An Incomplete Revenge (26 page)

“And you reckon they’ll see you at the reformatory this afternoon?”

“I hope so. I may have to grovel.”

“Best of luck, Miss. See you the day after tomorrow.”

MAISIE HAD OFTEN
rolled her eyes at what she and others referred to as
the old school tie
, those connections forged and sealed in the boarding schools of youth—for those of a certain station—that would bond boys together as they came of age, so, as men, a favor could be asked, a door opened, even a loan settled or a crime forgotten. For her there was no old school tie or any other claim to some association, except that of being a Londoner, or the thread of familial relationship that rendered her welcome by Beulah and thus by the gypsy tribe. It was therefore a stroke of good fortune that the man who happened to be governor of the reformatory displayed on his desk a photograph of his wife as a young woman.

“Ah, your wife was a nurse, in the war, I see,” said Maisie.

“That’s where we met. I was a medical orderly at the same general hospital.”

Maisie smiled. “I was a nurse too, at a casualty clearing station.”

The man nodded. There was no need to say more, to share a reflection or a memory. He simply smiled and said, “And how can I be of service to you, Miss Dobbs?”

When she explained the reason for her visit and described the information she was seeking, he lifted a set of keys from his desk and replied, “We’ll have to go down to the records office. I can leave you there with the files for half an hour. Will that be sufficient?”

“Thank you—that will be plenty of time.”

Not quite the old school tie, but a lifelong bond all the same.

MAISIE LEFT THE
reformatory for London in the late afternoon, glad to depart the dour smoke-stained red-brick buildings, to hear the gate locked behind her, and to silently bid adieu to the sullen boys, all dressed the same in blue overalls, working in the gardens, marching across the parade ground, and cleaning the windows. Though the reformatory was not a hardscrabble borstal, it was nevertheless an incarceration.

She drove all the way back to London with the top down on the MG, glad to feel the balmy air cross her skin, prickling her senses alive and shaking off the dark mood of the reformatory. She had gleaned more information than she thought possible, which, as she knew, would only beg more questions. To her list of tasks to be accomplished, she added a visit to the repository for war records, but she would need an introduction to open those doors, as she was not a relative of those whose records she sought. With luck, she could draw upon her relationship with the wearer of an impressive old school tie.

On the outskirts of London, she stopped to pull up the MG’s roof. Following some delay on the Old Kent Road, where a costermonger’s barrow had overturned, pitching fruit and vegetables into the street, she was keen to see her flat again. She had already sent a telegram to Priscilla to let her know that she was driving up this evening and would pick her up tomorrow morning for the journey to Margaret Lynch’s London home, from which the funeral cortege would leave.

Maisie spent the evening quietly, except for one excursion, out to a telephone kiosk to place a call to James Compton, to whom she gave a resume of her investigation to date. She informed him that she estimated a final visit to Heronsdene of only two more days, perhaps three, after which she would submit her report and
recommendations. Then she asked if he knew where she might be able to reach his father.

“He’s here at the club this evening. We’ve been in conference with the directors all day, talking about expansion and also—right up your alley—security at our offices in Toronto. Can’t have one without the other.”

“Of course.”

“Hold on a minute, I’ll get him for you.” James set the telephone receiver on the table, and Maisie heard voices in the background as he informed the porter to hold the call. The voices receded, there was silence, and then a voice came closer again, thanking the porter.

“Maisie, how are you?”

“Very well, Lord Julian, and you?”

“Better when James has the reins well and truly in his hands, but I think it’ll be difficult to have him come back from Canada for any significant length of time, even though I’m trying my best. I thought he would stay for the hunting, but now I’m not sure.” He cleared his throat. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I need a door opened at the war records repository.”

“How soon?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. I want to view two records.”

“Consider it done—but I’ll need the names.”

MAISIE’S SECOND TELEPHONE
call was to Priscilla, at the Dorchester.

“Maisie, I am so glad you telephoned. Where are you?”

“In a telephone kiosk in Pimlico.”

“Oh, dear God, a public telephone kiosk, and in the dark? Anyone could be watching you, ready to strike.”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Pris. There’s no one watching me, and I’m perfectly alright. How are the boys?”

“I’m making progress. I’ve summoned Elinor back from Wales, so she’s here with us—and probably glad to be back. Half her family are miners, and life is bleak for them.” There was a brief pause. “Oh. I seem to have found the perfect London house, and I may have settled the question of my sons’ education.”

“Will they board?”

“No. The boys will become day pupils at a London lycée where they teach in both French and English. It’s popular with diplomats from the far reaches of the empire who want their sons to have a solid British education, so everyone’s different. And when they come home at the end of the day, I will have Elinor to keep them on the straight and narrow if I need a moment to myself.”

“Where’s the property?”

“You will never guess. Margaret has decided to vacate the London house for now and live permanently in Grantchester—you remember, where they had Simon’s party?”

“Of course.”
How could I forget?
’thought Maisie.

“We discussed the lease when she telephoned with details of the service tomorrow. And speaking of the service, it’s not quite what we may have expected.”

“What do you mean?” Maisie rubbed her hand across condensation forming on the kiosk’s windowpanes and peered out to see if there were passersby.

“Hold your breath, Maisie.” Priscilla paused. Maisie drew away from the window and looked up into the small mirror behind the telephone. “Simon’s being cremated.”

“Cremated?” She saw her eyes redden in the rust-spotted mirror.

“Yes. Margaret is being terribly modern—and it’s not as if cremation has been seen as quite the devil’s work ever since the Duchess of Connaught was cremated in 1917—first member of the royal family into the fire.”

“Oh, Priscilla, how could you?”

Priscilla drew breath but did not apologize. “Maisie, do try to be less sensitive. I know this is a terribly difficult time, but one has to keep some perspective. The Simon I knew would have been first to laugh at such a quip.” She sighed. “Margaret thought—rightly, I have to say—that it’s what Simon would have wanted, having lingered for so long. She said there can be a proper goodbye before his ashes are sprinkled across the fields close to his home where he played as a boy, and she won’t have to fret about who might look after his grave when she’s gone.”

“But—”

“No, you can’t, Maisie. You can’t commit to grave visiting, I won’t allow it. When he’s laid to rest—or whatever they call it when you’re cremated—it will be a rest for those close to him as well. I agree with her wholeheartedly that it represents a release, a letting-go for all concerned.”

Maisie said nothing.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”

“I’m here, Pris. And I think she’s right too, though it came as rather a shock at first.”

“Yes, of course it did. Now then, I am going to lounge in a deep bath this evening, seeing as Elinor has the boys back under her thumb once more and all is well in my world. My darling Douglas will be here soon, along with my motor car, and my cup will runneth over.”

Maisie nodded, though there was no one to see her. “Good night, Priscilla. See you at half-past nine tomorrow.”

“Sleep tight, dear Maisie. And don’t fret, it will soon be over.”

Maisie walked slowly back, glad to return to the flat that she now saw as a cocoon. She thought about what Billy had said, about throwing on the clod of dirt, of releasing something of the memory into the earth. What did one release with a cremation? Where was the ritual, the ending of the story, when there was no grave to visit, no place to set down a posy of primroses or an armful of fresh
daffodils? She sat for a while, and though the evening was not cold, she placed a florin in the gas meter and ignited the fire. She felt chilled to the bone, yet when she considered Margaret Lynch’s decision, she could not help but feel it was a good one, and wondered if she had settled upon it, in part for her sake.

MAISIE STOOD TALL
when the final hymn was announced, feeling the numbness in her feet, which had been cold since she went to bed last night. It was no ordinary cold but a deep seeping dampness that could not easily be countered by exterior warmth. It was bitter and clammy and, in truth, it had been with her since France, since the war, and there were days when she thought it would freeze up through her body and turn it to stone.

Margaret Lynch stood between Maisie and Priscilla, and as they opened their hymnbooks to the correct page, she felt Simon’s mother lean against her. Maisie closed her eyes for a moment and rooted her feet to the ground, so that Margaret might share her strength, and then, though it might be considered presumptuous, she linked her arm through the older woman’s to offer greater support. Margaret Lynch patted Maisie’s hand and nodded, and as air gushed from the organ’s bellows, the introduction began and voices rose up in unison.

I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love;
The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,
That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best;
The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,
The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

As the second verse began, the coffin was moved back through a divided curtain toward the incinerator. When the curtain closed
again, Simon was gone from them forever. Maisie felt his mother increase the pressure on her hand, and she in turn drew her closer.

Later, following an early luncheon at the Lynch house in Holland Park, Maisie and Priscilla waited until the other guests had departed before taking their leave.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright, Margaret?”

“Yes, of course, Priscilla. I am in need of rest, so I will go to my room and put my feet up.” She reached out toward Maisie and Priscilla. “I am so glad you were both here.”

Priscilla kissed the air next to Margaret’s left cheek, while Maisie stepped back. Then, just as Maisie was about to hold out her hand to bid the bereaved woman goodbye, Margaret took her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.

“Please come to visit me, Maisie. I shall be here in Holland Park for a week or two while my belongings are packed up and sent to Grantchester. So, please come.”

“Of course. I would be delighted.”

“Thank you.” She held Maisie’s hands in both her own. “Thank you. For all that you were to him.”

HAVING DEPOSITED PRISCILLA
at the Dorchester once more, Maisie pulled her watch from the black document case and checked the time: two o’clock. She had to be at the repository at half past three; in the interim, she would go straight to Denmark Street, a mecca for London’s musicians.

Andersen & Sons, Luthiers, was halfway along the narrow street, just off Charing Cross Road. A brown awning kept the sun’s rays from the window, in which a gentleman mannequin, garbed in evening dress, was seated on a chair with a cello positioned ready to play. The bow had been tied to his hand to hold it in place, and it looked as if he might come alive and draw it across the strings at any moment.

A bell rang above the door as Maisie entered the shop. All manner of stringed instruments were positioned around the four walls. Guitars were hung from hooks, as were lutes, balalaikas, ukuleles, violas and violins. Two harps were set on the floor, along with a cello and a double bass. Mahogany counters flanked either side of the shop, displaying strings, clamps, an assortment of plectra, and other tools of the string musician’s trade. Just inside the door, a stand held a selection of sheet music that had become dusty and curled. And at the back of the shop, through a velvet curtain tied to one side, she saw two men working at facing benches. Each surface was illuminated by two electric desk lamps, though the shop itself was dimly lit, probably to save money and to protect the instruments. The older of the two men also used a substantial magnifying glass, which had been bolted to his workbench.

As the door closed, the younger man rubbed his hands with a cloth and came out to greet Maisie.

“Can I help you, madam?” He executed a shallow bow as he spoke.

“I wanted to speak to Mr. Andersen, if I may?”

“Which one? There are three, with only two of us here today.”

“Then it would be Mr. Andersen, Senior.”

The man, who was about thirty, went back to the workshop, calling “Dad, lady to see you,” and pushing the curtain aside as he returned to his work. The older gentleman, his shoulders hunched from years of leaning across the workbench, came to greet her.

“May I help you?” He spoke with an accent, which Maisie identified as being Danish or Swedish.

“I have come to see you about a violin you repaired, some years ago.”

The man smiled, his gray-blue eyes kind, while the white woolly curls on his head made him seem endearing, like a favorite uncle in a child’s fairy tale. “I keep perfect records, and I remember my customers, though I am more likely to remember their instruments.”

“The violin belonged to a man named Jacob Martin, but seeing as he was Dutch, it may have been Maarten.” Maisie emphasized
ten,
her tongue touching her teeth as she spoke.