“Truth walks toward us on the paths of our questions.” Maurice’s voice once again echoed in her mind.“As soon as you think you have the answer, you have closed the path and may miss vital new information. Wait awhile in the stillness, and do not rush to conclusions, no matter how uncomfortable the unknowing.”
And as she allowed her curiosity full rein, Maisie knew what her next move should be.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Celia Davenham file comprised several pages by now, and included details beyond excursions to Nether Green Cemetery. Celia’s birthdate (September 16, 1897), parentage (Algernon and Anne Whipton), place of birth (Sevenoaks, Kent), school (St. Mary’s), and miscellaneous other details were recorded. Her husband was ten years older, not such a division in years at thirty-two, but it would have been something of a chasm at the age of nineteen or twenty, especially when the past offered more in the way of excitement than the day-to-day round of life in a maturing marriage.
Maisie knew where Celia shopped for clothes, where she took afternoon tea, even of her interest in needlework. Maisie also observed her comfort in solitude, and wondered how such a solitary soul could build a bridge to another. Did the Davenham marriage endure behind a veil of courtesy? The mundane communication that one would accord an acquaintance met on the street, but the formality of which could stifle the bond of affection between man and wife? It was evident that only one person could answer certain questions, and that was Celia Davenham herself. Maisie carefully replaced the pages in the file, placed it in her desk drawer, pushed back her chair, and made ready to leave her office.
A sharp knock at the door was followed by Billy Beale’s freckled face and shock of wheaten hair, topped by a flat cap, poked around the dark wood doorjamb.
“Good afternoon to you, Miss Dobbs. ’Ow’s business? Don’t seem to ’ave seen much of you lately, though I ’eard that you’d ’elped old Mrs. Scott get something out of that thieving son of ’ers. Thought I’d pop me ’ead in to see if you need anything done in the way of ’andi-work in the office ’ere.”
“Billy, yes, Mrs. Scott is a client. But you know better than to expect a comment from me, don’t you?”
“Miss Dobbs, you’re spot-on right there. But you can’t stop folk talking about your business, ’specially when you’ve ’elped them. People round ’ere don’t miss a trick, and we’ve got memories like elephants into the bargain!”
“Have you now, Billy? In that case, perhaps you can tell me if you know someone I think you might have heard of.”
“Fire away!”
“Confidential, Billy.”
“Nod’s as good as a wink . . .” Billy tapped the side of his nose to emphasize the integrity of any information he might receive—he could keep a secret.
“Vincent Weathershaw. Captain. Know him?” asked Maisie.
“Weathershaw. Weathershaw. Now that name rings a bell. Let me think.”
Billy took off his cap and scratched at his golden hair.
“You know, ’ere’s what it is—I’ve ’eard about ’im. Never actually took an order from the man, but ’eard about ’im. By reputation, like.”
“What sort of reputation?” quizzed Maisie.
“If I remember rightly, a bit devil-may-care. Mind you, you saw it a lot. Some of them got so as they couldn’t care less about their own lives. Like they were in it so long that the shelling didn’t scare them anymore. Poor sods. Some of them, the officers, that is, came out of their fancy schools and straight into the trenches.”
“Was he reckless?”
“If it’s the fella I’m thinking of, not reckless with ’is men. No, ’e was reckless with ’imself. Got so as ’e would just climb out of the bunker, no ’elmet, to go up and look around for the Kaiser’s boys. Reckon they were more surprised than us when they copped sight of ’im walking around without a care in the world.”
“Ever hear about him again, Billy?”
“Miss Dobbs, it’s not like I talk about it much. Best left behind. But you know that, don’t you? You saw enough, must’ve done.”
“Yes, I saw enough for this lifetime, Billy.”
Maisie buttoned her coat, secured her hat in place, and pulled on her gloves.
“But tell you what, Miss. I’ll ask around down the Prince of Wales, some of the lads might know something. This Weathershaw, he a client, like?”
“No, Billy. No, he’s not. He’s dead. Two years ago. See what you can find out, Billy.”
“Right you are, Miss,” replied Billy. Maisie ushered Billy out of the office and locked the door behind her as she left with him.
“It’s confidential, Billy. Just bring it into the conversation,” instructed Maisie.
“Yes, Miss. Don’t worry. Like I said when you moved in. Anything you want, you just ask Billy Beale.”
Maisie decided that a brisk walk to Piccadilly Circus would be just what she needed to clear her head for the next part of her task: information gathering, as Maurice would say.
Fortunately there had been several new clients since she had moved into the office in Warren Street. Christopher Davenham’s appearance had represented the beginning of a respectable stream of visitors. There were a couple of referrals from Lady Rowan’s solicitors, along with three of Maurice’s former clients who finally overcame any reticence they might have had about completely confiding in his former assistant, who happened to be a woman.
The work ranged from simple analysis of correspondence to reveal anomalies in funds paid to a company to a report on a “missing” daughter. As Maisie expected, there had not yet been the requests for assistance from government or from the legal or judicial services that Maurice had enjoyed, but she knew that such business would come in due course. She was qualified to consult on matters far beyond those that had come to her. Maurice had seen to that.
Maisie was now busy, and more to the point, had the money to research matters that presented themselves for investigation without initiation by an actual client. Unless you could call Vincent Weathershaw a client.
The restaurant at Fortnum & Mason’s was busy, but as she walked in and feigned interest in the menu, Maisie quickly scanned the room and immediately saw Celia Davenham sitting by a window. She was looking out at the rooftops as if in a dream, with her hands clasped around a cup of tea.
“May I have a seat by the window?” requested Maisie of the tall waiter with slicked-back, brilliantined hair who greeted her.
Taking the table next to Celia, Maisie deliberately sat facing the woman, although she did not look at her as she removed her gloves, placed them on top of her bag, and set the bag on the chair next to her. Maisie opened the menu and read down the list of dishes until she felt the woman’s eyes upon her, then she looked up, meeting Celia’s gaze. Maisie smiled. Her “planetary” smile, as Simon had once said. She quickly banished all thought of Simon; her concentration had to be on the job in hand.
“Hello,” said Maisie in greeting.“Such a lovely day today, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes it is,” responded Celia. She smiled at Maisie.“Forgive me . . . but, have we met?”
“You know, I must say, you look very familiar, but I . . . I can’t think where.” Maisie smiled again.
“Nether Green. I’ve seen you at Nether Green.” Color flushed Celia Davenham’s cheeks as she recognized Maisie.
“Why, yes, yes. Look, would you like to join me?” Maisie moved her bag and gloves from the seat next to her, an invitation to Celia Davenham.
A waiter quickly came to assist Celia, and placed her teacup, saucer, and place mat on Maisie’s table. The perfectly dressed woman sat down opposite Maisie, who held out her hand.
“Blanche. Maisie Blanche. How do you do.”
“Celia Davenham. I’m very well, thank you.”
For a while the two women talked of small matters. The price of flowers at the stall, the late arrival of trains this past winter. Before Celia could ask, Maisie offered the story of her visits to the cemetery.
> “Donald was a cousin. Not close, but family all the same. I thought that now I’m here in town, it would be easy to go out to Nether Green. One doesn’t like to forget, does one?”
“No. Absolutely. No. Not that I could,” replied Celia.
“Did you lose your brother?” asked Maisie.
“Yes, one of them. In the Dardanelles. The other was wounded. Seriously wounded.”
“I’m sorry. You were lucky to have your brother come home from the Dardanelles,” said Maisie, knowing that often brother fought alongside brother, which led to many a mother grieving the loss of not one child but two or three.
“Oh, no. No. My brother’s body was never found. He was listed missing. I visit the grave of my other brother’s friend. Vincent.” Celia fussed with her handkerchief.
“I see. Is your brother, your other brother, recovered?”
“Um. Yes, yes, in a way.”
Maisie held her head to one side in question but added,“Oh, this is such a difficult subject—”
“No, I mean, yes. Yes. But . . . well, he has scars. Vincent had scars too.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Yes. George, my brother who survived, is like Vincent. His face—”
Celia slowly moved her finely manicured hands and touched her cheek with delicate fingers. She flinched and tears filled her eyes. At that moment Maisie saw her chance for connection. A connection that was deeper than she would admit. She reached out and touched Celia lightly on the arm until the other woman’s eyes met hers. Maisie nodded her understanding.
“I was a nurse,” said Maisie, her voice lowered, not to avoid being heard but to draw Celia toward her.“In France. When I returned from France I nursed again in a secure mental hospital. I understand the wounds, Mrs. Davenham. Those of the body—and of the soul.”
Celia Davenham took Maisie’s hand. And at that moment Maisie knew she was in the woman’s confidence, that she was trusted. Maisie had anticipated that it would take no longer than the twenty minutes that the women had sat together at the same table. Such was Celia’s hunger for connection to someone who understood. And the depth of Maisie Dobbs’s understanding of her situation was greater than Celia Davenham could possibly imagine.
Celia Davenham sat for a moment before speaking again. Wave upon wave of grief seemed to break across her heart with such force that she made a fist with one hand, and gripped Maisie’s offered hand of understanding with the other. A waiter coming toward the table to inquire if more tea was required stopped suddenly and moved away, as if repelled by the force of her emotion.
Maisie closed her eyes, concentrating her calming energy on the woman who sat opposite her. The moment passed, and Maisie opened her eyes to observe Celia relax her shoulders, arms, and the tight grasp on her hand. But she did not let go.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, Mrs. Davenham. Don’t be. Take some tea.”
Keeping Maisie’s hand in hers, the woman took the cup in her other hand and, shaking, lifted it to her lips to sip the still-hot tea. The two women sat in silence for several more minutes until Maisie spoke again.
“Tell me about Vincent, Mrs. Davenham.”
Celia Davenham placed the fine bone china cup in its saucer, took a deep breath, and began to tell her story.
“I fell in love with Vincent—oh, dear me—it must have been when I was about twelve. I was just a girl. He came to the house with my brother George. It was my brother Malcolm who died. George was the oldest. Vincent was one of those people who could make anyone laugh—even my parents, who were very stiff indeed. It was as if the sun shone upon Vincent and everyone felt compelled to look at him, just to warm themselves.”
“Yes, I have known such people. I expect he was quite the charmer,” said Maisie.
“Oh yes, quite the charmer. But he didn’t realize it. He just went through his life bringing out the best in people. So, he was definitely officer caliber. His men would have followed him to death’s door.”
“And no doubt beyond.”
“Yes. And beyond. Apparently when he wrote to the parents or wives of men who had fallen, he always mentioned some small detail about them—a joke they had told, an act of courage, a special effort made. He didn’t just say,‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but . . . .’He cared.”
Celia took up her cup again, keeping one hand on Maisie’s. Maisie, for her part, made no move to withdraw, realizing the strength her touch gave the other woman. She moved only to pour more tea and to bring her own cup to her lips.
Occasionally she would look out of the window, and as dusk drew in saw the reflection of Celia Davenham in the windowpane as she told her story. In this way Maisie observed her as an onlooker might, rather than as a confidante. As Celia spoke, releasing the weight of hoarded memory, she seemed to gain strength. She sat straighter. Celia was an attractive woman, and in the reflected scene, Maisie saw the faces of other people in the tearoom occasionally looking toward them, drawn to a conversation they could not overhear but could not help observe.
Maisie knew well, more than the onlookers, that they were drawn by the power of revelation. They were witnesses to the unfolding of Celia Davenham’s story, to the unburdening of her soul, though they might not be aware of it. And she knew that once outside, wrapping a scarf around a neck to shield it from the biting wind, or holding on to a hat, a woman might say to her companion, “Did you see that woman, by the window, the well-dressed one?” and her companion would nod and they would speak for a while of what might have been said by the woman near the window to the woman who allowed her hand to be held so tightly. And the picture of Celia Davenham squaring her shoulders to tell her story would come back to them on occasion, especially when they were sad and looking for the answer to a question of the heart.
Celia Davenham paused, as if to summon the fortitude to continue. Maisie waited, then asked,“Tell me what happened to Vincent.”
“It was at Passchendaele.”
“Ah yes. I know. . . .”
“Yes, I think we all know now. So many—”
“—and Vincent?”
“Yes, although some might believe him to be lucky. He came home.”
Celia stopped again, closed her eyes, then continued. “I try, sometimes, to remember his face before. When it was complete. But I can’t. I feel awful, that I can only remember the scars. I try at night to close my eyes and see him, but I can’t. I can see George, of course; his injuries weren’t so bad. But I can’t think of exactly how he was before the war either.”
“Yes, it must be very hard.”
“There was something about Vincent, his enthusiasm for life, that turned into something else, as if it had another side. His company came under intense enemy fire. Vincent was hit in the face by shrapnel. It is a miracle he lived. George lost an ear and has scars on the side of his face, which you would think were unbearable but seem light compared to Vincent’s.”
Maisie looked at the woman, whose grip had relaxed as she told Vincent’s story. Celia was exhausted. Maurice had counseled her, in the early days of her apprenticeship, when she was the silent observer as he listened to a story, gently prodding with a question, a comment, a sigh, or a smile, “The story takes up space as a knot in a piece of wood. If the knot is removed, a hole remains. We must ask ourselves, how will this hole that we have opened be filled? The hole, Maisie, is our responsibility.”
“Mrs. Davenham, you must be tired. Shall we meet again another day?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss Blanche, do let’s meet.”
“Perhaps we might walk in Hyde Park, or St. James’s; the lake is so lovely at this time of year.”
The women made arrangements to meet the following week, for tea at the Ritz, then a stroll through Green Park to St. James’s. But before they parted, Maisie suggested,“Mrs. Davenham, you probably have to rush home soon, but I wonder. Liberty has some lovely new fabrics, just arrived from India. Would you come with me to look at them?”
“Why
, I’d love to.”
Later, when Celia Davenham reflected upon her day, she was surprised. For though she still felt sadness, the memory she reflected upon most was that of huge bolts of fabric being moved around at her behest by willing assistants who could sense in her the interest that led to a purchase. With an enthusiastic flourish, yards of vibrant purples, yellows, pinks, and reds of Indian silk were pulled out, to be rubbed between finger and thumb, and held against her face in front of the mirror. And she thought of the person she knew as Maisie Blanche, who suddenly but quietly had to take her leave, allowing her to indulge her love of texture and color for far longer than she had intended. Thus a day that had seen so many tears ended in the midst of a rainbow.
CHAPTER SIX
Maisie made her way back to her office. It was dark by now, and although she was gasping for a cup of tea much stronger than the light Darjeeling served at Fortnum & Mason’s, she needed to work. She reflected upon the Davenham story, knowing only too well that there was a lot more to elicit. But by leaving much of the story untold, Maisie allowed the door to remain open. Instead of being exhausted by her own revelations and memories, Celia Davenham was being helped to shed her burden gradually, and Maisie was her guide.
Jack Barker greeted Maisie outside Warren Street station, doffed his cap and bid her good evening.
“Miss Dobbs, and a good evenin’ to you. My, you are a sight for sore eyes at the end of the day.”
“Mr. Barker, thank you, although I am sure I’ll be better when I get a cup of tea inside me.”
“You should get that Billy to make you a cuppa. Does too much jawing of a working day, that one. Do you know, I ’ave to tell him sometimes that I’m busy and can’t keep puttin’ the world to rights with ’im.”
Maisie grinned, knowing by now that Jack Barker could talk the hind leg off a donkey, and that the same complaint about Jack was likely to come from Billy Beale.