Pardonable Lie (3 page)

Lawton nodded and pressed on with his story. “One of them even said that a spirit guide—” He shook his head and once again took a seat opposite Maisie. “I’m sorry, Miss Dobbs. The mere thought of it all makes my blood boil. The fact that one person can wield such power over another is abhorrent. Is it not enough for a family to endure loss, without having a witch—” Lawton appeared to falter, then regained composure. “Anyway, my wife was told that a spirit guide had passed on a message from the other side that Ralph was not dead, but very much alive.”

“How difficult for you.” Maisie was careful to maintain a middle ground as she listened to the story. There was something in Lawton’s manner as he spoke of his son that made her feel uneasy. Her skin prickled slightly at the nape of her neck, where the scar left by an exploding shell was etched into her scalp.
His regard for his son was compromised.

“My wife spent the final two years of her life in an asylum, Miss Dobbs, a private institution in the country. I could not afford rumors that might jeopardize my position. She was cared for in very comfortable circumstances.”

Maisie looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. She needed to move on. “Tell me, Sir Cecil, how may I be of service to you?”

Lawton cleared his throat and began to speak. “Agnes, my wife, passed away three months ago. There was only a small funeral and the usual notice of her passing in
The Times
. However, on her deathbed, she begged me to promise that I would find Ralph.”

“Oh.” Maisie placed her hands together and brought them to her lips, as if in prayer.

“Yes. I promised to find someone who is dead.” He turned to face Maisie directly for the first time. “I am duty bound to search for him. That’s why I have come to you—at Julian’s suggestion.”

“Lord Julian was at the War Office during the war. I am sure he has access to records.”

“Of course, and the search only revealed what we already know: Captain Ralph Lawton, RFC, died in France in August 1917.”

“What do you want me to do, Sir Cecil?”

“I want you to prove my son dead, once and for all.”

“I’m sorry, but I must ask: What about his grave?”

“Ah, yes, the grave. My son died in an inferno when his aeroplane came down. There was little left of the craft, let alone my son. His remains are buried in France.”

“I see.”

“I am taking this step to keep a promise to my wife.”

Maisie frowned. “But such a search could go on indefinitely, and difficult to bear, if I may say so, Sir Cecil.”

“Yes, yes, quite, I understand. However, I have decided that there must be a time limit set for such a task.”

Maisie sighed deeply. “Sir Cecil, as you no doubt understand, in my work I am familiar with unusual requests and have taken on assignments that others have refused or abused. In a case such as this, my responsibility must extend to your well-being—if I may speak frankly.”

“I’m perfectly all right, you know. I—”

Standing, Maisie walked to the window, glanced at her watch, and turned to face Lawton. “Brutal honesty is often a requirement of my work, and I must—as I said—be frank. You are recently bereaved, and your wife has burdened you with a terrible promise: to find a son who, to all intents and purposes, is dead. It would seem that, since you received word of his death, you have not been able to seal his passing with the rituals that we must all go through to release those who are lost to the past.”

Maisie paused for a moment, looked back at Lawton, and continued. “It is only through such a pilgrimage of mourning that we are free to remember the dead with a fullness of heart. In taking on this case, your passage through grief and remembrance will be of paramount consideration. You see, Sir Cecil, I am not yet sure how I might proceed with such work, but I know only too well how difficult it will be for you to relive your loss as I go about my inquiry. And of course I would be investigating those your wife consulted in her search for confirmation of her sense that he was alive.”

“I see. At least I think I see. I thought you could just search records, go over to France, and…” Lawton’s words stalled. It was clear he had no idea what Maisie might do in France.

“Allow me to make a suggestion, if I may, Sir Cecil. Consider all I have said, and the implications of my investigation. Then please telephone me at my office, and we will proceed from that day if you still wish me to search for the truth regarding Ralph’s death.” Maisie reached into her document case and pulled out a calling card that she passed to Lawton. It was inscribed with her name, followed by
Psychologist and Investigator
and her telephone number.

Lawton studied the card for a moment before pushing it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Yes, quite. I’ll consider the breadth of my request.”

“Good. Now, if you will excuse me, Sir Cecil, I really must hurry. I have a supper engagement this evening.”

A single knock at the door heralded the perfectly timed entrance of Lord Julian Compton.

“I thought you’d be just about finished by now.”

“Yes, Julian. Miss Dobbs has been most helpful.” Sir Cecil held out his hand to Maisie.

“I look forward to hearing from you in due course, Sir Cecil.” Maisie shook the proffered hand and turned to leave. “One more thing regarding your wife’s assertion, Sir Cecil: Should you choose to commence with the investigation, I will be curious to know if your wife ever attributed a reason for Ralph’s not returning home—if she thought him alive.”

THREE

Returning to her rooms, Maisie bathed, then styled her hair quickly before putting on her black day dress. She had no gowns or evening wear, choosing instead something from her wardrobe that would “do” for supper at the Strand Palace Hotel. She applied rouge sparingly, along with a swish of lipstick, and patted her hair one last time. Her long tresses had finally met the hairdresser’s scissors in early summer and, though the new haircut was stylish, she found she missed the weight at the back of her head and along her spine when she unpinned her chignon. Now the chin-length bob was growing out, which Maisie liked: For once in her life she was following fashion.

Collecting the freshly polished MG, Maisie sped off toward the Strand Palace, where she was to meet Priscilla. Though they had kept in touch, the women had met only once or twice after Priscilla left England to live in Biarritz. At first, Maisie had questioned her friend’s decision to reside abroad, but she knew Priscilla needed to reignite an effervescent personality numbed by loss and grief. In Biarritz she had immersed herself in a round of parties but was saved from a life of postwar decadence by the quiet strength and resolve of her husband, the poet Douglas Partridge, who welcomed Priscilla into his home on the coast and into the calming influence of his life of artistic endeavor and introspection. Maisie was happy for her friend and considered the union sound. Priscilla had discovered true joy again and in so doing encouraged Douglas’s confidence in company. Now, with three sons, Priscilla’s enviable energy was often sapped by the end of the day, though Maisie wondered how her friend would ever fare if she lost the boys’ nanny.

It wasn’t just Priscilla and her family that occupied Maisie’s thoughts as she maneuvered through the London traffic. She was troubled by the meeting with Sir Cecil Lawton, by a case that might be lucrative but seemed fraught with ambiguity. She liked to bring her cases to a complete close, to know her notes could be filed away with all loose ends tied. She could not fail to notice that Agnes Lawton had clearly asked her husband to find their son, whereas Lawton had briefed Maisie to prove him dead, a distinction that hinted at a client who might be more troublesome than most. She hoped Lawton would decide against the investigation.

Maisie parked the motor car. As she rushed into the grand entrance of the Strand Palace, she caught a glimpse of herself in the newly refurbished modern and very avant-garde mirrored glass foyer and sighed. In truth, there was one aspect of the reunion that she was dreading: Priscilla was a self-confessed fashion hound. Her long limbs, aquiline features, and shining chestnut hair seemed to lend themselves to any style, any ensemble—always brand-new and very expensive. As she had written to Maisie, “I spend much of my day on my hands and knees or otherwise steeped in the life of three impish toads, so I never begrudge myself the odd shopping trip to Paris.” Maisie knew she would feel hopelessly drab in her company.

M
AISIE NOTICED
P
RISCILLA
immediately, sitting on an armchair at the agreed-upon meeting place. She stopped for a moment to regard her old friend. Priscilla wore wide trousers of heavy black silk, with a pale gray chemise tucked into the wide waistband. A black silk jacket, shorter than the thigh length Maisie favored, was set upon her shoulders. Pale gray piping edged the jacket, and a gray silk handkerchief was tucked into a breast pocket. Maisie brushed a few specks of lint from her dress, which she suddenly felt to be pitifully behind the times. Priscilla turned to face her; then, with a beaming smile, quickly but elegantly unfolded her long legs and rose from the chair.

“Maisie, darling, you look absolutely smashing. It must be love!”

“Oh, come on, Pris.” Maisie kissed Priscilla on both cheeks before the women stood back to appraise each other.

“Well, I’ll say this for you, you don’t have wrinkles.” Priscilla reached into her bag and pulled out a fresh cigarette, which she pressed into an ebony holder. Maisie remembered the flourish with which Priscilla would smoke her illicit cigarettes when they were at Girton, waving the holder to emphasize a point, sometimes blowing a perfect smoke ring before saying, “Well, if you want my opinion…” which she would give without waiting for a response.

Priscilla put her arm through Maisie’s and led her conspiratorially toward the Grill Room. “Now then, I want to know everything—and I mean
everything
, especially about whoever it is that has given you a twinkle in your eye. I know you’ve had a couple of suitors, and I know that twinkle. I remember seeing it when we went to Simon’s leaving party. Do you remember—” Priscilla stopped suddenly. “Oh, God. Sorry, Maisie, I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, not to worry, Pris. It was a long time ago. And it
was
a wonderful party, the best of my life.” Maisie smiled to let Priscilla know that a reference to Simon was not ill-timed. Captain Simon Lynch was the young army doctor whom she had loved, but whose terrible injuries in the Great War had rendered him incapacitated in body and mind.

Priscilla stopped and looked into Maisie’s eyes, her own glistening with tears that revealed the depth of her remembered grief. Maisie rubbed her friend’s hand as it rested on her arm. “Come on, let’s have that drink, Pris. I know I’d like one.”

“My, you have changed! Now all I have to do is take you shopping.”

Maisie turned to Priscilla as they were shown to a table. “I knew it would be only a minute or two before you tried to take me in hand.”

“All right, I’ll leave that topic until later. You may be seeing a country doctor—it
is
him, isn’t it?—but there’s no need to go all frumpy and pearly yet.”

“But I’m not—”

Priscilla held up a hand playfully as she ordered a gin and tonic. Maisie asked for a cream sherry.

“So. Come on, out with it; tell me all about him. Is it that Andrew Dene?
Dr
. Andrew Dene? The one you wrote about in your last letter?”

“Look, it’s not serious courting, we’re—oh, thank you.” Maisie smiled at the waiter, glad for the interruption of their drinks being set upon the table.

“Not serious? I’ll wager, Maisie, that it’s serious for Dr. Dene! Has he asked you to marry him?”

“Well, no….”

“Oh, come on. Here you are, a successful woman of professional standing, and seeing you blush I feel as if I’m talking to my lovesick nanny.” Priscilla stubbed out her cigarette and took a hefty sip of her gin and tonic. “Who, I might add, has almost given me gray hair by conducting an affair with a man I consider to be a very nasty piece of work.”

“Thank heavens the comparison ends there. Andrew’s actually very nice.”

“So why aren’t you marrying him?”

Maisie sipped her sherry and set her glass down. “If you must know, he hasn’t asked me. For goodness’ sake, we’ve hardly seen each other since we first went to the theater. I enjoy his company—he is such fun, you’d like him—but apart from spending the odd day together at the weekend, or an evening during the week if he’s in town, we are both busy.”

Priscilla pressed another cigarette into the holder, raised an eyebrow, and leaned toward Maisie. “Are you sure you’ve only spent the odd
day
at the weekend? Not the whole weekend?”

“That’s it; no more, Priscilla Evernden. You are a devil!” Maisie laughed, joined by Priscilla. “Oh, it
is
good to see you, Pris. Come on, tell me about the boys. Have you found a suitable school for them?”

The waiter returned to take their order for supper, and as he left, Priscilla went on to bring Maisie up-to-date with family life and the search for a school that would accommodate three boys, used to a certain freedom in their fashionable French coastal resort but who must now begin to prepare for a more restrained life ahead. The conversation continued over the meal.

“So, we’re sort of between the devil and the deep blue sea, trying to get them educated without having the life whipped out of them if they so much as put a foot wrong.” Priscilla placed her knife and fork on her plate and reached for her wineglass. “Anyway, I’m to see three more schools this week, plus I have to meet with my solicitors to discuss upkeep of the estate. Part of me wants to sell, but on the other hand I’d love to keep it for the boys.” Priscilla shook her head. “Anyway, far too boring for supper talk. Now then, what about you? What’s your latest case?”

“You know I can’t tell you about my cases.”

“Not even a snippet for a hard-pressed mother?”

“That will be the day!” Maisie smiled. “All right, let’s just say that my next case, if I am awarded the assignment, involves proving that someone who died in the war really is dead.” Maisie was careful not to say
aviator
and was aware that the information shared with Priscilla was more than she had ever before disclosed to someone not directly involved in an investigation.

Priscilla pulled a face. “Gosh, I wish I hadn’t asked now—mind you, it’s not unusual when you think about it. After all, so many were listed as
missing
, which caused terrible heartache.”

“And I may well have to go over to France to complete my inquiries,” continued Maisie. “Though I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”

“Then you must come to Biarritz—consider it a break following all that hard work. Heavens, I’ve been trying to get you to come for years!”

“It’s probably a bit out of my way. If you were at your flat in Paris, I might be able to visit you there.”

Priscilla shook her head. “I’m hardly ever in Paris except for the odd shopping expedition. Douglas goes to the flat to write sometimes. There’s a sort of League of Nations bookish set in Paris that he finds stimulating. The Americans are rather fun, but it appears to me that a fair bit of backstabbing goes on, you know.”

“I wouldn’t know, Pris. There’s a similar set in Fitzroy Square, but I hardly see them. We’re not even on nodding ‘good-morning’ terms.”

Priscilla was quiet for a moment, and as she ran a finger around the rim of her wineglass, Maisie regarded her closely. Her demeanor had changed; a tension had moved into her shoulders that Maisie knew came from Priscilla’s heart.

“What is it, Priscilla?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing, really….”

Maisie leaned back as Priscilla in turn leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. She began to unburden her troublesome thoughts with a nervous half laugh and a joke.

“You know,
m
y father would have sent me from the table for this. ‘Only cooked meat on the table’ was a favorite quip as he pricked you on the arm with a fork.”

“Those who are gone are never far away,” said Maisie.

“Yes, I know. I’m seeing it more and more in the boys as they get older. Though they never knew their uncles, I see reminders every day, even when one of them is just about to box another around the ears! God, I miss them; I still miss my family, Maisie.” Priscilla took up the ebony holder and, despite disparaging looks from two matrons dining nearby, lit another cigarette.

“But there’s more, isn’t there?” Maisie rested her hands on the table, not with palms down but relaxed and slightly upturned.

Priscilla blew a smoke ring and smiled broadly at the neighboring diners.
She doesn’t change
, thought Maisie.

“It’s that case you mentioned, Maisie.” Priscilla seemed to falter but then continued. “It made me think of my eldest brother, Peter. As you know, I was the youngest; the boys were all older. Phil and Pat were both killed in 1916, within two weeks of each other, but Peter—I don’t know about Peter.”

“Don’t know?” Maisie resisted the urge to lean toward Priscilla, instead leaving room for her to continue her story.

“No. I have no idea.” Priscilla looked at Maisie directly. “It’s my boys growing up so quickly, I think. I pushed it all back after the war, after Mummy and Daddy died. Off I went to France like a shot, drank myself silly for a year, and, thank God, along came Douglas to drag me from the abyss. I adore him, Maisie, and I adore my boys. Douglas and I have helped each other, really, and I don’t want to look back, but…”

“But?”

“We never knew where Peter died. His body was never found, though that wasn’t unusual, was it? I never even saw the telegram. My parents had already lost Patrick and Philip, so they burned it, and I’ve been troubled about it ever since. I’ll put it to the back of my mind for a while, and then something—and sometimes it’s something really simple, not a big thing like this case of yours—brings it all back again.”

Maisie did not respond for some moments. Then she reached across to her friend and took her hands in her own. “Look, Pris, I want you to consider something—and please don’t dismiss my suggestion immediately. I can direct you to someone who, in conversation, can help you to put Peter to rest in your heart. I’m your friend, too close for such work, but Maurice—”

Priscilla pulled her right hand from Maisie’s grasp, holding it up to stop her speaking. “I know what you’re suggesting, Maisie. I’ve heard all about these newfangled talk therapies, and they’re not my bag. I’d rather listen to an old gramophone record and have a drink and a cigarette until misery finds someone else to pick on.” She paused briefly and changed the subject. “Have you received a letter from Girton asking for contributions to the new fund-raising campaign? I thought I’d send something.”

M
AISIE AND
P
RISCILLA
remained together for another hour or so, reminiscing over dinner about their time at Girton College and their lives since the war. They agreed to meet again for lunch before Priscilla flew from Croydon Aerodrome back to France. But as she left her friend, driving back to Ebury Place with the top down on the MG, for it was a warm Indian-summer night, Maisie considered the possibility of a return to France, a prospect she anticipated with dread in her heart.