Pardonable Lie (18 page)

T
HE
C
AFÉ
D
RUK
seemed to have seen better days. The black double doors were chipped and worn, with the head of a giant dragon painted across so that the mouth gaped when a customer opened the door. The dragon’s teeth were raised, carved and joined to the door rather than painted; however, the years had taken their toll on the wooden beast, for several of the teeth were missing. The door was ajar, so Maisie pushed it open and walked in, frowning as she became accustomed to the room, inefficiently lit by red lights on the walls, which appeared to be covered in silk.

“
Excusez-moi?
Madame? Is anyone here?” Maisie walked into the shadows slowly, colliding with a chair that scraped back against the tiled floor.

“Be careful, will you?”

“Excuse me.” Maisie was aware of a person in the shadows behind the bar, which she could now see was laden with soiled glasses and ashtrays full of cigarette ends. “
Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît.
”

A laugh that was more of a cackle almost rattled the glasses. “I can speak your language, Englishwoman.”

“Oh, there you are.” Maisie walked toward the bar, stood very straight, and held out her hand to the woman who was emerging from the shadows.

“And you are?” The woman took Maisie’s hand in her own long elegant fingers.

“My name is Maisie Dobbs. I’m here to—”

The woman cackled again.

“What’s wrong?”

“So very English, Maisie Dobbs.” She pushed her face toward Maisie, then turned and flicked a switch. Lights came on in the center of the room, making it easier for Maisie to see around her. It looked as if a party had begun a week ago and only just ended.

“I am Eva. What can I do for Maisie Dobbs?”

“I wanted to come here because my friend from childhood came here during the war, when he was on leave and before he died.” She took out the matchbox and held it out toward the Indochinese woman.

As Eva reached for the matchbox, turning it to catch the light, Maisie was able to look at her more closely. She was about fifty years old. Her black hair was pulled back tightly, wound into a twist at the back of her head, and secured with two ornate clasps. She wore an evening gown with a hemline that dusted the floor and an embroidered coat draped across her shoulders. Her makeup was smudged, but she was, without a doubt, a beautiful Eurasian woman.

“Yes, your friend was here. How can I help you? Thousands passed through my doors, all of them drowning sorrows before sorrow drowned them. But those were the days, Maisie Dobbs, oh, those were the days!”

“What do you mean?”

“People who are doomed live life with abandon, don’t you know that?”

“I was in France too, in the war.”

The woman looked her up and down; then she picked up an ashtray and poked at it until she found an inch of cigarette that was worth lighting again. She reached into the box that Maisie had passed to her, pulled out a match, and struck it on the wall behind her. It ignited immediately. She lit the cigarette and shook the match until the flame extinguished, turning to Maisie only after a long draw on the cigarette.

“So, you were in France.” She paused, gazing intently at Maisie, who did not look away. “What can I do for you? The war was years ago.”

“I just wanted to see where my friend had been.”

“Obviously not a boyfriend, a—what did they call them?” She shook her head. “A sweetheart! No, you weren’t a sweetheart; that would have been impossible.”

Maisie was silent but maintained eye contact.

“Oh, you Englishwomen. So petite in the mind!” She paused. “My club does not appeal to those who come with their wives, their ladyfriends.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, that I understand, Madame Eva. However, I was just curious, you know, to see.” She reached for her bag.

“No, stop.” Eva placed her hand on her arm. “Come, come with me.” She led Maisie to the back of the club and through an archway leading to a staircase. Once upstairs, Eva unlocked a door with a key on a chain that she pulled from around her neck. She opened the door to reveal a light and airy room with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the street below. As her eyes moved from one exquisite painting to another, then to the china and furniture from Asia, Maisie felt as if she had entered another world. Eva opened a glass-fronted case and pulled out several photograph albums, which she placed in front of Maisie. The light outside was fading now, and Eva ensured that the lamps were tilted so that she could view the photographs. Unlike André’s dusty collection of ledgers, Eva’s albums were cherished, each page of photographs covered with a sheet of onion-skin paper for protection.

“These are from the war. My boys, all my boys. Most were lost, but I kept the photographs. They are all of parties here, all of laughter and singing.” She walked toward a door to the right. “So do not judge, Miss Maisie Dobbs, for you are alive and able to laugh again, as difficult as that may be.” Eva clasped her hands together in front of her. “Nice English lady like tea?” She cackled and walked away, leaving Maisie alone.

Maisie shook her head and reached for the albums, which were all dated, selected one, and began flipping through. It was the faces she was looking at, the boyish grins, sometimes embarrassed as the flashlight caught them unawares, sometimes defiant or waving to Eva, for surely it was Eva who was behind the camera.

“Tea for English missy.” Eva returned, set the tray on the table, and added, “I do not keep the juice of cows, so you will have to drink it without milk.”

“Lovely, thank you.” Maisie smiled and looked up. Eva seemed more serious now.

“You have found nothing?”

Maisie took a sip of the tea that Eva had placed on a table beside her and sighed. “No, nothing.” She paused, then looked again. “Oh, my goodness, there he is!”

Eva came around to lean over Maisie’s shoulder, so that they were both peering at the photograph in the album that Maisie had pulled onto her lap. The two young men were laughing, their arms intertwined as they each held a glass to the other’s lips. Placed on the bar in front of Hazleton was a glass ornament, an orb, perhaps a paperweight, that caught the light in such a way that it reflected into the camera, creating a moment that appeared laced with magic. It reminded Maisie of that other photograph among Ralph’s belongings at Cecil Lawton’s Cambridgeshire home. There they were, the same two young men. And the same adoring gaze was on Ralph Lawton’s face, as he looked away from the camera to the man he held to him in this moment of joy.

SEVENTEEN

“So it looks like she’s pulled through and she’ll be back on her feet in a day or two.”

Maisie placed her hand on her chest, feeling relief rush through her body. “Oh, Sandra, that is the best news I could’ve had today.” She paused to wave to Maurice, who had just entered the reception lounge, and pointed to the receiver to indicate the call in progress. Maurice nodded and seated himself in an ornate carved chair. Maisie resumed the conversation. “Did the doctor say anything about what caused the malady?”

“He said it was very difficult to say, seeing as I’d made her lose most of what she’d eaten, if you know what I mean, and then made her drink pints and pints of water. Mind you, he said it’s a rare bad chocolate that has the same effect as rat poison—”

Maisie took a breath, ready to ask another question, but Sandra anticipated her.

“And he couldn’t prove it now without her being a corpse. Even then it would be hard.”

“I have to run now. Look, Sandra, I want you to be very, very careful. If anyone tries to deliver
anything
for me, you must send them away.” She had considered the evidence value of a suspect package but did not want to bear the risk of a contaminated parcel in the house when she was not there to monitor the situation.

“Not even put them in the courtyard shed?”

“No. Do not accept anything. And if you see any strangers loitering around Ebury Place, you must report them to the police immediately; make sure you inform the staff. I shall place a call to Lord Julian later today when I arrive in Reims. He should be kept apprised of the situation.”

“Right you are, m’um.”

“I’ll say goodbye then, Sandra.”

“Goodbye, m’um—oh, and m’um, please be careful.”

“Thank you, I will.” Maisie replaced the receiver, turned to the bespectacled hotel manager, and paid her telephone account. Maurice, who would be remaining in Paris, had already settled her room fee.

She walked across to Maurice, indicating to a porter that she was ready to leave. Then she reached toward her mentor, placed a hand on his shoulder, and kissed him on each cheek. “I’ll see you soon, Maurice.”

“Indeed. Take care, Maisie.” He looked at her intently. As she left the hotel and climbed into a taxi-cab, Maisie could still feel him watching her.

S
HE SPENT THE
train journey to Reims in quiet reflection. From her decision to take on the case of Ralph Lawton to yesterday’s meetings with André and Eva, she picked over the events and connections of the past two weeks. Each time she considered a person or situation, she approached from another direction, challenging in her mind the way in which she observed the clues left behind. To be sure, there was no actual physical connection between Avril Jarvis and Madeleine Hartnell. But there was another link, as if the presence of one in her life was an indication of the importance of the other.

Maisie remembered asking Maurice, in the early years of her apprenticeship, why it was that he would treat two cases—cases that seemingly had nothing to do with each other—as if they were related. He had tapped his pipe against the fireplace in their old office close to Oxford Circus, inspected the empty bowl, and responded to her question as he filled the pipe again, pressing down the fresh tobacco as he spoke.

“It is a question of serendipity, Maisie. Yes, of course the cases have nothing to do with each other
on the surface.
” He reached for a match, which he held ready to strike against the chimney breast. “But here’s the link: In considering the one case, we have to stand in another place, look at our evidence from a fresh angle. Without a doubt, that is a challenge for us; after all, we come to our work with a history, a language, a way of doing things in this world that is uniquely ours—and we can be stuck with it.” He paused to light the pipe and draw upon the oaky-sweet tobacco. “But in that moment, another case comes along that demands our mental athleticism, our ability to leap to that other place and look again, for it is so different from the first. Then it comes, that one similarity, that small grain of intelligence that breaks the block in one or both cases. Or, Maisie”—he had looked at her intently—“the task of asking questions, of peeling back layers of the past, reveals something that has nothing to do with the cases and everything to do with ourselves. Do you understand?”

She had nodded, in her youth not quite grasping the weight of his words, but now, as the land swept by accompanied by the dull rhythm of wheels on tracks, she understood it was a lesson she was to learn anew time and time again. And now was no exception.

Arriving in Reims, Maisie secured a taxi-cab driver who was willing to take her to the small town of Sainte-Marie just a few miles to the east of the city. It was a rural area occupied by the Kaiser’s army during the war, and it was on the edge of Sainte-Marie that Ralph Lawton’s De Havilland fell to earth in a cascade of flames, according to those who witnessed the event.

Maisie’s driver took her to a small pension run by a woman who introduced herself as Madame Thierry. She was a petite woman, thin rather than slender, and wore a blue cotton dress with a white apron that still bore the sharp folds of freshly ironed linen. Her long blond-gray hair had been braided and then wound around her head, reminding Maisie of an ornate loaf of bread.

“It is a comfortable room and you will enjoy the view.” Madame pulled back the lace curtain. There was a garden with chickens pecking at the grass, vegetables growing in well-ordered rows, and an old hound asleep under an apple tree. Beyond were two fields, separated by woodland, and then, in the distance, a château.

Maisie looked out the window. “What a beautiful château. Who lives there?”

“It is the home of Madame Chantal Clement. She lives there with her thirteen-year-old granddaughter, Mademoiselle Pascale Clement.”

Maisie drew back. “Does the child have no parents? A mother?”

“She is gone.” Madame Thierry shook her head and added, “The war….”

Maisie knew the comment was meant to prevent any further inquiry. “Of course.”

“Now, Mademoiselle Dobbs, let me show you where we serve our
petit déjeuner
; it is a delightful room.”

M
AISIE WALKED TO
the police station first, a two-room building with a counter as one entered, behind which were two desks and a door, which led through to what Maisie assumed were two or three cells. As she rang the bell on the counter, she suspected that the cells were seldom used and then only to facilitate the sleeping off of a liquid repast by a tottering villager. When the gendarme returned to his post, it was with a cup of strong coffee in his hand, so Maisie assumed that the kitchen was probably situated in one of the cells.

“
Bonjour
”—there was a pause as he stole a glance at Maisie’s hands—“
mademoiselle.
What can I do for you?” He smiled broadly, revealing two missing front teeth, then placed his cup on the counter as he leaned forward.

“I am Captain Desvignes, at your service.”

Maisie took one small step back. “Thank you, Captain Desvignes. I am here on behalf of the father of a man, an aviator, who was shot down close to Sainte-Marie during the war, and I wondered—”

“It was a terrible time, mademoiselle. In Sainte-Marie we prefer to forget.”

“Of course.” Maisie rested her hands on the counter. “But, sir—Captain Desvignes—I wondered if you could assist me in helping the young man’s father. I want to know where the craft went down so I might pay my respects on the father’s behalf. He is an elderly man and now, in the twilight of his years, he wants to know that someone has come.”

Desvignes sipped the black coffee and ran his tongue across his remaining front teeth. Droplets of coffee clung to his mustache, which he wiped with the back of his hand before taking a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his mouth again, and then his hands. Maisie waited patiently.
He’s thinking, playing for time.
Clearing his throat, Desvignes shrugged. “It was a long time ago. We prefer to forget, but we all remember, do we not, mademoiselle?”

“I was in France myself, in the war.” Maisie clutched her hands together, still on top of the counter where he could see them. “I was a nurse.”

The gendarme raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You were brave—and so young!” He turned and took his kepi from the nail on the wall where it had been hanging. “Come. Let me show you.” He opened the counter flap, came to Maisie’s side, and looked at her feet. “Good, you have strong shoes. We will walk.” He opened the door for Maisie and flipped a sign outside the door that now announced
FERMÉ
to anyone who came. Then he led Maisie along a cobbled street to a gate, which opened onto a path leading to the fields beyond the town.

They walked for a mile or so on paths alongside land that had recently been harvested. Captain Desvignes pointed out aspects of the town’s history to Maisie, at first saying little about the war. Then, lulled by her easy companionship and ready smile, he revealed more and more. Many residents had tried to leave as the German armies approached, but to move forward spelled even more risk, placing them en route for the British front lines. And because it was a small community, where the old were related to almost everyone else and the young were the promise of the town’s future, most of the townsfolk remained, determined not to be ousted by the German advance.

At first they had felt pity for the occupying army, who, as far as anyone could ascertain, were young men plucked from schools and universities to fight after only a few weeks in a training camp. Then the Kaiser’s generals decreed that the only method of ensuring security in the occupied population was to rule with an iron fist, demanding obedience, and responding to dissent with punishment.

“It was a foolish move,” said Desvignes.

Maisie said nothing, knowing that the captain now needed no encouragement to continue.

“As soon as the fist came down”—Desvignes pounded his right hand into the palm of his left—“we began to wage our own war, and we were determined to win.”

Maisie was about to ask a question, when Desvignes pointed to the far corner of a field. “There it is, the place where your flying man went down. We all remember that day, you see, those of us who were here. We do not forget.” He removed his kepi and pressed it to his chest, then held out his hand as if the field were his own property. “See how the grass grows? You would never know. No, you would never know.”

They walked across the land, Desvignes helping Maisie as she clambered over a fence. Finally they were standing at the point where the aeroplane crashed.

“It was right here, on this very spot?”

“Yes, mademoiselle. On this spot.”

“And was the wood there? The trees around the riverbank?”

“Yes, mademoiselle. The woods, they were thicker, so dense you could not see beyond the first line of trees. We thought they would also burn, but the wind turned and our people came with buckets to form a chain from the river.”

“I see.” Maisie was thoughtful. “Who was here first?”

“It was the gardener, from the château over there beyond the trees.”

“Madame Clement’s gardener?”

“Yes.”

“And then what happened?”

“Others came, from the town.”

“And the Germans? Surely they saw the flames. Were they not here quickly?”

Desvignes shrugged. “I think there were some difficulties on the road from town; a cart with vegetables had overturned.” He pointed to a small dusty road at the end of the field. “And of course they had a war to fight.”

Maisie nodded. She suspected that Desvignes was adept at spicing the truth with a liberal helping of fabrication, and that “difficulties on the road” were likely to have been obstructions caused by villagers.

“And the fire?”

“Ah, well, it was impossible to stop the fire, it was everywhere, so we saved our woodland, our crops. The Germans came after the fire was extinguished, burned out. The plane was nothing, a charred shell. The body—nothing except name tags that were half melted.”

“Was there a problem with identification?”

Desvignes shrugged again. “The aeroplane was identified when it crashed, before being completely lost, and I believe there was sufficient information to send word to the British authorities.”

Maisie regarded the man carefully. “Did you serve in the war, Captain?”

Desvignes stood to attention and saluted. “Of course. I was wounded at the first Marne battle, in 1914. I was like Madame Clement’s gardener, a cripple of war.”

They turned to leave. As they did so, Maisie was compelled to look back at the land where Ralph Lawton’s De Havilland had burned and at the pointed turrets of the château beyond the trees in the distance. And she wondered how a “cripple of war” could have been the first man to rush to the aid of a British aviator who was burning to death.

C
APTAIN
H
ENRI
D
ESVIGNES
escorted Maisie back to the pension, tipped his kepi, and bid her
bonsoir.
Upon reaching her room, she slipped off her walking shoes and lay back on the bed. The room was far too frivolous for her taste: a lace counterpane, lace curtains, lace around the edge of the marble-topped table, upon which sat a china bowl and ewer filled with cold water, and lace around the framed paintings on the walls. As she rested she recalled the counsel of her early years working with Maurice Blanche.
Never rush to a conclusion. Even though the clues point in a certain direction, do not allow yourself to be blinded by assumption. It is too easy to be trapped by the mind closing when a task is considered done.
She was reaching conclusions here, and quickly. Yet there again, new information along with a good measure of doubt emerged with each conversation, each new encounter. She touched her head, stood up, walked over to the ewer, lifted it with both hands, and poured water into the bowl. Taking the lace-edged cotton cloth from the rail alongside the table, Maisie dipped one end in the water, looked into the mirror above, and pressed the wet cloth against the dressing on her forehead. After soaking the bandage, she carefully peeled it back, removing the lint to reveal a livid scar and surrounding abrasion. Maisie cleansed the wound, patted it dry, and pinned back her hair to let the air get to it. As she did so, she smiled, remembering the early days of her nursing at the London Hospital and the sisters in charge, who would march up and down the wards extolling the virtues of fresh air and instructing the nurses to open the windows. “Don’t she know we’ve ’ad enough of the fresh bleedin’ cold air over there?” one soldier would quip to another as the nurses hurriedly obeyed orders.