Pardonable Lie (30 page)

“I am sure they had the utmost compassion—after all, anyone can fall.”

“But not a politician!” Hazleton’s voice cracked as he went on. “I lost my footing and could not face it happening again, and Charmaine”—he looked at his wife, a gaze followed by Maisie, who had now got the measure of the delicate balance in their relationship—“Charmaine said it would be best to use the wheelchair when I was out and to walk only in the house, just in case.”

“I see.”

“And there was more. It seemed as if the image of the crippled MP meant something to people. It seemed to stand for what everyone had been through, I suppose. In any case, I became convinced that the fact I was wheelchair-bound helped me to become popular, to win my seat. My wife was another reason. A politician cannot survive without the right people behind him. If my friendship with Ralph came out….” He reached for his wife and held her hand.

Maisie pressed on, touching her forehead. “You could have killed me.”

“We had so much to lose!” Charmaine Hazleton drew her hand to her mouth.

“What about tampering with my motor car last Saturday morning?”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hazleton seemed genuinely perplexed.

A trickle of perspiration ran from Maisie’s forehead as she began to understand that the amateurish attempts by the Hazletons did not run to interfering with motor cars. “And what about on the tube? Was Goodge Street your only visit to the underground in your attempts to kill me?”

The couple exchanged glances again. Hazleton spoke. “I promise you, Miss Dobbs, we wanted to scare you, to stop you in your wild goose chase in search of a man who is dead. Yes, of course we had secrets to protect, but to kill you? No.”

Maisie swallowed. “You have placed yourselves in a very difficult and vulnerable position.”

“Please, don’t do it, don’t report us. Please forgive us, we were blinded by—”

“Your ambition?” Maisie snapped.

Hazleton shook his head. “No. Not in the way that you think.” He paused, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and drew it across his brow. “I was so afraid of falling, and I—we—wanted to do good. We’d both seen too much that was bad, that was evil. I lost my dearest friend, and Charmaine had seen young men try to make lives for themselves again despite terrible wounds. We thought that by working together, being a team, we could represent those who have no voice, especially after the war and especially now. My disability drew attention, and with it a belief in what I had to say.”

“Don’t you think that what you had to say counted for itself?” Maisie’s anger was rising.

“We were misguided.”

“Misguided? You could have killed me! And you lied to your constituents.”

“Their voices were heard!”

“Nevertheless—”

“Please, Miss Dobbs, we will be ruined.”

Maisie paced again. She stopped twice to look at the Hazletons. Making her way back and forth, she had become attuned to their fears and hopes: to a wife so afraid of losing her place as carer and much-needed partner that she would encourage a man to remain in a wheelchair; to a man strong enough to fight on the battlefield and in the House of Commons but fearful should his past be revealed. In her silence she asked for the strength to forgive them and to do what was right. She wanted to leave the house, wanted time to consider their actions and the implications of their lives. Then she looked at the couple once more and knew that to have them wait for her response would be cruel. Hadn’t all three of them seen too much that was cruel already?

Finally, she turned to the couple, her resignation clearly heard in the sigh that came before she spoke. “Sit down and we will discuss the terms of my silence.” And as she said the words she threw the glass paperweight toward Hazleton, who reached out for it to make the perfect catch.

TWENTY-NINE

“Well, good mornin’, Miss! It’s nice to see you bright and early again. And may I say you are looking very well indeed!” Billy was not quite sure that his employer was looking very well indeed, but there was certainly an improvement in her pallor, and he had spent enough time in hospitals himself to know that a bit of encouragement worked wonders.

“Yes, I am feeling better, Billy.” Maisie looked up from her work and set the top on her fountain pen. “I’m just completing my written report for Sir Cecil. I’m late with it, but he knows I’ve been a bit under the weather. Anyway, pull up a chair. There’s something I have to tell you before you hear it from someone else.”

The color drained from Billy’s face as he turned from hanging his coat on the hook behind the door. “What is it, Miss?”

“Don’t worry, Billy, I’m not closing up shop.”

“Whew, you ’ad me scared there, Miss. Everything else all right?”

Maisie leaned back in her chair, partly to give the impression that there was nothing to worry about and partly to exude a certain command of events. “What I was going to say was that, before you hear it from Dr. Dene or Inspector Stratton, there was an accident on Saturday.”

Billy frowned. “Who? I mean, was it you? Are you all right?” He walked across to Maisie’s desk, taking a seat only after she held out her hand toward the chair a second time.

“Yes, it was me, and frankly it was not an accident. The brakes on my motor car failed. I was lucky—in fact, I have been very lucky—but someone is quite intent upon finishing me off.”

“I must say, you are looking pretty calm about it, Miss. I mean, if that were me, I’d be lookin’ over me shoulder all the time. Per’aps you ought to talk to Stratton again—about protection, I mean.”

“There
was
protection, Billy. It transpires that the man who ran from his motor car to summon the police
was
the police. Fine lot of good it did too. No, I do believe I’ll find the answer somewhere in the Lawton case—all the attempts seem to have started from the time I took it on.” Maisie shook her head. “I just feel as if there is something I’m missing, something I could almost reach out and touch, but—”

Billy shook his head. “I’ve been wrackin’ me brains as well, really I ’ave.” He paused, then leaned forward. “Look, I don’t think you should be out and about on your own.”

“You sound like my father.”

“No, don’t take it like that, Miss. I reckon I should see you to and from work. It should be part of the job until the bloke’s be’ind bars. After all, if you go, Miss, then there ain’t no work for me, is there?”

Maisie leaned forward. “Right you are. I’ll take you up on your offer, Billy. Now then, I’d like you to get on with the new cases while I finish this report.” She took out four index cards and passed them to her assistant. “I’ve underlined four names there. See what you can find out about each person. Start with the card file, check if anything is cross-referred to the client folders, and move on to the newspapers.”

“Speaking of which.” Billy pushed back the chair, walked over to his overcoat, and pulled two newspapers from an inside pocket. He turned back to Maisie, placing the newspapers on her desk. “
The Times
and the
Express.
There’s a story in there that will interest you, Miss. Reminds me of that poor Lawton woman.”

Maisie looked up, frowning. “What’s that?”

“Well, turns out there was a séance yesterday at that place run by a man called ’Arry Price. I’m sure I’ve seen that name on one of the old cards, a friend of Dr. Blanche’s, wasn’t ’e?” Billy did not pause, continuing his story with increasing rapidity of speech. “Anyway, there was this séance—I tell you, even the thought of it gives me the willies—and there was these people who are interested in that sort of thing, and a medium that the Price bloke ’ad tested as bein’ on the up-and-up. Well, they were there to try to contact that author bloke, you know, the one passed on a few months ago. What was ’is name?”

“Do you mean Conan Doyle?” Maisie leaned forward, wondering what story Billy was about to tell.

“Yep, that’s the one! Anyway, as I was sayin’, they’re all there, doin’ whatever they do at these get-togethers, and you’ll never guess what—they only got a message from that captain of the R-101, you know, what went down over the weekend.” Billy ran his finger along the lines of newspaper print. “A woman name of Eileen Garrett was the medium and, as it says ’ere, this ’Arry Price of the Psychical Institute knows who’s real and who isn’t….”

Maisie picked up her document case. “I know very well who he is, Billy. Remember I told you about those cases Maurice and I worked on after the war, when there were so many fraudulent mediums and psychics claiming to have a message from the other side, the same sort of people who took Agnes Lawton for a ride? Well, Maurice consulted with Price.” Maisie paused, remembering her first experience of giving evidence in court as each defendant was tried. Closing her eyes, she recollected the scene, her attention drawn to one person in particular, sitting in the gallery unaccompanied, and the way she leaned forward to listen, completely focused on Maisie as she gave her report. She opened her eyes. “Billy, I must see Price immediately.”

Billy frowned, automatically helping Maisie into her mackintosh before reaching for his own coat. “I don’t understand, Miss, what have we got to do with the R-101?”

“Nothing and everything.” She opened the door and stepped from the office, waiting for her assistant to lock the door behind him. “Let’s just say a coincidence has reminded me that I should probably have spoken to Mr. Price a good month ago.”

“So, where are we going now?”

“The Laboratory of Psychical Research.” Maisie turned to Billy as they walked downstairs and out into the square. “You’re all right, aren’t you, not worried about going there? Because if you—”

Billy shook his head, though he seemed pale to Maisie. “Nah, I’m all right, Miss. As my old dad used to say, it ain’t the dead what can ’urt you, no, it’s the livin’ you’ve got to watch.”

M
AISIE AND
B
ILLY
arrived at the laboratory and were fortunate to gain a brief audience with Price, a man renowned in a field that had many naysayers and followers whom unbelievers thought fey at best. Courtesies followed, during which time the health of Dr. Maurice Blanche was the topic of conversation before the true purpose of their visit was discussed.

“I remember that case very well indeed.” He shook his head. “I shudder when I think of the thousands who were harmed by such people. And to think that in the midst of war, Ouija boards were selling like hotcakes and anyone with an old shawl and a red tablecloth was taking money from the bereaved! But that case was particularly nasty. I seem to remember that the fakes were in league, weren’t they?”

Maisie nodded, while Billy fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. “They formed a fraudulent ring, taking life savings in exchange for words from the other side. Even though they could have been charged under the provisions of the Witchcraft Act, they were sent to Holloway for their underhand business dealings, which had ultimately led to the suicide of a young war widow, though the defense argued that she was of unsound mind to start with. Two were released after serving their respective terms, and one died in prison—from a heart ailment, I believe.”

Price nodded, then consulted his watch before taking up Maisie’s list. “Miss Dobbs, I will ask one of my colleagues to assist you with these names and give you a report as to their activities. As you know, we keep records on all practicing mediums and psychics, as far as we can. I must go now, what with the press and one thing and another.”

“Of course, thank you.” Maisie shook hands with Price, while Billy drew back, as if to touch a man who worked with spiritualists, mediums, and psychics might pull him along an inescapable channel to another world. Price, in his hurry to attend to other matters, did not in any case offer his hand.

A tall, thin young man entered the room some moments later. His black hair was parted in the center and combed back, and with his dark blue pinstripe suit he wore a red-and-blue bow tie at the neck of a starched white shirt. “Ah, Miss Dobbs, Mr. Beale. Delighted, I’m sure. Archibald Simpson at your service. Now then, let’s look at these three women.” He placed three manila folders on the desk in front of him. “This one will be of particular interest to
you
, Miss Dobbs.” He leaned toward Maisie, handing her the top sheet from a substantial collection of papers.

As she read, the renewed color that Billy had remarked upon earlier drained from Maisie’s face. She handed back the sheet of paper. “Thank you. I think that will be all.”

“But—”

“What is it, Miss?” Billy leaned toward Maisie as if ready to protect her.

“Mr. Simpson, may I use your telephone? I will of course reimburse you for costs incurred.” Maisie stood up, anxious to take action.

The man stuttered, surprised at the change in Maisie’s demeanor. “Of-of course. Come this way.” He held out a hand for Maisie to exit the room first, followed by Billy, who hurried as if scared he might be left behind.

Simpson accompanied Maisie to a small office with a telephone, while Billy waited anxiously outside; he had not wanted to let Maisie out of his sight. She came from the room ten minutes later, bade farewell to Simpson again, and left the building quickly, Billy at her heels.

“What’s going on, Miss? Who’d you ’ave to get on the blower to?”

“Stratton.”

“For protection?”

Maisie shook her head as she looked left and right along the road and hailed a taxi-cab. “No. I need Stratton for the purpose of witnessing.” She turned to Billy as they clambered into the black motor car. “My word alone will not count. Neither will yours.”

“What’s going on, Miss? And where are we going?”

“I’ll tell you on the way. I can make mistakes and I did—in not asking the right questions at the right time. Now then, let’s get going.”

B
Y THE TIME
Maisie and Billy arrived outside the shiplike building, two police motor cars were parked along a side street and the only visible evidence of their presence was Stratton, leaning against the corner of a shop nearby, with Caldwell on the opposite side of the road talking to a woman with a shopping bag, possibly one of the new female recruits to criminal investigation disguised as a passerby. Maisie nodded to Stratton as she and Billy made their way to the main door of the building. She had no need to speak with him. Enough had been said on the telephone.

“All right, Billy?”

“I dunno. I reckon I was better off when I was crawling around clipping wires in no-man’s-land. Least you knew who your enemy was in wartime, none of this spirit lark.” Billy paused and squinted. “’Ere, what are they talkin’ into over there?”

Maisie stole a glance at the police. “It’s a new police wireless radio, Billy. It was invented at the request of the chief of police down in Brighton. Scotland Yard have been testing it for about a month now—looks like it might come in handy today.”

“Well, I never.”

Maisie felt a sensation across her neck, as if an icy breeze had touched her. She closed her eyes briefly and touched her chest to feel her own heartbeat with her fingertips. Even now she must show compassion; she must listen and act with integrity. She pressed the doorbell, then introduced herself again using the speaker. Mrs. Kemp was brisk in her response.

“Well, I’m just about to leave as it’s my half day, but Miss Hartnell will see you.”

Maisie nodded to Billy, then opened the door as the buzzer sounded. Before the door closed, Stratton, Caldwell and the woman slipped through. They walked across the courtyard to the stairs. Maisie pointed to a shadowed nook underneath the staircase that led to the upper flat, crooked her finger for Billy to follow her, and indicated an archway where he would wait. She walked to Madeleine Hartnell’s flat alone.

Mrs. Kemp was pushing in a hatpin to secure her beret as Maisie arrived. “I must be off now. Miss Hartnell is in the same room where you saw her before. She knows you’re on your way, and I’ve just taken in refreshments while she prepares.”

Maisie nodded.
While she prepares.
Madeleine Hartnell would want time alone before seeing a client, just as she herself would meditate to still her mind before a meeting. The housekeeper left, hurrying toward the staircase, whereupon Billy stepped from his hiding place and walked toward the door that Maisie had ensured was left on the latch. Maisie saw him glance over the balcony to watch the housekeeper’s departure and to check that Stratton was on his way.

No bright sunlight was shining through the windows on this gray London day. Instead, a sickly yellow smog lingered as people went about their business with scarves pulled across mouths and noses to avoid breathing in the toxic air. The house harbored a chill that not even red-hot coals in the grate would ever dent. Maisie shivered as she knocked on the door to Madeleine Hartnell’s room.

“Come in.”

Maisie opened the door and entered. Hartnell was wearing a long narrow black dress with an eye-catching double-stitched seam at the hips and a silver belt at the waist. A boat neckline accentuated her collarbones, and her milky-white skin seemed to reflect the single strand of creamy pearls and matching earrings. Her platinum-blond hair shone, and her lips were made full with a liberal coating of red lipstick. Maisie knew that her visit had been expected. “It’s good of you to see me, Miss Hartnell.”

Hartnell pointed to the armchair that matched her own, then leaned forward to pour water into two glasses. She pushed a glass toward Maisie and lifted the other to her lips. Maisie reached for the glass, sat down and leaned back.

“Did you expect me?”

“I had an inkling.”

Maisie nodded. She understood.

“You know why I am here.” It was a statement, not a question.

Hartnell smiled slowly and turned to her, blinking in a languorous way that reminded Maisie of a cat waking, perhaps when someone has made an unwelcome noise to shatter a sleepy silence. “Yes.”