Maisie Dobbs

  “Yes it is. Maurice, I want to take Billy out of The Retreat.”

  “Indeed. Yes. Away from Jenkins. It is interesting, Maisie, how a time of war can give a human being purpose. Especially when that purpose, that power, so to speak, is derived from something so essentially evil.”

  Maurice reached forward from his chair towards the wooden pipe stand that hung on the chimney breast. He selected a pipe, took tobacco and matches from the same place, and leaned back, glancing again at the clock. He watched Maisie as he took a finger-and-thumb’s worth of tobacco from the pouch, and pressed it into the bowl of the pipe.

  “Your thoughts, Maisie?”

  Maurice struck a match on the raw brick of the fireplace, and drawing on the pipe, held the flame to the tobacco. Maisie found the sweet aroma pungent, yet this ritual of lighting and smoking a pipe soothed her. She knew Maurice to indulge in a pipe only when the crux of a matter was at hand. And having the truth revealed, no matter how harsh, was always a relief.

  “I was thinking of evil. Of war. Of the loss of innocence, really. And innocents.”

  “Yes. Indeed. Yes. The loss of that which is innocent. One could argue, that if it were not for war, then Jenkins—”

  The clock struck the half hour. It was time for Maisie to leave to meet Billy Beale. Maurice stood, reaching out to the mantelpiece to steady himself with his right hand.

  “You will be back at what time?”

  “By half past eight.”

  “I will see you then.”

  Maisie left the cottage quickly, and Maurice moved to the window to watch her leave. They needed to say little to each other. He had been her mentor since she was a young girl, and she had learned well. Yes, he had been right to retire. And right to be ready to support her as she took on the practice in her own name.

  “Billy. Good timing. How are you?”

  “Doin’ awright, Miss. Yourself?”

  Without responding to his question, Maisie continued with her own.

  “Any news?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking a bit and keeping my eyes open.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’ve noticed that the fella who wanted to leave ain’t around.”

  “Perhaps he’s left, gone home.”

  “No, no. Not in the book.”

  “What book?”

  “I found out there’s a book. By the gatehouse. Records the ins and outs, if you know what I mean. Took a walk over to ’ave a word with old Archie the other day, and it looks like the bread delivery is all that’s gone on in a week.”

  “And Jenkins?”

  “Chummy as ever.”

  “Billy, I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  “No—no, Miss. I’m safe as ’houses. Sort of like it ’ere, really. And no one’s looking twice at me.”

  “You don’t know that, Billy.”

  “One more night, then, anyway. I want to find out where this fella’s gone. I tell you, I keep my eyes peeled, like I said, and one minute ’e’s there and the next ’e’s not. Mind you, there is someone in the sick bay.”

  “And who tends the sick bay?”

  “Well, there’s a fella who was a medic in the war, ’e does all your basic stuff, like. Then this other fella came up today. In a car, doctor’s bag and all. I was working in the front garden at the time. Dead ringer for Jenkins actually. Bit bigger, mind. But you could see it round ’ere.” Billy rubbed his chin and jaw. “’round the chops.”

  “Yes. I know who that is,”Maisie whispered as she wrote notes on an index card.

  “What, Miss?”

  “No. Nothing. Billy, listen, I know you think that Jenkins is essentially a good man, but I fear that you may now be in some danger. You are an innocent person brought into my work because I needed information. That must change. It’s time for you to leave.”

  Billy Beale turned to Maisie and looked deeply into her eyes.“You know, Miss, when we first met, when I said I’d seen you before, after that shell got me leg. Did you recognize me?”

  Maisie closed her eyes briefly, looked at the ground to compose herself and then directly at Billy. “Yes. I recognized you, Billy. Some people you never forget.”

  “I know. I told you, I would never forget you and that doctor. Could’ve ’ad my leg off, ’e could. Anyone else would’ve just chopped the leg and got me out of there. But ’im, that doctor, even in those conditions, like, ’e tried to do more.”

  Billy gazed out across the land to The Retreat.

  “And I know what ’appened. I know what ’appened after I left. ’eard about it. Amazing you weren’t killed.”

  Maisie did not speak but instead slowly began to remove the pins that held her long black hair in a neat chignon. She turned her head to one side and lifted her hair. And as she drew back the tresses, she revealed a purple scar weaving a path from just above her hairline at the nape of her neck, through her hair and into her scalp.

  “Long hair, Billy, hides a multitude of sins.”

  His eyes beginning to smart, Billy looked toward The Retreat again, as if checking to see that everything was still in its place. He said nothing about the scar, but pressed his lips together and shook his head.

  “I’ll stay ’ere until tomorrow, Miss. I know you need me to be at this place at least another day. I’ll meet you ’ere at half past seven tomorrow, and I’ll ’ave me kit bag with me. No one will see me, don’t you worry.”

  Billy did not wait for Maisie to respond, but clambered back through the fence. And as she had each evening for more than a week now, Maisie watched Billy limp across the field to The Retreat.

  “I’ll be here,” whispered Maisie. “I’ll be here.”

  Maisie did not go to bed, and was not encouraged to do so by Maurice. She knew that the time of reckoning could come soon. Yes, if Jenkins was to make his move, it would be now. If not, then the investigation would lie dormant; the file would remain open.

  She sat on the floor, legs crossed, watching first the night grow darker, then the early hours of the morning edge slowly toward dawn. The clock struck the half hour. Half past four. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes. Suddenly the telephone rang, its shrill bell piercing the quiet of the night. Maisie opened her eyes and came to her feet quickly. Before it could ring a second time, she answered the call.

  “Billy.”

  “Yes. Miss, something’s goin’ on down ’ere.”

  “First, Billy—are you safe?”

  “No one’s seen me leave. I crept out, kept close to the wall, came straight across the field and through the fence to the old dog ’n’ bone ‘ere.”

  “Good. Now—what’s happening?”

  Billy caught his breath. “I couldn’t sleep last night, Miss. Kept thinking about, y’know, what we’d talked about.”

  “Yes, Billy.”

  Maisie turned to the door as she spoke and nodded her head to Maurice, who had entered the room dressed as he had been when he had bidden her goodnight. He had not slept either.

  “Anyway. ’bout—well, blimey, must ’ve been over ’alf an hour ago now—I ’eard a bit of a racket outside, sounded like a sack bein’ dragged around. So, I goes to the window to see what’s what.”

  “Go on, Billy. And keep looking around you.”

  “Don’t you worry, Miss, I’m keepin’ me eyes peeled. Anyway, it was ’im, bein’ dragged away down the dirt road.”

  “Who?”

  “The fella that wanted to leave. Could see ’im plain as day, in the light coming from the door.”

  “Where does the dirt road lead to—the quarry?”

  “Yes, Miss. That’s right.”

  Maisie took a deep breath.

  “Billy, here’s what you are to do. Go into the hamlet. Keep very close to the side of the road. Do not be seen. There may be someone else coming from that direction heading for The Retreat. Do not let him see you. Meet me by the oak tree on the green. Go now.”

  Maisie replaced the receiver. There was n
o time to allow Billy Beale another question before ending the call.

  Maurice handed Maisie her jacket and hat and took up his own. She opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced by Maurice’s raised hand.

  “Maisie, I never, ever said that you were too young for the many risks you have taken. Do not now tell me to stay at home because I am too old!”

  Billy clambered out of the ditch and stretched his wounded leg. Kneeling had made him sore, and he rubbed at his cramped muscles. The sound of a breaking twig in the silence of the early morning hours, as leaves rustled in a cool breeze, made him snap to attention. He remained perfectly still.

  “Now I’m bleedin’ ’earin’ things,” whispered Billy into the dawn chill that caught his chest and forced his heart to beat faster, so fast he could hear it echo in his ears.

  “Like waitin’ for that bleedin’ whistle to go off for the charge, it is.”

  Billy took his bag by the handle and slung it over his shoulder. Looking both ways, he began to cross the road to take advantage of the overhanging branches that would shield him as he made his way along the lane into the hamlet. But as he moved, his leg cramped again.

  “Blimey, come on, come on, leg! Don’t bleedin’ let me down now.”

  Billy tried to straighten his body, but as he moved, his war wounds came to life, shooting pain through him as he tried to take a step.

  “I’m afraid you’ve let yourself down, William,” a man’s voice intoned.

  “Who’s that? Who’s there?” Billy fell backward, his arms flailing as he tried to regain balance.

  Adam Jenkins stepped out of the half-light in front of Billy. Archie stood with him, together with two other longtime residents of The Retreat.

  “Desertion is what we call it. When you leave before your time.”

  “I just, well, I just wanted to ’ave a bit of a walk, Sir,” said Billy, nervously running his fingers through his hair.

  “Well, a fine time to be walking, William. Or perhaps you prefer ‘Billy?’ A fine time for a stroll.”

  Jenkins signaled to Archie and the other men, who pinioned Billy’s hands behind his back and tightly secured a black cloth across his eyes.

  “Desertion, Billy. Terrible thing. Nothing worse in a soldier. Nothing worse.”

  Maisie drew up alongside the oak tree in the hamlet of Hart’s Lea. There was no sign of Billy.

  “Maurice, he’s not here,” said Maisie, as she swung the car in the direction of The Retreat, and accelerated.“We’ve got to find him.”

  Maisie drove at high speed along the lane to The Retreat, scanning the side of the road as she maneuvered the car. Beside her Maurice was silent. Abruptly she swung the car onto the verge by the beech tree and got out. Kneeling on the verge, she ran her fingers over the rough ground. In the early light of morning, she could see signs of a scuffle.

  Yes, they had Billy.

  Maurice climbed out of the car, with some difficulty, and joined Maisie.

  “I must find him, Maurice. His life is in danger.”

  “Yes, go, Maisie. But I would advise that this is the time—”

  Maisie sighed,“Of course, you’re right, Maurice. Over here I think we might be in luck.”

  Lowering herself into the ditch on the other side of the road, near the perimeter fence of The Retreat, Maisie reached down, and pulled up Billy’s makeshift telephone.

  “Thank God! They didn’t find it—they must have arrived just after he replaced the receiver. I’m not really sure how you—”

  “Go now, Maisie. I will see to it. I may be old, but such things are not beyond the scope of my intelligence.”

  Maisie rushed over to the MG, opened the door, and took out the black jacket that Maurice had handed her when they left the house. Pulling on the jacket, Maisie was about to close the door of the car, when she stopped and instead reached behind the driver’s seat for her bag. She hurriedly took out the new Victorinox knife, slipped it into the pocket of her trousers, and closed the car door. Maisie crossed the road, pausing only to touch Maurice’s shoulder with her hand, before pulling back the wire and squeezing through the hole in the fence. She ran quickly across the field, aided by the grainy light of sunrise.

  At first Maisie took care to step quietly past the farm buildings, but soon realized that they were deserted, a fact that did not surprise her. “He will probably want to set an example to the residents,” Maisie had said to Maurice as they left the dower house.“He’ll have an audience. An ‘innocuous’ little man would love an audience.”

  Maisie squinted at the silver watch pinned to the left breast pocket of her jacket. The watch that to this day was her talisman.Time had survived with her, but now time was marching on. Billy was in grave danger. She must be quick Within minutes she reached the quarry, and as she ran, the memories cascaded into her mind. She must get to him. Simon had saved him, and so must she. She must get to Billy.

  She slowed to a walk and quietly crept into the mouth of the quarry, keeping close to the rough sandstone entrance so that she would not be seen. Maisie gasped as she scanned the tableau before her. A sea of men were seated on chairs, facing a raised platform with a wooden structure placed upon it. With their damaged faces, once so very dear to a mother, father, or sweetheart, they were now reduced to gargoyles by a war that, for them, had never ended. There were men without noses or jaws, men who searched for light with empty eye sockets, men with only half a face where once a full-formed smile had beamed. She choked back tears, her blue eyes searching for Billy Beale.

  As the rising sun struggled against the remains of night, Maisie realized that the wooden structure was a rough gallows. Suddenly, the men’s faces moved. Maisie followed their gaze. Jenkins walked toward the platform from another direction. He took center stage, and raised his hand. At his signal Archie and another man came toward the platform, half guiding, half dragging a blindfolded man between them. It was Billy. As she watched, Billy—jovial, willing Billy Beale—who surely would have given his life for her, was placed on his knees in front of the gallows, and held captive in the taut hangman’s noose. It would need only one sharp tug from the two men working in unison to do its terrible work.

  The audience stood unmoved, yet in fear; their eyes, behind the terrible deformities war had dealt them, showing terror. And in that dreadful moment when she thought that the strong, fast legs that had borne her to this place had become paralyzed, Maisie was haunted by the past and present coming together as one. She knew that she “ must take action, but what could stop this madness immediately, without the men rising up against her—such was Jenkins’s control over them—and without risking Billy’s immediate death? “Fight like with like,” she whispered, remembering one of Maurice’s lessons, and as she uttered the words, a picture flashed into her mind, a memory, of being on the train with Iris, of watching the soldiers as they marched off to battle, singing as they beat a path to death’s door. There was no secret route along which she could stealthily make her way to Billy’s side. She had only one option. For just a second Maisie closed her eyes, pulled her shoulders back, and stood as tall as she could. She breathed deeply, cleared her throat, and began to walk slowly toward the platform. For Billy she must be a fearless warrior. And as the men became aware of her presence, she looked at their faces, smiled kindly, and began to sing.

  There’s a rose that grows

  In No-Mans’ Land

  And it’s wonderful to see

  Though it’s sprayed with tears

  It will live for years

  In my garden of memory . . .

  As she gained on the platform, now keeping her eyes focused on Jenkins, Maisie heard a deep resonant voice join her own. Then another voice echoed alongside her, and another, until her lone voice had become one with a choir of men singing in unison, their low voices a dawn chorus that echoed around the quarry.

  It’s the one red rose

  The soldier knows

  It’s the work of the Master’s hand
>
  ’Mid the war’s great curse,

  Stands the Red Cross Nurse

  She’s the Rose of No-Man’s Land . . .

  Maisie banished all fear as she stood on the ground below Jenkins. Dressed in the uniform of an officer who had served in the Great War, he stood with eyes blazing. She avoided looking at Billy, instead meeting Jenkins’s glare while ascending the steps to the platform. The men continued to sing softly behind her, finding solace in the gentle rhythm of a much-loved song. Standing in front of Jenkins, she maintained eye contact. Her action had silenced him, but in mirroring his posture, she knew of his inner confusion, his torment, and his pain. And in looking into his eyes, she knew that he was mad.

  “Major Jenkins . . .” She addressed the officer in front of her, who seemed to regain a sense of place and time.

  “You can’t stop this, you know. This man is a disgrace to his country,” he pointed his baton towards Billy.“A deserter.”

  “By what authority, Major Jenkins? Where are your orders?”

  Jenkins’s eyes flashed in confusion. Maisie heard Billy groan as the rope cut into his neck.

  “Has this man received a court-martial? A fair trial?”

  Voices murmured behind her as Jenkins’s audience, the wounded “guests” of The Retreat, began to voice dissent. She had to be in control of each moment, for if one word were out of place, the men could easily become an angry mob—dangerous not only to this mind-injured man in front of her but to Billy and herself.

  “A trial? Haven’t got time for trials, you know. Got to get on with it! Got a job to do, without having to tolerate time wasters like this one.” He pointed his baton at Billy again, then brought it to his side and tapped it against his shining leather boots.

  “We do have time, Major.” Maisie held her breath as she took her chance. Billy had begun to choke. She had to make her bravest move.

  Though Maurice had cautioned Maisie in the use of touch, he had also stressed the power inherent in physical connection: “When we reach to place a hand on a sore knee or an aching back, we are really reaching into our primordial healing resources. Judicious use of the energy of touch can transform, as the power of our aura soothes the place that is injured.”