Maisie Dobbs

  “Major Jenkins,” said Maisie, in a low voice.“It’s over. . . the war is over. You can rest now . . . you can rest. . . .”And as she whispered the words, she raised a hand, stepped closer to him, and instinctively held her palm against the place where she felt his heart to be. For a moment there was no movement as Jenkins closed his eyes. He began to tremble, and with her fingertips Maisie could feel him struggle to regain control of his body—and his mind.

  The onlookers gasped as Jenkins began to weep. Falling to his knees, he pulled his Webley Mk IV service revolver from its holster and held the barrel to his head.

  “No,” said Maisie firmly, but softly, and with a move so gentle that Jenkins barely felt the revolver leave his grasp, she took the weapon from his hand.

  At that moment, as the audience watched in a stunned silence that paralyzed all movement, she saw lights beginning to illuminate the entrance to the quarry. Uniformed men ran toward the platform, shouting, “Stop, police!” She abandoned Jenkins, who was rocking back and forth, clasping his arms about his body, and moaning with a rasping, guttural cry.

  Maisie pushed the revolver into her pocket and moved quickly toward the lifeless body of Billy Beale. Archie and his assistant were nowhere to be seen. Maisie quickly took out her pocket knife and, holding back the flesh on Billy’s neck with the fingers of her left hand, she slipped the blade against the rope, and freed Billy from the hangman’s noose. As Billy fell toward her, Maisie tried to take his weight, and stumbled. She was aware that Jenkins was now flanked by two policemen, and that all around her the frozen moment had thawed into frenzied activity.

  “Billy, look at me, Billy,” said Maisie, regaining balance.

  She slapped his face on both sides, and felt his wrist for a pulse.

  Billy choked, and his eyes rolled up into their sockets as his hands instinctively clamored to free his neck from the constriction that he could still feel at his throat.

  “Steady on, Miss, steady on, for Gawd’s sake.”

  Billy choked, his gas-damaged lungs wheezing with the enormous effort of fighting for breath. As he tried to sit up, Maisie supported him with her arms around his shoulders.

  “It’s awright, Miss. I’m not a goner. Let me get some air. Some air.”

  “Can you see me, Billy?”

  Billy Beale looked at Maisie, who was now on her knees beside him.

  “I’m awright now that you’re ’ere, even if you are a bit ’eavy ’anded. Mind you . . .” he coughed, wiping away the blood and spittle that came up from his throat,“I thought you’d never get over chat-tin’wiv that bleedin’ lunatic there.” Billy pointed toward Jenkins, then brought his hand back to his mouth as he coughed another deep, rasping cough.

  “May I have a word, Miss Dobbs?”The man looking down at her beckoned the police doctor to attend to Billy, then held out a hand to Maisie. Grasping his outstretched hand, she drew herself up to a standing position and brushed back the locks of black hair that were hanging around her face. The man held out his right hand again. “Detective Inspector Stratton. Murder Squad. Your colleague is in good hands. Now, if I may have a word.”

  Maisie quickly appraised the man, who was standing in front of her. Stratton was more than six feet tall, well-built, and confident, without the posturing that she had seen before in men of high rank. His hair, almost as black as her own, except for wisps of gray at the temples, was swept back. He wore corduroy trousers and a tweed jacket with leather at the elbows. He held a brown felt hat with a black grosgrain band in his left hand. Like a country doctor, observed Maisie.“Yes. Yes, of course, Detective Inspector Stratton. I . . . .”

  “. . . Should have known better, Miss Dobbs? Yes, probably, you should have known better. However, I have been briefed by Dr. Blanche, and I realize that you were in a situation where not a moment could be lost. Suffice it to say that this is not the time for discussion or reprimand. I must ask you, though, to make yourself available for questioning in connection with this case, perhaps tomorrow?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Miss Dobbs, I have to attend to the suspect now, but, in the mean-time—”

  “Yes?” Maisie was flushed, tired, and indignant.

  “Good work, Miss Dobbs. A calm head—very good work.” Detective Inspector Stratton shook hands with Maisie once again, and was just about to walk away when she called him back.

  “Oh, Inspector, just a moment. . . .” Maisie held out the service revolver she had taken from Jenkins.“I think you’ll need this for your evidence bag.”

  Stratton took the revolver, checked the barrel, and removed the ammunition before placing the weapon safely in his own pocket. He inclined his head toward Maisie and smiled, then turned toward Jenkins, who was now flanked by two members of the Kent Constabulary. Maisie watched as Stratton commenced the official caution:“‘You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be put into writing and given in evidence.”

  Maisie looked around at Billy, to satisfy herself that he was safe— he was now on his feet and speaking with the doctor—then surveyed the scene in front of her. She watched as Maurice Blanche walked among the terrified audience of ‘old soldiers’ who still seemed so very young, his calming presence infectious as he stood with the men, placing a hand on a shoulder for support, or holding a weeping man to him unashamedly. The men seemed to understand his strength, and clustered around to listen to his soothing words. She saw him motion to Stratton, who sent policemen to lead the residents of The Retreat away one by one. They were men for whom the terror of war had been replayed and whose trust had been shattered. First by their country, and now by a single man. They were men who would have to face the world in which there was no retreat. Maurice was right, they were all innocents. Perhaps even Jenkins.

  Jenkins was now in handcuffs and being led to a waiting Invicta police car that had been brought into the mouth of the quarry, his unsoiled polished boots and Sam Browne belt shining against a pressed uniform. Not a hair on his head was out of place. He was still the perfectly turned-out officer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  So, what I want to know,” said Billy, sitting in Maurice Blanche’s favorite wing chair, next to the fireplace in the dower house, “Is ’ow did you get on to Adam Jenkins in the end. And I tell you, ’e certainly ’ad me there. I was beginnin’ t’think ’e was a crackin’ bloke.”

  Maisie sat on a large cushion on the floor sipping tea, while Maurice was comfortable on the sofa opposite Billy. She set down her cup and saucer on the floor and rubbed at her cold feet.

  “I had a feeling, here.” Maisie touched the place between her ribs, at the base of her breastbone.“There was something wrong from the beginning. Of course you know about Vincent. And the others. That was a mistake on Jenkins’s part, suggesting to Vincent’s family that he be interred at Nether Green because it’s a big cemetery, with lots of soldiers’ graves. It was a mistake because he used it several times.”

  Maisie took a sip of her tea and continued.“I questioned the coincidence of several men buried with only their Christian names to identify them. Then I found out that they were all from the same place. The Retreat.”

  “And what else?” asked Billy, waving a hand to disperse the smoke from Maurice’s pipe.

  “A mistrust—on my part—of someone who wields so much power. The inspiration for The Retreat was admirable. Such places have worked well in France. But, for the most part, those places were set up for soldiers with disfiguring wounds to go to on holiday, not to be there forever. And using only Christian names was Jenkins’s innovation. Stripping away a person’s name is a very basic manner of control. It’s done in all sorts of institutions, such as the army—for example, they called you ‘corporal,’ not ‘Billy,’ or possibly—rarely—even ‘Beale.’”

  Billy nodded.

  “The irony is, that it was one of the first men to live at The Retreat, Vincent Weathershaw, who gave him the idea for the Christian-names-only mode of
address.”

  Maisie caught her breath and continued.

  “More evidence came to hand after you went to The Retreat. Each cause of death was different—there was even a drowning listed—yet each could be attributed to asphyxiation of some sort. To the untrained eye, an accident. The word of the examiner would not be questioned. No police were involved, they were considered to be deaths from ‘accidental’ or ‘natural’ causes—and as the men were all seeking relief from torment by coming to The Retreat, the families had no lingering questions. In fact, there was often relief that the loved one would not have to suffer anymore,” said Maisie.

  “Indeed.” Maurice looked at Maisie, who did not return his gaze. He took up the story. “Then there was Jenkins’s own history. How could someone who had given his superiors cause to refer to him as “innocuous” have gained such power? Maisie telephoned the doctor who had supervised his care at Craiglockhart—the hospital in Scotland where shell-shocked officers were sent during the war. The poet Siegfried Sassoon was there.”

  “Well, sir, I ain’t never bin much of a one for poetry.” Billy waved smoke away from his face once more.

  “The doctor, who is now at the Maudsley psychiatric hospital in London, informed me that Jenkins’s mental state was not as serious as some,” said Maisie,“But there was cause for concern.”

  “I’ll bet there was.” Billy rubbed at the red weal left by the rope at his neck.

  “You know what happened to deserters, Billy?”

  Billy looked at his hands and turned them back and forth, inspecting first the palms, then his knuckles.“Yes. Yes I do, Miss.”

  “They were taken and shot. At dawn. We talked about it. Some of them just young boys of seventeen or eighteen—they were scared out of their wits. It’s been rumored that there was even a case of two being shot for accidentally falling asleep while on duty.”Tears came to Maisie’s eyes and she pursed her lips together.“Jenkins was the commanding officer instructed to deal with a desertion. ‘Innocuous’ Jenkins. Much against his will—and apparently he did question his orders—he was instructed to preside over such an execution.”

  “And . . .”

  Billy sat forward in the leather chair.

  “He carried out orders. Had he not, then he might well have been subject to the same fate. To disobey would have been insubordination.”

  Maisie got up from the floor and walked to the window. Maurice’s eyes followed her, then turned to Billy.“The mind can do strange things, Billy. Just as we can become used to pain, so we can become used to experience, and in some cases a distasteful experience is made more palatable if we embrace it.”

  “Like putting sugar in the castor oil.”

  “Something of that order. Jenkins’s sugar was the power he claimed. One might argue that it was the only way for him to stomach the situation. He was not a man strong in spirit. So close was he to the act of desertion that it made him detest the actual deserter, and in meting out this terrible, terrible punishment, he maintained control over the part of him that would have run away. He became very good at dealing with battlefield deserters. Indeed, he enjoyed a level of success, we understand, that he did not enjoy in other areas of responsibility.”

  Maurice looked again at Maisie, who turned to face Billy.“Jenkins’s idea of founding The Retreat was formed in good faith. But once again the need for control emerged. The chain of murders began when one of the men wanted to leave. Jenkins felt the man’s decision keenly. He was, in effect, deserting The Retreat. For Jenkins, his mind deeply affected by the war, there was only one course of action. And then one death made the others easier.”

  “Blimey,” whispered Billy.

  “Had you been at The Retreat longer, you too would have heard it said that it was difficult to depart with one’s life. Obviously he could not shoot a man—it would not be easy for the medical examiner to disguise the truth of such a wound—but he could use a more dramatic method. This gallows in the quarry would not break a man’s neck, but would deprive the body of oxygen for just about long enough to take a life. A death that it would be easy to attribute to suicide or accident. And he must have been in a hurry with you, Billy, because with the others, a heavy cloth was wrapped around the noose. The rope marks were not as livid as the necklace you’re now wearing.”

  Billy once again rubbed at his neck. “I reckon it’s all bleedin’ wrong, this ’ere business of shootin’ deserters. I tell you, ’alf of us didn’t know what the bloody ’ell we were supposed to be doin’ over there anyway. I know the officers, specially the young ones, didn’t.”

  Maurice pointed the stem of his pipe at Billy, ready to comment. “Interesting point, Billy. You may be interested to know that Ernest Thurtle, an American by birth, now the MP for Whitechapel, has worked hard in Parliament to have the practice banned—it wouldn’t surprise me if a new law were passed in the next year or so.”

  “About bloody time, too! And talkin’ about deserters, what’s the connection with Vincent Weathershaw? Remember me finding out that there was something that went on with ’im?”

  “Yes,” continued Maisie. “From what we know, Weathershaw was disciplined because he complained about the practice of military execution. He was vocal about it too, upsetting higher-ups. He was injured before he could be stripped of his commission and courtmartialed for insubordination.”

  Billy whistled between his teeth.“This gets worse.”

  “It did for Weathershaw. He came to The Retreat in good faith, a terribly disfigured man. He had known something of Jenkins while in convalescence, but at The Retreat he found out about his reputation as a battlefield executioner. Vincent had put two and two together, so Jenkins decided he had to go. He’d suffered terrible depression, poor man, so accident or suicide was entirely believable.”

  “Poor sod. What about this other Jenkins?”

  “Cousin. We thought Armstrong Jenkins was a brother, but he’s not, he’s a cousin. Surprisingly, Adam Jenkins was not in it for the money. His reward was the sensation of control. King of all he surveyed, and with a legion of serfs who listened to his every word, and despite what they heard, adored him. And that is the part of the puzzle that is most intriguing.”

  “Indeed,” said Maurice.“Most intriguing.”

  “That despite the rumors, such as they were, and the demise of those who ‘left’ The Retreat, Jenkins was held in very high regard by the men.”

  Billy blushed.

  “An interesting phenomenon,” said Maurice.“Such control over a group of people. It is, I fear, something that we shall see again, especially in times such as this, when people are seeking answers to unfathomable questions, for leadership in their uncertainty, and for a connection with others of like experience. Indeed, there is a word to describe such a group, gathered under one all-powerful leader, taken from the practice of seeking answers in the occult. What Jenkins founded could be described as a cult.”

  “This is givin’ me the shivers,” said Billy, rubbing his arms.

  Maisie took up the story again. “Armstrong Jenkins was the one who persuaded his cousin to have the men sign over their assets. And for a man coming into The Retreat, so desperately unhappy that he would willingly cloister himself, it was not such a huge step. Armstrong held the purse strings. He came to this area to work as medical examiner when The Retreat opened. Like his cousin, his is a case of power laced with evil.”

  “I’ll say. Gaw blimey, that was close.”

  “I made three telephone calls before our last meeting in the lane, and what I learned alerted me to the level of your danger. One was to the Maudsley, to speak to Adam Jenkins’s doctor; one was to the county coroner, to confirm Armstrong Jenkins’s history, and finally one to Maurice’s friend, the Chief Constable, to inform him of my suspicions. It was his intention to begin an investigation of The Retreat the following day—but of course events overtook him. Billy, I wanted you to relinquish your task as soon as you told me that another man wished to leave The
Retreat. But you were adamant.”

  Billy met Maisie’s eyes with his own. “I told you, Miss, I didn’t want to let you down. I wanted to do something for you. Like you and that doctor did for me. You never did it ’alf-’earted because you was all tired out. You had men linin’ up all over the place, yet you saved my leg. When I got ’ome, the doc said it was the best bit of battlefield leg saving ’e’d ever seen.”

  Tears smarted in Maisie’s eyes. She thought the pain had ceased. She hated this tide of tears that came in, bidden by truth.

  “And I know it’s a bit off the subject, like, but I wanted to ask you somethin’, and I . . . I dunno . . . I just felt you didn’t want to talk about it, and who can blame you? But . . . what ’appened to ’im? What ’appened to that doctor?”

  A strained silence fell upon the room. The excited explanation of events at The Retreat gave way to embarrassment. Maurice sighed, his brow furrowed, as he watched Maisie, who sat with her head in her hands.

  “Look, I ’ope I ain’t said anythin’ wrong . . . I’m sorry if it was out of turn. It ain’t none of my business, is it? I thought you were a bit sweet on each other, that’s all. I remember thinking that. So I thought you’d know. The man saved my leg, probably even my life. But I’m sorry. Shouldn’t ’ave said anythin’.” Billy picked up his jacket as if to leave the room.

  “Billy. Wait. Yes. Yes, I should have told you. About Captain Lynch. It’s only fair that you should know. After what you’ve done for me, it’s only fair.”

  Maurice moved to Maisie’s side and took her hand in his. She answered Billy’s question.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It seemed to Maisie that no sooner had she returned to the casualty clearing station, from her leave at home with Simon, than droves of injured were brought in. As day stretched into night, the few hours’ sleep that Maisie managed to claim each night offered only a brief respite from the war.