Maisie Dobbs (31 page)

Simon sat still in his wheelchair, his hands unmoving, though blood colored his skin.

“Simon, my love. I never did tell you my answer. You see, I knew that something dreadful was going to happen. I couldn’t promise you marriage, a future, when I could see no future. Forgive me, dear Simon, forgive me.”

Maisie looked around, trying to see what Simon’s stare focused upon, and was surprised to see that it was the window, where they were reflected together. She, wearing her blue suit and a blue cloche, her hair in a chignon at the base of her neck. A few tendrils of hair, always the same few tendrils of black hair, had flown free and fallen down around her forehead and cheeks. She could barely see his facial wounds in the reflection. The glass was playing tricks, showing her the old Simon, the young doctor she had fallen in love with so long ago.

Maisie turned to face Simon again. A thin line of saliva had emerged from the side of his mouth and had begun to run down his chin. She took a fresh linen handkerchief from her handbag, wiped the moisture away, and held his hand once again, in silence, until the staff nurse returned.

“How are we, then?” She leaned forward to look at Simon, then turned to smile at Maisie.“And how about you?” she asked.

“Fine. Yes, I’m fine,” she swallowed and returned the nurse’s smile.

“Good. Bet you’ve done him the world of good.” Staff Nurse looked at Simon again and patted his hand. “Hasn’t she, Captain Lynch? Done you a power of good!”

Simon remained perfectly still.

“Let me lead you out of the maze here, Miss Dobbs.”

As she walked away, Maisie stopped to look back at Simon, then at his reflection in the windowpane. There he was. Forever the young, dashing Simon Lynch who had stolen her heart.

“W
ill you come again?”

They had reached the main door of the house. A grand house that was now a home for men stranded in time by the Great War, men trapped in the caverns of their own minds, never to return.

“Yes. Yes I will come again. Thank you.”

“Right you are then. Just let us know. Loves a visitor, does Captain Lynch.”

M
aisie drove back into London, waving to Jack Barker as the MG screeched around the corner into Warren Street, before stopping at her new office in Fitzroy Square. She parked the car in front of the building and watched as Billy positioned a new brass nameplate with tacks, then stood back to appraise the suitability of his placement before securing the plate with screws. He rubbed his chin and moved the plate twice more. Finally he nodded his head, satisfied that he had found exactly the right place for her name, a place that would let callers know that M. Dobbs, Psychologist and Investigator, was open for business.

Maisie continued to watch as Billy worked, polishing the brass to a glowing shine. Then Billy looked up and saw Maisie in the MG. He waved and, rubbing his hands on a cloth, walked down the steps and opened the car door for her to get out.

“Better get weaving, Miss.”

“Why, what’s happened?”

“That Detective Inspector Stratton from Scotland Yard, the Murder Squad fella. Been on the ‘dog and bone’ four times already. Urgent, like. Needs to be ‘in conference’ with you about a case.”

“Golly!” said Maisie, grabbing the old black document case from the passenger seat.

“I know. ’ow about that? We’d better get to work, ’adn’t we, Miss?”

Maisie raised an eyebrow and walked with Billy to the door. She ran her fingers along the engraving on the brass plate, and turned to her new assistant.

It was time to go to work.

“Well then, Billy—let’s get on with it!”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

F
irst and foremost, I am indebted to Holly Rose, my friend and writing pal who read the initial tentative pages of
Maisie Dobbs
and pressed me to continue. Adair Lara, my writing mentor, was the first to suggest I consider writing fiction, and later, after my “accident horribilis,”when
Maisie Dobbs
was barely half written, insisted that convalescence was an ideal time to finish the book—broken arm notwithstanding.

I have been truly blessed in my association with Amy Rennert and Randi Murray of the Amy Rennert Agency, for their wise counsel, wonderful humor, hard work, and most of all, their enthusiastic belief in
Maisie Dobbs.
I am equally blessed in my editor, Laura Hruska, who has the qualities that make her one of the best—including, I believe, psychic powers that enable her to see into my mind.

My godmother, Dorothy Lindqvist, first took me to London’s Imperial War Museum when I was a child, an experience that brought a new reality to my grandfather’s stories of the Great War of 1914–18. Now, years later, many thanks must go to the museum for its amazing resources, and to the staff who were most helpful during my research visits.

The following people kindly responded to emails and phone calls, providing me with detail that has brought color and texture to the life and experience of Maisie Dobbs: Kate Perry, Senior Archivist at Girton College; Sarah Manser, Director of Press and Public Relations at The Ritz, London; Barbara Griffiths at BT Group Archives, London; John Day, Chairman of the MG Car Club Vintage Register; and Alison Driver of the Press & PR Department of Fortnum &Mason, London. For his dry wit and dogged investigative skills, my utmost gratitude goes to Victor—who knows who he is.

On a personal level thanks must go to my parents, Albert and Joyce Winspear, for their great memories of “old London,” and their recollections of my grandfather’s postwar experiences; my brother, John, for his encouragement;my friend Kas Salazar, who constantly reminds me of my creative priorities; and last—but certainly not least—my husband and cheerleader, John Morell, for his unfailing support, and for sharing our home with a woman called Maisie Dobbs.