Pardonable Lie (2 page)

TWO

Following a debriefing with Stratton and Caldwell, Maisie was taken back to her office in Fitzroy Square by Stratton’s driver, who would collect her again tomorrow morning for another interview with Avril Jarvis. Maisie knew that much rested on the outcome of this second interview. Depending upon what was revealed and what could be corroborated, Avril Jarvis might spend the rest of her life behind bars.

“You’ve been gone a long time, Miss,” said Billy Beale, her assistant, running his fingers back through his sun-burnished hair. He came to Maisie’s side, took her coat and placed it on the hook behind the door.

“Yes, it was a long one, Billy. Poor little mite didn’t stand a chance. Mind you, I’m not sure how deeply the police are looking into her background at this point, and I would like to have some closer-to-the-bone impressions and information. If I’m required to give evidence under oath, I want to be better prepared.” Maisie took off her hat, placed it on the corner of her desk, and slipped her gloves into the top drawer. “I’m wondering, Billy. Would you and Doreen fancy a trip down to Taunton for the weekend, with everything paid for?”

“You mean like an ’oliday, Miss?”

Maisie inclined her head. “Well, it won’t be quite like being on holiday. I want you to find out more about Avril Jarvis, the girl I interviewed this morning. She said she’s from Taunton and I have no reason to disbelieve her. Find out where she lived, who her family are, whether she went to school there, if she worked, and when she left to come to London. I want to know why she came to London—I doubt if she knew it was for a life on the streets—and what she was like as a child.” She shook her head. “Heavens, she’s only thirteen now—all but a child. It’s wretched.”

“She in trouble, Miss?”

“Oh, yes. Very big trouble. She is about to be charged with the crime of murder.”

“Gawd—and she’s only thirteen?”

“Yes. Now then, can you go to Taunton?”

Billy pressed his lips together. “Well, it’s not as if me and Doreen have had much of an ’oliday together, ever, really. She don’t like to leave the nippers, but you know, I suppose me mum can look after ’em while we’re away.”

Maisie nodded and took out a new manila folder, which she inscribed
AVRIL JARVIS
and passed to Billy, along with a collection of index cards upon which she had scribbled notes while waiting for her debriefing with Stratton and Caldwell. “Good. Let me know as soon as possible if and when you can go. I’ll advance you the money for the train, a guesthouse, and incidentals. Now then, let’s get on as I’ve to leave early this evening.”

Billy took the folder and sat down at his desk. “Oh, yeah, you’re seein’ that old friend of yours, Mrs. Partridge.”

Maisie turned her attention to a ledger before her. She did not look up. “Yes, Priscilla Partridge—Evernden, as she was when we were at Girton together. After two terms she joined the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry in 1915 and drove an ambulance in France.” Maisie sighed and looked up. “She couldn’t stand to stay in England after the Armistice. She’d lost all three brothers to war, and her parents to the flu, so she went to live on the Atlantic coast of France. That’s where she met Douglas Partridge.”

“I reckon I’ve ’eard that name before.” Billy tapped the side of his head with a pencil.

“Douglas is a famous author and poet. He was badly wounded in the war, lost an arm. His poetry about the war was very controversial when it was first published here, but he’s managed to continue with his work—though it’s very dark, if you know what I mean.”

“Not really, Miss. I’d ’eard of ’im, but, y’know, poetry’s not up my alley, to tell you the truth.”

Maisie smiled and continued. “Priscilla has three boys. She calls them ‘the toads’ and says they are just like her brothers, always up to something. She’s back in London to look at schools for them for next year. She and Douglas have decided that the boys are growing up and need to have a British education.”

Billy shook his head. “Don’t think I could part with my nippers—oh, sorry, Miss.” He pressed his hand to his mouth, remembering that Frankie Dobbs had sent Maisie to work as a maid in the home of Lord Julian Compton and his wife, Lady Rowan, when her mother died. At the time, Maisie was barely thirteen years old.

Maisie shrugged. “That’s all right, Billy. It’s well past now. My father was doing what he thought best for me, and no doubt that’s what Priscilla is doing. Each to their own—we’ve all got to part one day, haven’t we?” Maisie shrugged. “Let’s just get these bills finished and go home.”

For the past year, Maisie had lived at Lord and Lady Compton’s Belgravia home. The accommodation had been offered to Maisie in the context of a favor to Lady Rowan, who wanted someone she trusted living “upstairs” during her absence—Maisie was now an independent woman with her own business, since her mentor and former employer, Maurice Blanche, retired. So instead of a lowly bed in the servants’ quarters at the top of the mansion—her first experience of life in the household—Maisie occupied elegant rooms on the second floor. The Comptons were spending more time at Chelstone, their country home in Kent, where Maisie’s father was the groom. It was generally thought that the Belgravia property was now retained only to pass on to James, the Comptons’ son who managed the family’s business affairs in Canada.

For most of the time, Maisie was alone in the house but for a small complement of servants; then at the end of summer, Lady Rowan would sweep into town to take up her position as one of London’s premier hostesses. However, extravagance had been curtailed since last year when Lady Rowan, with a compassion uncommon among the aristocracy, declared, “I simply cannot indulge in such goings-on when half the country hasn’t enough food in its belly! No, we will draw in our horns and instead see what we can do to get the country out of this wretched mess!”

Upon arriving at Ebury Place that evening, Maisie brought her MG to the mews behind the mansion and noticed immediately that Lord Compton’s Rolls-Royce was parked alongside the old Lanchester and that George, his chauffeur, was in conversation with Eric, a footman who took charge of the motor cars when George was in Kent.

George touched his forehead and opened Maisie’s door for her. “Evening, m’um. Very nice to see you.”

“George! What are you doing here? Is Lady Rowan in London?”

“No, m’um, only His Lordship. But he’s not staying. Just a business meeting and then to his club.”

“Oh. A meeting at the house?”

“Yes, m’um. And if you don’t mind, he’s said that as soon as you returned he’d like you to join him in the library.”

“Me?” Maisie was surprised. She sometimes thought that Lord Compton had merely indulged his wife in her support of her in the early years of her education, though he had always been nothing less than cordial in his communications.

“Yes, m’um. He knows you’re going out later, but he said to say it wouldn’t take long.”

Maisie nodded to George and thanked Eric, who stepped forward with a cloth to attend to the already shining MG. Instead of entering through the kitchen door, an informality that had become her custom, she walked quickly to the front entrance, whereupon the door was immediately opened by Sandra, the most senior “below stairs” employee in the absence of the butler, Carter, who was at Chelstone.

“Evening, m’um.” Sandra gave only a short curtsy, knowing that Maisie hated such formalities. “His Lordship—”

“Yes, George just told me.” She passed her hat and coat to Sandra but kept hold of her document case. She checked the silver nurse’s watch that was pinned to her lapel, a gift from Lady Rowan when she was sent to France in 1916. The watch had been her talisman ever since. “Thank you, Sandra. Look, could you run me a bath, please? I have to meet Mrs. Partridge at the Strand Palace by seven, and I really don’t want to be late.”

“Right you are, m’um. Pity she couldn’t have stayed here. It’s not as if we don’t have the room.”

Maisie patted her thick black hair and replied as she sped toward the sweeping staircase. “Oh, she said she wanted to be waited on hand and foot in a lavish hotel now that she has a few days’ respite from her boys.”

Outside the library door, Maisie composed herself before knocking. The men’s voices carried; Lord Compton’s was sharp and decisive. The second voice seemed deep and resolute, and as Maisie listened she closed her eyes and began to mouth the overheard words, automatically moving her body to assume a posture suggested by the voice. Yes, this was a man of decision, a man of bearing, with weight upon his shoulders. She thought he might be a solicitor, though one thing sparked her interest in the seconds before she knocked on the door and walked into the library: The man’s voice, as Maisie interpreted it, held more than a hint of fear.

“M
AISIE, GOOD OF
you to spare us a few moments of your precious time.” Julian Compton held out his hand to Maisie to draw her into the room. He was a tall, thin man, with gray hair swept back and a debonair ease of movement that suggested wealth, confidence and success.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, Lord Julian. How is Lady Rowan?”

“Apart from that wretched hip, there’s no stopping her! Of course, there’s another foal on the way now—perhaps another Derby promise in a couple of years!” Lord Compton turned to the man standing with his back to the fireplace. “Allow me to introduce a very good friend of mine, Sir Cecil Lawton, KC.”

Maisie approached the man and shook hands. “Good evening, Sir Cecil.” She noticed the man’s discomfort, the way his eyes did not quite meet her own, focusing instead on a place over her shoulder before looking down at his feet, then back to Lord Julian.
I can almost smell the fear
, thought Maisie.

Cecil Lawton was only one or two inches taller than Maisie. He had dark-gray wavy hair that parted in the center and was swept to the sides. He wore half-moon spectacles, and his bulbous nose seemed to sit uncomfortably above a waxed mustache. His clothes were expensive, though not new. Maisie had met many such men in the course of her work, barristers and judges who had once invested heavily in making an impression but, having reached the pinnacle of success in the legal profession, did not regard Savile Row with the reverence of their younger days.

“I’m delighted to see you, Miss Dobbs; you may remember that we have met before. It was when you gave evidence for the defense in the Tadworth case. The man might have been on his way to Wormwood Scrubs, had it not been for your acute observations.”

“Thank you, Sir Cecil.” Maisie was now anxious to know the reason for her being introduced to Lawton, not least to allow her time to get ready for supper with Priscilla. She turned to Lord Julian. “I understand that you wanted to see me, Lord Julian. Is there a matter I might assist you with?”

Lord Julian looked at Lawton briefly. “Let’s sit down. Maisie, Sir Cecil requires confirmation of information received some years ago, during the war. He came to me, and I immediately suggested that you might be able to help.” Lord Julian glanced at Lawton, then brought his attention back to Maisie. “I think it best if Sir Cecil explains the situation to you in private, without any commentary from me. I know you would prefer to hear the details in his words, and any questions you put to him can be answered in absolute confidence. I should add, Maisie”—Lord Julian smiled at his friend—“I have informed my good friend here that your fees are not insignificant and you are worth every penny!”

Maisie smiled and inclined her head. “Thank you, Lord Julian.”

“Very well. Good. I’m off to my lair for ten minutes or so. I’ll be back shortly.”

S
IR
C
ECIL
L
AWTON
fidgeted in his seat, then stood again with his back to the fire. Maisie leaned back slightly in her chair, a move that caused Lawton to clear his throat and begin speaking.

“This is most unusual, Miss Dobbs. I had not imagined that I might one day be seeking assistance in this matter….” Lawton shook his head, his eyes closed, then looked up and continued. “My only son, Ralph, was killed in the war.”

“I’m sorry, Sir Cecil.” Maisie issued her regret softly. Sensing that Lawton had a burden to shed, she leaned forward to indicate that she was listening closely. He had pronounced his son’s name
Rafe
in the old-fashioned manner.

“I was in a position to ask questions, so there was—is—no doubt in my mind that Ralph was lost. He was in the Flying Corps. Those chaps were lucky if they were still alive three weeks after arriving in France.”

Maisie nodded but said nothing.

Lawton cleared his throat, held his fist against his mouth for a second, folded his arms, and continued. “My wife, however, always maintained that Ralph was alive. She became very—very
unstable
, I think you would say, after we received the news. She believed that one day he would come back again. She said a mother knew such things. Agnes suffered a nervous collapse a year after the war. She had become involved with spiritualists, mediums, and all sorts of quackery, all in an attempt to prove that Ralph was still alive.”

“There were many who consulted such people, Sir Cecil. Your wife was not alone in that respect.”