Pardonable Lie (15 page)

“Oh, yes, Andrew, it’s perfect. Just perfect. Thank you again—and thank you for the chocolates.”

“Chocolates?”

Maisie frowned. “Yes. The box arrived this morning, special delivery.”

There was a delay of several seconds before Dene replied. “Well, I’m clearly not your sole admirer. And here I was thinking I was the only one who sent you chocolates.”

“But, Andrew—”

“Perhaps they were sent by a grateful client.”

“Yes, of course. I wonder….” Maisie could barely concentrate.

“Is there anything you need, Maisie?” Dene had already sensed that the telephone call might not have been made for sentimental reasons, though they had not seen each other for several weeks.

Maisie brought her thoughts back to the present. “Actually, Andrew, there is. I need your expertise.”

“
My
expertise? Gosh, do I look as if I have criminal tendencies?” Dene laughed.

Maisie checked her watch, then with one hand reached into her document case, which she had placed on the small triangular wooden seat in the corner of the telephone box. She pulled out the notes given to her by Lord Julian concerning Jeremy Hazleton. “No, it’s your medical knowledge that I’m after, Andrew, you’re the only orthopedic surgeon I know.”

“And you certainly don’t know any cranial experts, do you; you didn’t keep your appointment to have that head of yours looked at!”

“It was kind of you to arrange it, Andrew, but there was no time. Anyway, my head feels much better. Now then, it’s about a man who sustained injuries that have led to paralysis, though at first it was thought he would have a better outcome. Look, if I just read out these notes from the attending physicians, could you tell me what it all means?”

“Fire away, my intrepid one, fire away!”

Some fifteen minutes later, Maisie replaced the receiver, promising to telephone Dene as soon as she was on home soil upon her return from France. Her curiosity regarding Hazleton had deepened, for Dene’s comments and assessment had served to broaden the gray areas evident in the MP’s medical history. But there was something bothering her even more as she reached for her purse, which was tucked into a corner of the document case. She took out a coin and lifted the receiver once again, hoping that all was as it should be at Ebury Place. She hoped her call would reach Sandra in time. The double ring repeated several times. Maisie’s frown deepened.

“The Compton residence.”

“Sandra? Sandra, listen, there’s—”

“Oh, m’um, it’s you!” Sandra exclaimed, as if she had been running.

“Sandra, is everything all right?”

“Well, I don’t know if it is.” She began to weep, then checked herself. “I’m sorry, m’um.”

“What’s wrong?” Maisie clutched the receiver to her ear.

“It’s Teresa. Been taken very poorly, she has. The doctor’s here now and they’re taking her to the infirmary. His Lordship has said—”

“What’s the matter with her?” The apprehension was clear in Maisie’s voice.

“She was working away, m’um, then suddenly—it was only a few hours after you left—well, she just sort of keeled over, clutching her belly and crying. She was screaming with the pain.”

“Oh, God!” Maisie could feel the pain increasing inside her, a sympathetic discomfort as the story unfolded.

“It was the middle of the morning, and Teresa said, ‘Well, if no one else is going to dig in, I’m going to have one of those chocolates that Miss gave us, set me up for a good day’s work it will, a bit of chocolate.’ So, she digs in, has a bite out of one of the chocolates, and says, ‘Oooh, that’s too bitter for me. It’s that dark chocolate; I prefer it sweeter.’ So she pushes the box away and off she goes with the polishes, but then she starts screaming—”

“Is she all right?” Maisie could hear the cry in her voice.

“We called the doctor straightaway. I got a glass of salty water, m’um, and made her drink it, held her head up and poured it down her. Then I stuck my fingers down her throat, so she’d bring whatever it was up again and—”

“What does the doctor say?”

“He’s pumped her out and he reckons she’ll be all right, though she’ll be poorly for a while.”

“And what about the chocolates, are they safe?”

“Oh, safe as houses, m’um. I said straightaway, I know where those are going.”

Maisie held her breath, anticipating the reply from the always-efficient Sandra.

“I opened the door to the kitchen fire—I’d just stoked it up to start making a batch of bread—and I threw them in, I did. Can’t have chocolates that have gone bad lying around.”

“Oh, no!”

“Did I do something wrong, m’um? I do think Dr. Dene ought to know, so as he can go back to the confectioners and—”

“The box of chocolates wasn’t from Dr. Dene.”

“Oh.” Sandra began to understand. “Oh, dear me. Oh, m’um, I
am
sorry, I didn’t think. I should have kept them, shouldn’t I?”

Maisie knew that poor Sandra had been through enough already. “Look, Sandra, tell the doctor that you will require a complete report. Ask him what substances would have such an effect on a person. If you have any problems, please inform Lord Julian that you have spoken to me and I will need to see the doctor’s assessment regarding the cause of Teresa’s sickness.”

“Oh, m’um…”

“Lord Julian will understand—and he won’t bite you, Sandra, you know that. Just give him my message.”

“Yes, m’um.”

“And you are sure Teresa will be all right?”

“Yes, m’um, that’s what the doctor said. But I’d better go. She’s being moved to the infirmary soon and we’ve got to keep at her with the water. Doctor says she’s got to keep drinking. I tell you, m’um, we’re all at sixes and sevens.”

“I will call you tomorrow, from France.”

“From France, m’um?”

“Yes. Tell Teresa that I am thinking of her. I am so sorry.”

“Oh, it’s not your fault, m’um. Who was to know that the chocolate was off?”

Maisie ended the call and leaned against the door.
Another attempt
. She closed her eyes.
I must be doubly vigilant
. She thought of Teresa.
And not only for myself
. Finally, pulling back the concertina doors, Maisie stepped into the dimly lit corridor. Maurice Blanche was standing just a few yards away.

“Maurice! I thought you were going to enjoy a pipe before we left the hotel.”

Blanche took out his pocket watch, checked the time, and snapped the silver cover. “We had better be off, Maisie. Our ferry will be leaving soon. Come along.”

Maisie tensed again. From the moment they stepped into the taxi-cab, visions of the past haunted her once more. She had not crossed the English Channel since her days as a nurse, clustered together with her fellow members of the Voluntary Aid Detachment. She remembered hearing the
ba-boom
of cannonade in the distance, the pitching and tossing of the vessel, and the terrible sickness that gripped her from the moment she boarded. And she remembered the rain that soaked through her cape and the damp, the seeping, smelling damp that remained with her every day of her service in France, a damp she could still feel, even on the warmest summer’s day. As the taxi-cab made its way to the port, Maisie turned to Maurice and recounted the conversation with Sandra, watching him frown, nodding as she spoke. She felt warmed by the exchange, for it seemed like old times. His concern revealed his regard for her and for her work. Was her doubt a sign of her own distress? She thought of the accident on Tottenham Court Road, of the hand that had reached out to push her in front of the train, and, now, of a gift of chocolate laced with poison. No. Someone was out to kill her.

They were shown to the first-class lounge and chose to sit in a far corner, alone. Maisie simply hoped for a millpond sea, a calm crossing into the past, for the present was becoming as dangerous as anything she had ever known.

T
HE FERRY DEPARTED
promptly, for the Flèche d’Or train service to Paris would leave Calais at ten past two on the dot. Maisie remained in the lounge for just a few moments, then decided that her already unsettled stomach would benefit from a walk on deck. Perhaps it was best to spend the entire passage looking out at the horizon, a level point to concentrate her thoughts. Though there was much to occupy her—Teresa, Ralph Lawton, Peter Evernden, the fact that she really didn’t want to go to Biarritz—she found it was the voices from the past that accompanied her across the Channel. The noisy chatter of Iris, the nurse with whom she had served at the casualty clearing station; the calming deckhand who had pressed hot cocoa and cake into her red raw hands and told her to drink and eat to stop the queasiness. In 1916 her ship was no ferry, but a requisitioned freighter taking supplies and horses over to France, the animals lined on the deck and tacked up ready to be mounted as soon as they docked in Le Havre. But the destination wasn’t Le Havre this time, wasn’t a port teeming with battalions of troops from across the globe, young men to replace those who had died in their tens of thousands in France and Belgium. Yet there
was
a reminder of the war, as Maisie bought a cup of tea and proceeded along the deck to a quiet place where she could lean and look out across the whitecaps toward France. Many of those on the ferry were making their pilgrimage to the last resting place of a loved one. Maisie watched as two women walked along in front of her, each wearing a linen poppy on a lapel, a poppy they would leave behind to say,
I have come. I have not forgotten
. Were they mother and daughter-in-law, perhaps? If Simon had died, would Maisie have made such a journey with Margaret Lynch, his mother? And would Margaret have one day touched her on the arm and said, “Life must go on, Maisie dear. He’s passed now, and you are of the living.”

Maisie sipped her tea and turned again to the gray-green sea, to the prow of the ship rising and falling and the bow wave crashing across the foredeck. Could she ever properly explain how time had passed, how she had buried her love for Simon for years and pressed on with her work, her mind settled if not soothed by the demands of being assistant to Maurice Blanche? And now, what would Margaret Lynch say to her, if she allowed their paths to cross? Would she say, “Ah, you came, after all this time, you came. But he is lost, so go now. You have made your peace, move on.” Maisie knew Simon’s mother was happy to know that she visited him, that even though she went only once a month, he would not be forgotten when she herself was gone.

Maisie finished her tea and walked along the deck, pulling her mackintosh collar up around her neck and her hat more firmly down on her head. The dark clouds overhead were a portent of the weather that would accompany them on their journey, and Maisie smiled. It was a smile of irony, for the weather exactly mirrored her recollections of the war. Though there had been fine days, days that were hot, days when the flies tormented the dying and living alike, there always seemed to be a darkness when Maisie recalled that time in her life. And now she was facing it all over again, looking back at the past to understand the present. How she felt for Agnes Lawton, for the ache that had grown out of all control, for the grief that consumed her mind, leading her to the doors of those who would exploit her. What was it about Hartnell that caused Maisie to reflect upon her time and time again? She had played games with the mind of a sick woman.
How dare she!
Maisie hit her hand against the guardrail, causing several people to look her way and then back at one another. Amid the excitement of late holidaymakers there was always a contingent of mourners, the sad and bereaved, so her impulsive action was quickly ignored.

Then there was Avril Jarvis. What new information had Billy acquired? Would he have anything that might help in her quest to lessen the sentence against the child? And what of the girl herself? Maisie knew immediately that Jarvis was no ordinary streetwalker but one whose gifts sustained her in unimaginable circumstances. Such gifts must not be squandered.

“Ah, there you are!”

Maisie turned. “Maurice. Are you refreshed?”

Blanche rested his forearms on the guardrail. “Indeed. The value of taking a short nap is underestimated, Maisie. You would do well to acquire the skill, though I believe that such an inclination is the preserve of those of us in our more mature years.”

Maisie smiled and reached inside her mackintosh to check the time. “Not long now.” She turned toward the prow. “Yes, look, there’s the port. About twenty minutes, do you think?”

Maurice squinted as he looked forward. “Yes. About twenty minutes.” He turned to Maisie. “Now then, what have you been thinking about, my friend?”

Maisie leaned on the guardrail again and exhaled. “Oh, you know, the crossings I made when I was a nurse.”

“You were only a child at the time.”

“I was old enough, Maurice. Many of the boys were younger than I, and we were all old enough to die.” She was aware that her tone was short.

Maurice nodded. “Yes, of course.” He paused. “And you have no doubt been replaying those journeys in your mind. The scenes you encountered then are before you now even as we speak, are they not?”

“Yes.” Maisie did not look at Maurice but at the horizon again.

“And that will continue to happen as this journey progresses. However, Maisie, I have this to say.”

“Go on.” She turned again to Blanche.

“You should allow yourself to indulge in this remembrance. When you face the past, all you will see is that which has gone before. So I have some advice: Let this be your turning point. Have done with it, and turn to face the future. Only then will the future rise up to meet you. Only then will the distress pass.”

Maisie swallowed and made ready to reply, and as she did so it was as if her mother were at her side, for her voice was so clear.
Your father’s right, Maisie. Slay those dragons
.

Maurice inclined his head, but this time he did not smile. Maisie touched his arm and returned to the lounge. Collecting her leather luggage and document case, she recognized the feeling that enveloped her. She had been just eighteen then, ready to disembark, to join the throng en route for Rouen, where they would receive orders. Seasickness had gripped her throughout that first crossing, but in the moment just before she stepped onto French soil, she had reminded herself that she was here to serve with strength and compassion, calling upon everything she had learned at the London Hospital and under the tutelage of Maurice Blanche. Now, on this journey, she was in her salad days no longer and she had much, much more to draw upon. She left the lounge quickly to join Maurice and the Flèche d’Or, which would have them in Paris by thirty-five minutes past five.