Maisie Dobbs (6 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

M
aisie sat back in the wooden office chair and brought her knees up to her chest so that her heels rested on the edge of the seat. She had slipped off her shoes an hour or so ago, to put on the thick bed socks that she kept in her desk drawer. Maisie leafed through her report to Christopher Davenham and wondered how she might best advise him. It was at times like this that she missed the counsel of Maurice Blanche. The relationship between teacher and pupil was an easy one. She had opened her mind to learning his craft, and he had passed on to her the knowledge gleaned in a lifetime of work in what he referred to as “the forensic science of the whole person.” Although he could still be consulted, Maisie knew that now that he had retired, it was his intention for her to make her way in the world alone.

She could hear his voice now: “Remember basics, Maisie, dear. Whenever you are stuck, go back to our earliest conversations. And remember connections, that there are always connections.”

Now Maisie had to decide how far she should go in her report to Christopher Davenham. The man simply wanted to know where his wife was going and if another man was involved. Any information over and above what he had requested would not be necessary. Maisie thought for one more moment, put her feet back on the floor, placed the file on the table in front of her, and stood up.

“No, that’s enough.” She said to the empty room.

“
D
o sit down, Mr. Davenham.” Maisie’s chilled feet were now smartly clad in leather shoes.

“You have a report for me, Miss Dobbs?”

“Yes, of course. But first, Mr. Davenham, I must ask you some questions.”

“Haven’t you already asked enough? I would have thought my purpose for coming here was clear. I seek information, Miss Dobbs, and if you are half as good as your reputation, you will have that information.”

“Yes, I do. But I would like us to discuss openly how you might use this information once you have it.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie opened the file, took out a blank sheet of paper that had previously covered her extensive notes, closed the file, and placed the paper on top. It was a technique learned from Maurice, which had proved to be most useful: The blank sheet of paper represented the future, an empty page that could be filled as the observer chose. Pages of notes brought out during conversation were a distraction, so a written report was given only at the end of meeting.“Mr. Davenham, if there were no other man, no reason for you to suspect that your wife’s affections lay elsewhere, what would you do?”

“Well, nothing. If there’s no reason for my suspicions, then she’s in the clear. There would be no problem to do anything about.”

“I see. Mr. Davenham, this is a delicate situation. Before I proceed, I must ask for you to make a commitment to me—”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“A commitment to your marriage, actually. A commitment, perhaps, to your wife’s well-being and to your future.”

Christopher Davenham stirred uneasily in his chair and folded his arms.

“Mr. Davenham,” said Maisie, looking out of the window, “it’s a very fine day now, don’t you think? Let’s walk around Fitzroy Square. We will be at liberty to speak freely and also enjoy something of the day.”

Without waiting for an answer, Maisie rose from her chair, took her coat from the stand, and passed it to Christopher Davenham who, being a gentleman, stifled his annoyance, took the coat, and held it out for Maisie. Placing her hat upon her head and securing it with a pearl hatpin, Maisie smiled up at him.“A walk will be lovely.”

She strolled with Davenham along Warren Street, then turned left at Conway Street into Fitzroy Square. The sun had broken through the morning’s gray clouds, and there was a promise of warmer weather to come. The walk was by no means an idle suggestion. Maisie had learned from Maurice Blanche the importance of keeping the client open to whatever was being reported or suggested. “Sitting in a chair gives too much opportunity to retreat into the self,” Blanche had said. “Keep the person moving, in the way that an artist keeps the oil moving when he is painting. Don’t give them a chance to dry up; don’t allow the client to shut you out.”

“Mr. Davenham, I have decided to give you my report and my recommendations. I say ‘recommendations’ because I believe you are a man of compassion.”

Davenham maintained an even pace. Good, thought Maisie. She matched his stride, keenly observing the position of his arms, the way he held his head forward and tilted back slightly, as if sniffing the air for a predator. He’s terrified, thought Maisie, feeling fear rise up as she began to imitate his manner of walking and carriage. She closed her eyes for just a few seconds to be clear about the feelings now seeping through her body, and thought: He’s afraid to give, for fear of losing.

She had to be quick to banish the fear.

“Mr. Davenham, you are not being deceived. Your wife is faithful.”

The tall man breathed an audible sigh of relief.

“But she does need your help.”

“In what way, Miss Dobbs?”The tension that ebbed with her revelation had no chance to reclaim him before Maisie spoke again.

“Like many young women, your wife lost someone she loved. In the war. The man was her first love, a puppy love. Had he lived, no doubt such an affection would have died with the onset of maturity. However—”

“Who?”

“A friend of her brother. His name was Vincent. It’s in my report. Mr. Davenham, may we slow down just a little, you see, my feet . . . .”

“Of course, yes, I’m sorry.”

Christopher Davenham settled into a more relaxed gait, to match Maisie, who had reduced her stride to allow him to consider her words.

“Mr. Davenham, have you ever spoken with your wife about the war, about her brother, about her losses?”

“No, never. I mean, I know the facts. But one just has to get on with it. After all, you can’t just give in, can you?”

“And what about you, Mr. Davenham?

“I didn’t serve. I have a printing company, Miss Dobbs. I was required by the government to keep the people informed.”

“Did you want to serve?’

“Does that matter?”

“Perhaps it does, to your wife. Perhaps it matters to your wife to be able to discuss her past with you, for you to know—”

“Your report will give me the facts, Miss Dobbs.”

“Mr. Davenham, you may know the facts, but it isn’t a catalog of facts that is causing your wife’s melancholy. It is the storage of memories and of feelings. Do you understand?”

The man was silent, as was Maisie. She knew she was out of bounds. But this was not new for her. She had spent much of her life out of bounds, living and speaking where, according to some, she had no business.

“Allow the past to have a voice,” Maisie continued. “Then it will be stilled. It’s only then that your marriage will have a future, Mr. Davenham. And Mr. Davenham . . .”

“Yes.”

“Just in case you were considering such a move, your wife does not need medication, and she does not need a doctor. Your wife needs
you.
When she has you, Vincent will be allowed to rest in peace.”

The man took a few more steps in silence, then nodded.

“Shall we go back to the office?” Maisie asked, her head to one side.

Davenham nodded again. Maisie allowed him his thoughts, allowed him the room that he needed in which to take her words to heart. If she persisted, he might become defensive. And this was a door that needed to remain open. For there was something about the experience with Celia Davenham that nagged at Maisie. She didn’t yet know what it was, but she was confident that it would speak to her. Maurice Blanche maintained that amid the tales, the smokescreens, and the deceptive mirrors of life’s unsolved mysteries, truth resides, waiting for someone to enter its sanctum, then leave, without quite closing the door behind them. That is when truth may make its escape. And Maisie had ensured that the door was left open when she last saw Celia.

Maisie felt that she understood much about the relationship between Celia and Vincent. Their love had been more of a youthful infatuation—Celia had admitted as much herself—and in going forward with marriage to Christopher Davenham, she had tried to bury her feelings for Vincent at a time when emotions were running high throughout the country. But the ordinary rituals of marriage to the seemingly bland Christopher Davenham could not erase the memory of Vincent, the hero of her imagination, the handsome, fearless knight she might have married. Maisie believed that, to Vincent, Celia had remained simply the younger sister of a dear friend. Yet it was among the friends of one’s brothers that so many young women found suitable partners.

Maisie met Celia Davenham at the Ritz for afternoon tea on Thursday, as arranged. As she made her way from the main doors of the Piccadilly entrance to join Celia, Maisie caught her breath when she saw the heavy marble columns at either side of the Winter Garden ahead. She walked toward the steps leading up into the venue for tea, and felt soothed by the warm shafts of light that entered through the windows at either end of the room. For a minute she allowed herself not to consider the expense of the expedition. The opulent grandeur of the Winter Garden, designed to resemble a French pavilion, with decorated cornices and a skylight that allowed soft natural light to bathe the room, almost took Maisie’s breath away. With perfect white damask tablecloths, shining silver cutlery, and voluminous swags of fabric hung around the windows, the Winter Garden might not have encouraged intimate conversation between the two women, but the surrounding mirrored panels, and calming presence of water in the golden mermaid sculpture, brought a certan serenity to the room. Instead, with the delicate sound of Royal Doulton china clinking in the background, as cups were replaced on saucers, talk between the two women was light, skimming over the surface of confidence like a fly buzzing over a tranquil millpond.

Maisie touched each side of her lips with her table napkin, and placed it at the side of her plate. “I think it’s time for that walk, Mrs. Davenham. Such a lovely day, one feels as if summer is almost here.” She reached for her handbag and gloves.

“Oh yes, indeed. Let’s walk . . . and please, do call me ‘Celia.’ I feel as if we know each other so very well now.” Celia Cavendish inclined her head in invitation.

“Thank you, Celia. It does seem as if the time for such formality has passed, so I expect you, in turn, to use my Christian name.”

With the bill settled, waiters hurried to pull back chairs for the women, their deep bows signaling the exit of a well-satisfied customer, and that the table must be cleared and prepared for the next duo of well-heeled ladies. Maisie and Celia left the Ritz and entered Green Park.