Maisie Dobbs (23 page)

Maisie pushed the food around on her plate. There was a time when mother and son had been almost inseparable, sharing a dry wit and a mischievous sense of humor. She remembered being at the London house soon after she received news that she had been accepted by Girton College. James had just returned from Canada, hoping to join the Royal Flying Corps. There was much joy in the household, and as she walked down the outside stairs toward the kitchen, Maisie saw the tall, fair young man through the window, creeping up behind Mrs. Crawford and putting his arms around her ample waist. And as Maisie watched through the condensation that had built up inside the pane of glass, Mrs. Crawford swung around, clipped the young man around the ear, and, laughing, pretended to admonish him.“You, young James, why no sooner are you back than you’ll be the death of me. Look at you, you young lout—and if you are after fresh ginger biscuits, I’ve baked up a batch ’specially for you, though I’m not sure you deserve them now!”

Maisie had walked in through the back door of the kitchen just as James was taking his first bite of a fresh ginger biscuit.

“And look who else is here,” said Mrs. Crawford.“Maisie Dobbs, I do believe you are even thinner! My back only has to be turned for one minute, and you’re not eating properly.”

With crumbs around his mouth, James swallowed the biscuit, and struggled to greet Maisie politely.“Ah, the clever Miss Maisie Dobbs, passing exams that the rest of us mere mortals have nightmares about!”

Then as Mrs. Crawford turned to the stove, James whispered to Maisie,“Tell Enid I’m home.”

Later, as she walked past the drawing room on her way to Lord Julian’s study to serve afternoon tea, which he had elected to take alone, she saw James and Lady Rowan through the open door. Lady Rowan was laughing heartily, having been whisked by her son into an impromptu dance, accompanied only by the sound of his own booming voice:

Oh, he floats through the air with the greatest of ease

The daring young man on the flying trapeze

His actions are graceful, all girls he does please

And my love he has stolen away.

“I won’t ask you to see James, Maisie,” continued Lady Rowan, bringing Maisie back into the present,“I know your opinion will mirror Maurice’s, so I know better than to ask. But I wonder. Would you find out something about this farm, or whatever it is? I have to say that I do feel he would be better in the world rather than trying to escape from it.”

“I will certainly look into it, Lady Rowan. I’ll go down to Kent next week. I have to go anyway, as I need to speak with Maurice, and I must see my father. I’ll find out about James’s retreat as well.”

“Maisie. Take the MG. I know very well that you can drive, so do please take the car. It’s not as if I’ve used it much since Julian bought it for me to run around in—and George drives Julian to the City in the Lanchester.”

“Yes, all right, Lady Rowan. It’s very kind of you to offer, and I may need to be flexible, so the car will be handy.”

“It’s almost new, so the young thing should get you there and back with no trouble at all. And Maisie—don’t forget to send me your bill!”

Maisie directed conversation to other matters, and soon Lady Rowan was laughing in her old infectious manner. Carter watched as two maids cleared the table and brought in the delicious apple pie, to be served with a generous helping of fresh clotted cream. After dinner Maisie and Lady Rowan returned to the drawing room, to sit beside the fire until Lady Rowan announced that it was past time for her to be in bed.

Maisie made her way to the guest room that had been prepared for her visit. Nora had already unpacked Maisie’s small bag and laid out her nightclothes on the bed. Later, as she snuggled closer to the hot water bottle that warmed the sheets, Maisie remembered, as she always did when she slept at the Compton residence, the nights she’d spent in the servants’ quarters at the top of the house.

She left before breakfast the next morning, stopping quickly to drink tea with Carter and Mrs. Crawford, and to collect the apple pie. Billy Beale would love that apple pie, thought Maisie. She might need it when she asked him if he would take on a very delicate task for her. In fact, as the plans began to take shape in her mind, she might need more than apple pie for Billy Beale.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“ R
ight then. Watch carefully, miss. ’Ere’s how you start ’er up.”

The young chauffeur walked around to the front of the 1927 MG 14/40 two-seater roadster, and put his hand on the engine cover.

“You’ve basically got your five steps to starting this little motor, very straightforward when you know what you’re about, so watch carefully.”

George enjoyed the attention that came as a result of his expertise in the maintenance and operation of the Compton’s stable of very fine motor cars.

“First you lift your bonnet, like so.”

George waited for Maisie to nod her head in understanding before continuing with his instructions, and as he turned his attention once again to the MG, she grinned with amusement at his preening tutorial.

“Right. See this—you turn on your fuel. Got it?”

“Yes, George.”

George closed the engine cover, and indicated for Maisie to move away from the side of the car so that he could sit in the driver’s seat.

“You set your ignition, you set your throttle, set your choke—three moves, got it?”

“Got it, George.”

“You push the starter button—on the floor, Miss—with your foot and—”

The engine roared into life, perhaps somewhat more aggressively than usual, given the enthusiasm of George’s lesson.

“There she goes.”

George clambered from the seat, held open the door, and, with a sweep of his hand, invited Maisie to take his place.

“Think you’ve got all that, Miss?”

“Oh yes, George. You explained everything very clearly. As you say, it’s very straightforward. A lovely motor.”

“Oh, nice little runner, to be sure. ’Cording to them at Morris Garages, this one can do sixty-five miles an hour—up to fifty in the first twenty-five seconds! ’Er ladyship goes out of ’ere like a shot out of a gun, doesn’t know where she’s going, but goes like a shot anyway. Comes back all red in the face. Worries me with them gears though. Talk about crunch! Makes me cringe when I ’ear it. Thank ’eavens for us all that she don’t get out in it much anymore. Now, then, sure of your way?”

“I’m sure, George. Down the Old Kent Road, and just keep on from there, more or less. I’ve done that journey many a time when I was younger.”

“’Course, you was at Chelstone, wasn’t you? Mind you, if I were you, I’d go out onto Grosvenor Place, then along Victoria Street, over Westminster Bridge, St. George’s Road, and just the other side of the Elephant and Castle. . . .”

“I think I can remember the way, George, and thank you for the advice.”

George walked around to the back of the MG and dropped Maisie’s bag into the car’s rear luggage compartment, while she made herself comfortable in the rich claret leather seat. He checked once again that her door was closed securely before standing back and giving her a mock salute.

Maisie returned the wave as she eased the smart crimson motor car out into the mews. It wasn’t until she was across the Thames and past the Elephant and Castle that Maisie felt she could breathe again. At every turn she sat up straight and peered over the steering wheel, making sure that each part of the vehicle was clear of any possible obstruction. She had learned to drive before returning to Cambridge in 1919, but took extra care as it had been quite some time since she’d had an opportunity—although she did not want to admit as much to George. In fact, she did not change from first gear until she was well out of George’s hearing, fearing a dreadful roaring as she reacquainted herself with the intricacies of the double-de-clutch maneuver to change gear.

It was a fine day in early June, a day that seemed to predict a long hot summer for 1929. Maisie drove conservatively, partly to minimize chances of damage to the MG and partly to savor the journey. She felt that she only had to smell the air and, blindfolded, she would know she had arrived in Kent. And no matter how many times she came back to Chelstone, every journey reminded her of her early days and months at the house. As Maisie drove, she relaxed and allowed her mind to wander. Memories of that first journey from the house in Belgravia came flooding back. So much had happened so quickly. So much that was unexpected yet, looking back, seemed so very predictable. Ah, as Maurice would say, the wisdom of hindsight!

Drawing to a halt at the side of the road to pull back the roadster’s heavy cloth roof, Maisie stood for a moment to look at the medley of wildflowers that lined the grass verge. Arrowheads of sunny yellow charlock were growing alongside clumps of white field mouse-ear, which in turn were busily taking up space and becoming tangled in honeysuckle growing over the hedge. She leaned down to touch the delicate blue flower of the common speedwell, and remembered how she had loved this county from the moment she first came to work for the dowager. It was a soft patchwork-quilt land in which she found solace from missing her father and the Belgravia house.

Maisie had decided already that the day in Kent should become a two or three day excursion. Lady Rowan had given her permission to keep the car for as long as it was needed, and Maisie had packed a small bag in case she chose to stay. The hedgerows, small villages and apple orchards still full of blossom, were working their magic upon her. She stopped briefly at the post office in Sevenoaks.

“I’m looking for a farm, I think it’s called The Retreat. I wonder if you might be able to direct me?”

“Certainly, Miss.”

The postmaster took a sheet of paper and began to write down an address with some directions.

“You might want to be careful, Miss.”

Maisie put her head to one side to indicate that she was listening to any forthcoming advice. “Yes, Miss. Our postman who does the route says it’s run like a cross between a monastery and a barracks. You’d’ve thought that the blokes in there had seen enough of barracks, wouldn’t you? There’s a gate and a man on duty—you’ll have to tell him your business before he’ll let you in. They’re nice enough, by all accounts, but I’ve heard that they don’t want just anyone wandering about because of the residents.”

“Yes, yes indeed,” said Maisie, taking the sheet of paper. “Thank you for your advice.”

The sun was high in the sky by the time Maisie came out of the post office, and as she touched the door handle of the MG it was warm enough to cause her to flinch. Pay attention, Maurice had always cautioned her. Pay attention to the reactions of your body. It is the wisdom of the self speaking to you. Be aware of concern, of anticipation, of all the feelings that come from the self. They manifest in the body. What is their counsel?

If those from the outside were questioned, albeit in a nonthreatening manner, when they entered, how might it be for the residents, the men who had been ravaged by war, in their coming and going? Maisie decided to drive on toward Chelstone. The Retreat could wait until she had seen Maurice.

Frankie Dobbs put the MG away in the garage and helped Maisie with her bags. She would stay in the small box room at the groom’s cottage, which had once been her bedroom and was now always made up ready for her to visit, even though such visits were few and far between.

“We don’t see enough of you, Love.”

“I know, Dad. But I’ve been occupied with the business. It’s been hard work since Maurice retired.”

“It was ’ard work before ’e retired, wasn’t it? Mind you, the old boy looks as if ’e’s enjoyin’ ’avin’ a bit of time to ’imself. He comes in ’ere to ’ave a cup of tea with me now’n again, or I’ll go over to see ’is roses. It surprised me, what ’e knows about roses. Clever man, that Maurice.”

Maisie laughed.

“I have to go over to see him, Dad. It’s important.”

“Now then, I’m not stupid. I know that I’m not the only reason for you comin’ all this way. Mind you, I ’ope I’m the main reason.”

“’Course you are, Dad.”

Frankie Dobbs finished brewing tea and placed an old enamel mug in front of Maisie, then winked and went to the cupboard for his own large china cup and saucer. As he brought some apple pie out of the larder, Maisie poured tea for them both.

“Maisie. You are lookin’ after yourself, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Dad. I can take care of myself.”

“Well, I know that this work you do is sometimes, well, tricky like. And you’re on your own now. Just as long as you’re careful.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Frankie Dobbs sat down at the table with Maisie, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper and secured with string. “Anyway, I was in the ’ardware shop last week, talking to old Joe Cooke—you know ’ow that man can jaw—and, well, I saw this little thing. Thought it might come in ’andy, like, for you. Natty, innit?”

Maisie raised an eyebrow at her father, wondering if he was teasing her. With nimble fingers, she pulled away the string and opened the paper to reveal a shining new stainless-steel Victorinox pocket knife.

“Old Joe said it was a bit odd, buying a thing like this for me daughter, like, but I said, ‘Joe, let me tell you, a daughter on ’er own can make more use of a thing like this, with them little tools, than any of them lads of yours.’ In any case, y’never know when it might be just the thing you need, ’specially if you’re runnin’ all over in that motor.”

“Oh, Dad, you shouldn’t go spending money on me.” Maisie pulled out each tool in turn, then looked at the closed knife in the palm of her hand. “I’ll keep it with me all the time, just in case.” Maisie slipped the knife into her bag, leaned across the table to kiss her father on the cheek, then reached for her tea.

Father and daughter laughed together, then sat in companionable silence drinking tea and eating apple pie, comfortable with only the heavy tick-tock of the grandfather clock for company. Maisie was thinking about The Retreat, and how she would present the story to Maurice.

Years of working with Maurice had helped Maisie prepare her answers to some of his questions, like a chess player anticipating the moves in a game. But she knew that the ones likely to be most difficult were those that pertained to her own past.

Frankie Dobbs interrupted Maisie’s thoughts.

“So, that MG. Nice little motor, is it? What’s she like on the corners?”

After tea Maisie walked though the gardens and down to the dower house. Maurice had been invited to use the house after the dowager’s death, in 1916, and he had purchased the black-and-white beamed home in 1919. After the war, like many landowners of the day, the Comptons decided to sell parts of the estate, and were delighted when the much-loved house became the property of a friend. The gardens had suffered during the war as groundsmen left to enlist in the army, and land that had lain fallow was requisitioned to grow more produce. At one time it was feared that Chelstone Manor itself would be requisitioned to house army officers, but thankfully, given Lord Julian’s work with the War Office, together with the fact that the fifteenth-century ceilings and winding staircases rendered the building unsuitable for such use, the manor itself was spared.

Though Maurice officially became resident at the dower house in 1916, he was hardly seen throughout the war years, and came to Chelstone for short periods, usually only to rest. The staff speculated that he had been overseas, which led to even more gossip about what, exactly, he was doing “over there.” Maurice Blanche had become something of an enigma. Yet anyone watching him tend his roses during the scorching summer of 1929, as Maisie did before opening the latched gate leading to the dower house garden, would think that this old man wielding a pair of secateurs and wearing a white shirt, light khaki trousers, brown sandals, and a Panama hat, was not one for whom the word “enigma” was appropriate.

Maisie hardly made a sound, yet Maurice looked up and stared directly at her immediately she walked through the gate. For a minute his expression was unchanged, then his face softened. He smiled broadly, dropped the secateurs into a trug, and held both hands out to Maisie as he walked toward her.

“Ah, Maisie. It has taken you a long time to come to me, yes?”

“Yes, Maurice. I need to talk to you.”

“I know, my dear. I know. Shall we walk? I’ll not offer you tea, as your dear father will have had you swimming in the liquid by now.”

“Yes. Yes, let’s walk.”

Together they passed through the second latched gate at the far end of the garden, and then walked toward the apple orchards. Maisie unfolded the story of Christopher Davenham, of his wife, Celia, the poor departed Vincent, and how she had first heard about The Retreat.

“So, you have followed your nose, Maisie. And the only ‘client’ in the case is this Christopher Davenham?”

“Yes. Well, Lady Rowan is a sort of client now, because of James. But we always took on other cases, didn’t we? Where we felt truth was asking for our help.”

“Indeed. Yes, indeed. But remember, Maisie, remember, truth also came to us as individuals so that we might have a more intimate encounter with the self. Remember the Frenchwoman, Mireille—we both know that my interest in the case came from the fact that she reminded me of my grandmother. There was something there for me to discover about myself, not simply the task of solving a case that the authorities could not begin to comprehend. Now, you, Maisie, what is there here for you?” Maurice pointed a finger and touched the place where Maisie’s heart began to beat quickly. “What is there in your heart that needs to be given light and understanding?”