in second class, so we’re moving you to first. He’s got the tickets.”

Maisie shook her head and followed the porter, who took her to join Maurice, now settled in the first-class carriage. After the porter had stowed Maisie’s new leather case, Maurice pressed a coin into his hand and waved through the window to George, who touched his cap and turned to leave the station.

“This is rather extravagant.” Maisie settled into the seat, placing her document case next to her. She automatically let her hand remain on the case, then saw that Maurice had noticed and removed her hand quickly.

Blanche smiled. “Yes, perhaps. Though when one reaches my age, one is inclined to indulge in comforts where one can. I thought it would give us an opportunity to speak in confidence, Maisie—to reconnect with each other in person. It has been some months.”

“Since early summer, Maurice.”

“Ah, yes, and you have been seeing more of Andrew.”

Maisie blushed. Andrew Dene was another protégé of Maurice Blanche, though not as close as herself. “Yes, we’ve spent time together. He’s good company.”

“Oh, I think there’s more to it than that.” Maurice looked out of the window for a moment. “Well, on Andrew’s part anyway. I would have thought you were very well matched, the two of you.”

“As I said, he’s good company. I enjoy our time together.”

“May an old gentleman make an observation?”

Maisie inclined her head. She wanted very much to say no but instead replied, “Of course.”

“Well, just one comment; then let’s discuss the true purpose of your journey and your case.”

“Go on.”

“You know, particularly where Andrew is concerned, I think it may well be possible for you to have your cake and eat it.”

“I don’t know what—”

Maurice held up his hand. “That’s all, Maisie. Now then, the case of the aviator.”

Maisie paused for a moment, then opened her document case and took out a map. She moved to sit next to Maurice, the map on her knees. Maurice took out his spectacles, placed them on his nose, and looked at the point Maisie indicated.

“This is where Ralph Lawton’s De Havilland went down. It was just outside Reims, in the village of Sainte-Marie, which was occupied by the Germans. The German authorities went through the correct channels of notification, and his remains—well, such as they were; I understand the remains in this case comprised only metal identification tags that were all but melted—his remains were repatriated after the war and now lie in the cemetery at Auchon-Villiers.”

Maurice took off his spectacles and frowned. “Maisie, it is awfully difficult to completely incinerate a human body, as you know. Your studies in Edinburgh would have encompassed the effects of fire on flesh and bone.”

“Granted. However, this particular aeroplane, the Airco D.H.4, was not referred to as the Flaming Coffin for nothing. The fuel tank was situated precariously in a position that resulted in the most horrible outcome if shot down. It was a long-range craft equipped with a powerful twelve-cylinder engine that would give over six hours of flying time and therefore had a huge fuel capacity. Now—”

“You have become an expert on aviation.”

Maisie shook her head. “Not really. James Compton was an enormous help, and I have access to Ralph’s flight records, as well as his personal journal.”

She looked at Maurice, watching his response. He gave away nothing but simply nodded and replaced his spectacles, peering toward the map. Maisie continued.

“Now, this craft was generally used for bombing runs into enemy territory and would usually have an observer, but it was also quite nimble, able to make fast and accurate changes in direction. Interestingly enough, Ralph was flying alone that day and was not carrying bombs; the journey would have been quite swift, with the plane easy to maneuver.”

“I see.”

“So what was he doing with no bombs and no observer over enemy territory? Why didn’t he try to fly back across Allied lines before crashing? He was an experienced aviator, one who would never let his aeroplane get into enemy hands—even if he knew it would burn to a cinder.”

Maurice removed his spectacles again. “Remind me of your remit, Maisie.”

“To prove that he is dead.”

“Then I see no need to investigate Ralph Lawton’s assignment at the time of his death. You need only to corroborate accounts of his death, visit the grave and you have completed your task.”

Maisie frowned. “But Maurice, we’ve always worked diligently, answering each and every question that arises in order to come to a completion of our case. It is how you have taught me; it is ingrained in the way I work.”

“That was not always possible when I worked alone, as you are doing now.”

“I’m not alone. I have Billy.”

“Your having Billy is not the same as my having you for an assistant.”

“What do you mean? Billy has been an excellent choice.” Maisie sensed the annoyance rising. She had never before felt this way with Maurice.

“Billy is a good choice, yes. He is a workhorse, without a doubt. But with you, I had no need for constant vigilance.” He paused. “One constructs one’s business according to one’s resources. I was most fortunate in being able to entrust so much to you. I sense that you do not have the same advantage, so you must, on occasion, take the case at face value, do only what you must to conclude, and move on.”

Maisie shook her head in disbelief. “Maurice, I must continue with this case as I have planned, and I must follow where the clues, guesses, and suppositions take me. Clearly there must be an end to such a case, and we both know there is a time limit. But I will go forward according to my training from you and according to that which I feel is right.”

Maurice regarded Maisie intently. “Indeed. But at what cost?”

Maisie felt her eyes prickle at the corners.
He knows. He knows I am distressed.
At that moment the train began to decrease speed to an idle chugging as it approached Dover. She turned to look out of the window again, knowing Maurice’s eyes were still on her.
But what if he wants me to draw back for another reason. Is he here to hamper my inquiries? Is that why he came?

“Ah, we have arrived.” Maurice looked at his pocket watch. “I think we have time for a good lunch before the Golden Arrow arrives and we board the ferry with the other passengers. You know what they say about travel by sea, Maisie. A good lining to the stomach!”

A porter came aboard to collect the luggage and Maisie stepped down from the carriage, turning to ensure that Maurice was on secure footing as he alighted onto the platform. And as she took his hand, she felt a shiver move along her arm into her neck. Her stomach lurched. The dragon was awake.

F
OLLOWING LUNCH IN
the dining room of the Railway Inn, Maisie excused herself. Making her way to the hotel reception desk, she asked to use the telephone and was directed along the corridor to a wooden booth with concertina doors. Maisie looked around her, wishing she could shake off the constant sense that someone was watching her. Reaching the telephone, she closed the doors behind her and pulled the bolt across to ensure privacy. She dialed All Saints Convalescent Hospital in the Old Town, Hastings, and when the call was answered she pressed the button to connect.

“May I speak to Dr. Dene, please?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll put you through.”

Maisie imagined the receptionist turning to the others in the administration office and raising her eyebrows as she said, “Miss Dobbs, isn’t it?” Could there be another who called? wondered Maisie.

“Maisie, darling!” Dene’s enthusiastic greeting dispelled any doubts in her mind, though she had worried since Priscilla commented on his bachelorhood at a time when there was a surfeit of women her age in search of a sweetheart. “Shouldn’t you be on the high seas by now?”

“Another hour or so, Andrew.”

There was a strained silence for a moment.

“I take it that you managed to fit everything into the case?”