Maisie Dobbs

  “Well, Billy’s a good ’un, isn’t he, Mr. Barker?”

  “’E is that. Amazing how fast ’e can move with that leg. You should see ’im sometimes, running ’ere and there, ‘dot and carry one’ with that leg. Poor sod. But at least we got ’im back ’ere, didn’t we?”

  Maisie agreed.“Indeed, Mr. Barker, at least he came home. I’d best be on my way, so I’ll bid you good evening. Any reason to buy the latest edition before I rush off?”

  “All bloomin’ bad if you ask me. Threadneedle Street and the City in a rare two-an’-eight. They’re talking about a slump.”

  “I’ll leave it then, Mr. Barker. Goodnight.”

  Maisie turned into Warren Street, walking behind two women students from the Slade School of Art, who were making their way back to lodgings nearby. Each carried an artist’s portfolio under one arm, and giggled as the other recounted her part of a story about another woman. They stopped to speak to a group of young men who were just about to enter the Prince of Wales pub, then decided to join them. They pushed past a woman dressed in black, who had been standing outside the pub smoking a cigarette. She shouted at them to look out, but her warning was met with more giggles from the students. She was soon joined by a man, who Maisie suspected already had a wife at home, for he betrayed himself by quickly looking up and down the street before taking the woman by the arm and hurrying her inside the pub.

  “It takes all sorts,” said Maisie in a low voice as she passed, and continued on down Warren Street to her office.

  Maisie opened the door that led to the dark stairwell, and as she went to turn on the dim light to see her way up the stairs, the light over the upper stairwell went on and Billy Beale called out.

  “’S only me, Miss. See your way up?”

  “Billy, you should be knocking off work by now, surely.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got some more news for you. ’Bout that fella you was askin’ about. Weathershaw. Thought I’d ’ang about in case I don’t see you tomorrow.”

  “That’s kind, Billy. Let’s put the kettle on.”

  Maisie led the way into her office, turned on the light, and went to put the kettle on the small stove.

  “And that telephone has been ringing its ’ead off today. What you need is someone to help you out, Miss, to write down messages, like.”

  “My telephone was ringing?”

  “Well, that’s what it’s there for, innit?”

  “Yes, of course. But it doesn’t ring very often. I tend to receive messages via the postman or personal messenger. I wonder who it was?”

  “Someone with an ’ead of steam, the way it was ringing. I was working on the boiler, making a fair bit of noise meself, and every now and again, there it went again. I came up a couple of times, t’see if I could answer it for you, but it stopped its nagging just as I got outside the door—I c’n use me master key in an emergency, like. I tell ya, I nearly got me kit and put in a line so that I could answer it downstairs meself.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Remember, Miss, I was a sapper. Let me tell you, if I could run a line in the pourin’ rain and on me ’ands and knees in the mud—and get the brass talkin’ to each other while the ’un’s trying to knock me block off as I was about it—I can bloomin’ well do a thing or two with your line.”

  “Is that so, Billy? I’ll have to remember that. In the meantime, whoever wants to speak to me will find a way. Now then, what do you have to tell me?”

  “Well, I was askin’ round some of me old mates, about that Vincent Weathershaw bloke. Turns out one of the fellas knew someone, who knew someone else, you know, who told them that ’e wasn’t quite all there after one of the big shows.”

  Billy Beale tapped the side of his forehead, and Maisie inclined her head for him to continue.

  “Lost a lot of men, ’e did. Apparently never forgave ’imself. Took it all upon ’is shoulders, as if ’e was the one that killed them. But what I also ’eard was that some funny stuff went on between ’im and the big brass. Now, this is all very shaky, but . . . .”

  “Go on, Billy,” Maisie urged.

  “Well, Miss, you know, if truth be told, we were all plain scared ’alf the bloomin’ time.”

  “Yes, I know, Billy.”

  “O’ course you do, Miss. You know, don’t you? Blimey, when I think of what you nurses must’ve seen . . . anyway, if the truth be told, we was all scared. You didn’t know when you were going to get it.

  But some of ’em. . . .”

  Billy stopped, turned away from Maisie, and took the red kerchief from his neck and wiped his eyes.

  “Gawd—sorry, Miss. Don’t know what came over me.”

  “Billy. It can wait. Whatever you have to tell me. It can wait. Let me pour that tea.”

  Maisie went to the stove, poured boiling water from the kettle onto the tea leaves in the brown earthenware teapot, and allowed it to steep. She took two large tin mugs from the shelf above the stove, stirred the tea in the pot, then poured tea for them both, with plenty of sugar and a splash of milk. Since her time in France, Maisie had preferred an army-issue tin mug for her private teatimes, for the warmth that radiated from the mug to her hands and to the rest of her body.

  “There you are, Billy. Now then . . .”

  “Well, as you know, Miss, there were a lot of lads ’o enlisted that were too young. Boys tryin’ to be men, and blimey, the rest of us weren’t much more than boys ourselves. And you’d see ’em, white as sheets when that whistle blew to go over the top. Mind you, we was all as white as sheets. I was barely eighteen meself.”

  Billy sipped his tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “We’d ’ave to get ’em under the arms, shove ’em over, and ’ope that the push would get ’em through. And sometimes one of ’em didn’t make it over.”

  Billy’s eyes misted over again, and he wiped them with the red kerchief.

  “And when that ’appened, when a boy was paralyzed with fear, like, ’e could be reported for cowardice. If ’e’d been seen afterwards, not ’avin’ gone over with the rest of his mates, the brass didn’t ask too many questions, did they? No, the poor sod’s on a charge and that’s it! So we ’ad to look out for each other, didn’t we?”

  Drawing the red cloth across his brow, the young man continued his story for Maisie.

  “Court-martialed, they were. And you know what ’appened to a lot of ’em, don’t you? Shot. Even if some of ’em weren’t quite so innocent, villains getting up to no good when they should’ve been on the line, it ain’t the way to go, is it? Not shot by their own. Bloody marvelous, ain’t it? You pray your ’ead off that the Kaiser’s boys don’t get you, then it’s your own that do!”

  Maisie allowed silence to envelop them and held the steaming mug to her lips. This was no new story. Only the storyteller was new to her. Happy-go-lucky Billy Beale.

  “Well, this Vincent Weathershaw, as far as the brass were concerned, was a soft one with ’is men. Said it was enough with the trenches and shells killing ’em without their own ’avin’ it in for ’em. Apparently they wanted to ’arden this Weathershaw up a bit. I don’t know the ’ole story, nowhere near, but from what I’ve been told, ’e was commanded to do a few things ’e didn’t want to. Refused. There was talk of strip-pin’ ’im of ’is commission. The word is that no one quite knows what ’appened, but apparently, it was after these rumors went about, that ’e sort of lost ’is ’ead and started to do all that daft business, walkin’ around without the ’elmet on in front of the other lot. Then, o’ course, they got ’im—at Wipers—Passchendaele. Not far from where I copped it, really, but it seemed like ’undreds of miles at the time.”

  Maisie smiled, but it was a sad, reflective smile as she remembered how men made easy work of pronouncing “Ypres,” referring to it as “Wipers.”

  “Mind you, they didn’t get me coming out of a trench and over the top. No, it was all that business at Messines, not knowing whether the other lot were i
n the trench next door, or below us, and not knowin’ whether the buggers—pardon me language, Miss—but not knowin’ where they’d laid mines. Us sappers ’ad our work cut out for us there.”

  Billy lowered his head, swirled dregs of tea to soak up sugar at the bottom of his mug, and closed his eyes as memories pushed through into the present.

  Maisie and Billy Beale sat in silence. Maisie, as she so often did nowadays, remembered Maurice and his teaching:

  “Never follow a story with a question, Maisie, not immediately. And remember to acknowledge the storyteller, for in some way even the messenger is affected by the story he brings.”

  She waited a few more minutes, watching Billy sip his tea, lost in his memories as he looked out over the rooftops.

  “Billy, thank you for finding this out for me. You must have worked hard to track the details down.”

  Billy lifted the mug of tea to his lips.

  “Like I said, Miss—you need anything doing, Billy Beale’s your man.”

  Maisie allowed more time to pass, and even wrote some notes in her file, in front of Billy, to underline the importance of his report.

  “Well, Billy,” said Maisie, closing the file and placing it back on the desk, “I hope you don’t mind me changing the subject, but there is one thing. No rush, in your own time.”

  “You name it, Miss.”

  “Billy, I really need to have this room painted or wallpapered. It’s as drab as yesterday’s black pudding and needs a bit of cheering up. I noticed that on the ground floor you did such a nice job with Miss Finch’s room—the door was open as I came through one day and I looked in—it was so bright and cheerful. What do you think?”

  “I’ll jump right to it, Miss. I’ll put my mind to the colors on the way ’ome, and tomorrow I’ll go by me mate’s place—painter and decorator, ’e is—and see what ’e’s got in the way of paints.”

  “That’ll be lovely, Billy. And, Billy—thank you very much.”

  And so another storyteller fell asleep that night thinking not of the telling of the story but of the possibilities inherent in color and texture. But for Maisie, there was a different end to the day. She made notes in her file, simply named “Vincent,” and started to sketch a diagram, with names and places linked.

  Maisie Dobbs was even more convinced that her instinct had not betrayed her, that Vincent’s death was simply one thread in an intricate web that led to no good. She knew that it would not be long before she discovered what connected the bright thread that was Vincent to the other boys who were buried with only one name at Nether Green Cemetery. And it was her intention that the next meeting with Celia Davenham would reveal how Vincent had spent the time since the war, and his exact location at his death.

  More important, Maisie wanted an explanation as to why he was simply “Vincent.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Maisie sat back in the wooden office chair and brought her knees up to her chest so that her heels rested on the edge of the seat. She had slipped off her shoes an hour or so ago, to put on the thick bed socks that she kept in her desk drawer. Maisie leafed through her report to Christopher Davenham and wondered how she might best advise him. It was at times like this that she missed the counsel of Maurice Blanche. The relationship between teacher and pupil was an easy one. She had opened her mind to learning his craft, and he had passed on to her the knowledge gleaned in a lifetime of work in what he referred to as “the forensic science of the whole person.” Although he could still be consulted, Maisie knew that now that he had retired, it was his intention for her to make her way in the world alone.

  She could hear his voice now: “Remember basics, Maisie, dear. Whenever you are stuck, go back to our earliest conversations. And remember connections, that there are always connections.”

  Now Maisie had to decide how far she should go in her report to Christopher Davenham. The man simply wanted to know where his wife was going and if another man was involved. Any information over and above what he had requested would not be necessary. Maisie thought for one more moment, put her feet back on the floor, placed the file on the table in front of her, and stood up.

  “No, that’s enough.” She said to the empty room.

  “Do sit down, Mr. Davenham.” Maisie’s chilled feet were now smartly clad in leather shoes.

  “You have a report for me, Miss Dobbs?”

  “Yes, of course. But first, Mr. Davenham, I must ask you some questions.”

  “Haven’t you already asked enough? I would have thought my purpose for coming here was clear. I seek information, Miss Dobbs, and if you are half as good as your reputation, you will have that information.”

  “Yes, I do. But I would like us to discuss openly how you might use this information once you have it.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, Miss Dobbs.”

  Maisie opened the file, took out a blank sheet of paper that had previously covered her extensive notes, closed the file, and placed the paper on top. It was a technique learned from Maurice, which had proved to be most useful: The blank sheet of paper represented the future, an empty page that could be filled as the observer chose. Pages of notes brought out during conversation were a distraction, so a written report was given only at the end of meeting.“Mr. Davenham, if there were no other man, no reason for you to suspect that your wife’s affections lay elsewhere, what would you do?”

  “Well, nothing. If there’s no reason for my suspicions, then she’s in the clear. There would be no problem to do anything about.”

  “I see. Mr. Davenham, this is a delicate situation. Before I proceed, I must ask for you to make a commitment to me—”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “A commitment to your marriage, actually. A commitment, perhaps, to your wife’s well-being and to your future.”

  Christopher Davenham stirred uneasily in his chair and folded his arms.

  “Mr. Davenham,” said Maisie, looking out of the window, “it’s a very fine day now, don’t you think? Let’s walk around Fitzroy Square. We will be at liberty to speak freely and also enjoy something of the day.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Maisie rose from her chair, took her coat from the stand, and passed it to Christopher Davenham who, being a gentleman, stifled his annoyance, took the coat, and held it out for Maisie. Placing her hat upon her head and securing it with a pearl hatpin, Maisie smiled up at him.“A walk will be lovely.”

  She strolled with Davenham along Warren Street, then turned left at Conway Street into Fitzroy Square. The sun had broken through the morning’s gray clouds, and there was a promise of warmer weather to come. The walk was by no means an idle suggestion. Maisie had learned from Maurice Blanche the importance of keeping the client open to whatever was being reported or suggested. “Sitting in a chair gives too much opportunity to retreat into the self,” Blanche had said. “Keep the person moving, in the way that an artist keeps the oil moving when he is painting. Don’t give them a chance to dry up; don’t allow the client to shut you out.”

  “Mr. Davenham, I have decided to give you my report and my recommendations. I say ‘recommendations’ because I believe you are a man of compassion.”

  Davenham maintained an even pace. Good, thought Maisie. She matched his stride, keenly observing the position of his arms, the way he held his head forward and tilted back slightly, as if sniffing the air for a predator. He’s terrified, thought Maisie, feeling fear rise up as she began to imitate his manner of walking and carriage. She closed her eyes for just a few seconds to be clear about the feelings now seeping through her body, and thought: He’s afraid to give, for fear of losing.

  She had to be quick to banish the fear.

  “Mr. Davenham, you are not being deceived. Your wife is faithful.”

  The tall man breathed an audible sigh of relief.

  “But she does need your help.”

  “In what way, Miss Dobbs?”The tension that ebbed with her revelation had no chance to reclaim him before Mai
sie spoke again.

  “Like many young women, your wife lost someone she loved. In the war. The man was her first love, a puppy love. Had he lived, no doubt such an affection would have died with the onset of maturity. However—”

  “Who?”

  “A friend of her brother. His name was Vincent. It’s in my report. Mr. Davenham, may we slow down just a little, you see, my feet . . . .”

  “Of course, yes, I’m sorry.”

  Christopher Davenham settled into a more relaxed gait, to match Maisie, who had reduced her stride to allow him to consider her words.

  “Mr. Davenham, have you ever spoken with your wife about the war, about her brother, about her losses?”

  “No, never. I mean, I know the facts. But one just has to get on with it. After all, you can’t just give in, can you?”

  “And what about you, Mr. Davenham?

  “I didn’t serve. I have a printing company, Miss Dobbs. I was required by the government to keep the people informed.”

  “Did you want to serve?’

  “Does that matter?”

  “Perhaps it does, to your wife. Perhaps it matters to your wife to be able to discuss her past with you, for you to know—”

  “Your report will give me the facts, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Mr. Davenham, you may know the facts, but it isn’t a catalog of facts that is causing your wife’s melancholy. It is the storage of memories and of feelings. Do you understand?”

  The man was silent, as was Maisie. She knew she was out of bounds. But this was not new for her. She had spent much of her life out of bounds, living and speaking where, according to some, she had no business.

  “Allow the past to have a voice,” Maisie continued. “Then it will be stilled. It’s only then that your marriage will have a future, Mr. Davenham. And Mr. Davenham . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Just in case you were considering such a move, your wife does not need medication, and she does not need a doctor. Your wife needs you. When she has you, Vincent will be allowed to rest in peace.”