Maisie Dobbs

  The man took a few more steps in silence, then nodded.

  “Shall we go back to the office?” Maisie asked, her head to one side.

  Davenham nodded again. Maisie allowed him his thoughts, allowed him the room that he needed in which to take her words to heart. If she persisted, he might become defensive. And this was a door that needed to remain open. For there was something about the experience with Celia Davenham that nagged at Maisie. She didn’t yet know what it was, but she was confident that it would speak to her. Maurice Blanche maintained that amid the tales, the smokescreens, and the deceptive mirrors of life’s unsolved mysteries, truth resides, waiting for someone to enter its sanctum, then leave, without quite closing the door behind them. That is when truth may make its escape. And Maisie had ensured that the door was left open when she last saw Celia.

  It was Maisie’s intention that Thursday’s meeting would reveal what she needed to know about Vincent’s passing, about the mystery of the single name on his headstone, and what had occupied his time between the end of the war and his death. She wanted her next meeting with Celia to reveal Vincent’s whereabouts just prior to, and at the time of, his death.

  Maisie felt that she understood much about the relationship between Celia and Vincent. Their love had been more of a youthful infatuation—Celia had admitted as much herself—and in going forward with marriage to Christopher Davenham, she had tried to bury her feelings for Vincent at a time when emotions were running high throughout the country. But the ordinary rituals of marriage to the seemingly bland Christopher Davenham could not erase the memory of Vincent, the hero of her imagination, the handsome, fearless knight she might have married. Maisie believed that, to Vincent, Celia had remained simply the younger sister of a dear friend. Yet it was among the friends of one’s brothers that so many young women found suitable partners.

  Maisie met Celia Davenham at the Ritz for afternoon tea on Thursday, as arranged. As she made her way from the main doors of the Piccadilly entrance to join Celia, Maisie caught her breath when she saw the heavy marble columns at either side of the Winter Garden ahead. She walked toward the steps leading up into the venue for tea, and felt soothed by the warm shafts of light that entered through the windows at either end of the room. For a minute she allowed herself not to consider the expense of the expedition. The opulent grandeur of the Winter Garden, designed to resemble a French pavilion, with decorated cornices and a skylight that allowed soft natural light to bathe the room, almost took Maisie’s breath away. With perfect white damask tablecloths, shining silver cutlery, and voluminous swags of fabric hung around the windows, the Winter Garden might not have encouraged intimate conversation between the two women, but the surrounding mirrored panels, and calming presence of water in the golden mermaid sculpture, brought a certan serenity to the room. Instead, with the delicate sound of Royal Doulton china clinking in the background, as cups were replaced on saucers, talk between the two women was light, skimming over the surface of confidence like a fly buzzing over a tranquil millpond.

  Maisie touched each side of her lips with her table napkin, and placed it at the side of her plate. “I think it’s time for that walk, Mrs. Davenham. Such a lovely day, one feels as if summer is almost here.” She reached for her handbag and gloves.

  “Oh yes, indeed. Let’s walk . . . and please, do call me ‘Celia.’ I feel as if we know each other so very well now.” Celia Cavendish inclined her head in invitation.

  “Thank you, Celia. It does seem as if the time for such formality has passed, so I expect you, in turn, to use my Christian name.”

  With the bill settled, waiters hurried to pull back chairs for the women, their deep bows signaling the exit of a well-satisfied customer, and that the table must be cleared and prepared for the next duo of well-heeled ladies. Maisie and Celia left the Ritz and entered Green Park.

  “It’s so lovely here—the daffodils are pretty, but they’re late this year, aren’t they?”

  “Indeed they are.”

  “Maisie, the fabrics at Liberty were simply gorgeous, almost overwhelming, as always. I have to confess, I bought three yards of the most exquisite sheer lilac silk.”

  “Good for you. How very clever of you to be able to sew.”

  “I learned from one of our maids who was an absolute whiz with the needle. Mummy insisted upon such drab colors and styles—it was the only way for me to avoid looking like a dowdy schoolmistress. Of course, during the war it wasn’t as easy to get fabric, but remember there was the passion for all things Indian, wasn’t there?”

  Maisie nodded, remembering the demand for goods from the Indian subcontinent after the Gurkha regiments joined British forces in France. She remembered Khan, laughing as he told her about the invitations he was suddenly receiving from the very best houses, simply to have the presence of one who seemed, in the eyes of hostesses of the day who were not always clear about the geography of the Indian subcontinent, to be an ambassador for the legion of small, hearty, fearless Nepalese men fighting alongside the regular British soldiers.

  There was a comfortable silence as Maisie and Celia made their way along Queen’s Walk toward St. James’s Park. Strolling alongside St. James’s Park lake, they commented that it would have been a good idea to save some pieces of bread to feed the swans, and laughed together at an anxious nanny running in pursuit of a pair of mischievous children toddling on chubby legs toward a pair of mallards. Yet as she brought her step into line with that of her companion, and held her shoulders, arms, and hands as if she were her shadow, Maisie felt once again the melancholy that gripped Celia. But Maisie also knew that Celia would soon confide in her as she had when they last met, for her feelings for Vincent had been dammed inside her, and having been once unleashed, demanded to be heard.

  “It was 1917 when Vincent came back to England. He was admitted immediately to hospital, for his wounds were so, so . . . .”

  Celia put her hand to her face again, searching for a word to describe Vincent’s wounds that would reflect her newfound bravery in telling the tale.

  “Utterly devastating, Maisie. I could hardly recognize him when I visited. I had to beg my brother to take me with him—George had arrived home some time before Vincent, as his injuries were not as severe. Vincent wore a linen mask and only removed it when I assured him that I would not flinch.”

  “Go on,” encouraged Maisie.

  “But I couldn’t contain myself. I burst into tears and rushed from the room. My brother was furious. Yet Vincent wasn’t angry with me. But he was angry at everything else.”

  “Many men were angry when they returned, Celia. Vincent had a right to his anger.”

  Celia stopped in her walk, shielded her eyes from the sun, which was now late-afternoon low in the sky, then looked again at Maisie.

  “That was when he said that he wanted to be just ‘Vincent.’ He said that as far as Britain was concerned, he was just a piece of meat anyway, he might as well buck the whole system. He said he’d lost his face, so he could be whomever he wanted to be. Except he wasn’t quite as polite as that.”

  “Indeed. Do you know what happened in France? To Vincent?”

  “I know, mainly from my brother, that something happened— more than being wounded. I believe there was some . . . discord. With his commanding officers.”

  “What happened when Vincent was discharged from hospital?”

  “Convalescence. By the sea, in Whitstable. The army took over one of the large hotels. Vincent wanted to write about his experiences in France. He was very upset. But each time we sent him a quantity of paper, it was taken away from him. The doctors said that writing distressed him. My brother was furious. He gave Vincent a typewriter, which was confiscated and returned. Vincent maintained he was being silenced, but said he was determined to speak before the war was long gone and no one wanted to know anymore.”

  “The poor man.”

  “Then I met Christopher. A very solid man. Of course, he hadn’t gone to Franc
e. I have to admit I never really found out why. I believe his business protected him from conscription. I seemed to go forward into marriage with a numbness in my mind. But I’d lost one brother, and of course Vincent was deeply, deeply injured. Christopher was a port in the storm. And he is, of course, so very good to me.”

  “What happened to your friend Vincent after the war, Celia? It seemed that he died some time later.”

  “Yes, he died only a few years ago. He returned to his parents’ home, but as he was terribly disfigured, he became a recluse. Oh, people tried to get him out of the house socially, but he would sit in the drawing room, looking out the window, or reading, or writing in his diary. He worked from home after a while—for a small publishing house, somewhere not far from here, I think.”

  Celia rubbed her forehead as if pressure would squeeze memories into the present moment.

  “He read manuscripts, wrote reports. He had obtained the connection through his uncle’s business contacts. Very occasionally he would have someone drive him to the office, to discuss something. He’d had a mask made, of sorts, out of that very fine tin. It was painted in a glaze that matched the color of his skin. And he wore a scarf which he bundled around his neck and lower jaw—well, where his lower jaw used to be. Oh, poor, poor Vincent!”

  Celia began to cry. Maisie stopped walking and simply stood next to her, but made no move to console by placing a hand on Celia’s shoulder or a comforting arm around her.

  “Allow grief room to air itself,” Maurice had taught her.“Be judicious in using the body to comfort another, for you may extinguish the freedom that the person feels to be able to share a sadness.”

  She had learned, with Maurice Blanche as a teacher, respect for the telling of a person’s history.

  Maisie allowed some time to pass, then took Celia’s elbow and gently led her to a park bench, set among a golden display of daffodils nodding sunny heads in the late-afternoon breeze.

  “Thank you. Thank you for listening.”

  “I understand, Celia,” replied Maisie.

  As Maisie imagined Vincent’s brutal disfigurement, she shuddered, recollecting the time she had spent in France, and the images that would remain with her forever, of men who had fought so bravely. She thought, too, of those men who had cheated death, only to struggle with the legacy of their injuries. And, in that moment, she remembered Simon, the gifted doctor who was himself a soldier in the struggle to tear lives free from the bloody clutches of war.

  Maisie was brought back from the depths of her own memories by Celia, who was ready to continue her story.

  “It was a bit of luck, really, that one of the patients he had been in hospital with remembered him. I wish I could recall his name. He had returned to France for a time after the war and saw that men with facial disfigurement were looked after in a different way. They were brought together for holidays, taken to the country to camps where they could live together for a while without having to worry about people drawing away—after all, they all had wounds. And, I suppose, more importantly, the public didn’t have to look at them. Terrible, isn’t it? Anyway, this man came back to England and wanted to get the same sort of thing going here.”

  Celia Davenham looked around her and briefly closed her eyes in the warmth of the waning spring sunshine.

  “He bought a farm that was on the market, then got in touch with the men he had met while recovering from his own wounds. According to Vincent, he—heavens, what was his name? Anyway, this man had been deeply affected by the war in a way that made him want to do something for those with disfiguring wounds. Vincent was a strong supporter of the idea. It gave him an energy I certainly hadn’t seen since before the war. In fact, the man was rather taken with Vincent’s stubborn refusal to be known by anything but his first name. So Vincent went to live at The Retreat.”

  “Was that what it was called? The Retreat?”

  “Yes. I think it was Vincent’s idea. The name. There was a connection to ‘Beating The Retreat,’ I think, in that they were withdrawing from society, which for many of them had become the enemy. Vincent said that it commemorated each man who died in France, and every man brought home to live with injuries. He said that it was for all those who suffered and should have had a place to go back to, when there never was one.”

  “Did he remain there, at The Retreat?”

  “Yes, he did. He became very reclusive. My brother would visit occasionally. Of course, by then I was married to Christopher, so I did not visit. I wanted to, though. In fact, I have considered making the journey, since Vincent died. Just to see where—”

  “He died at The Retreat?”

  “Yes. I’m not really sure what happened. My brother was told by Vincent’s people that he slipped and fell by the stream. Breathing was difficult for him anyway, due to his injuries, but perhaps he hit his head. His parents have passed on now. I think they didn’t really ask questions. Everyone agreed that it was a terrible accident, but it might have been a release for him.”

  “Did The Retreat close?”

  “Oh no. It’s still very much open. The farmhouse has been converted so that the residents each have a room, and specialist craftsmen were employed to work on the outbuildings, so that they could also be used for accommodation. I understand that new residents are welcomed. They are all men who have suffered injury of some kind during the war, and need a place to go.”

  “How does this man who set up The Retreat pay for everyone?”

  “Oh, they pay. Resources are pooled. Christopher thought it was all very odd in that respect. But, you understand, Christopher would think that. He’s very careful with money. Vincent gave Adam—that’s it, Adam Jenkins, his name is Adam Jenkins—Vincent gave Adam Jenkins control of his finances when he decided to become a resident rather than a short-term visitor. The residents work on the farm as well, so it’s still a going concern.”

  “Well, well, well. Vincent must have had tremendous respect for this man, Adam Jenkins.”

  The two women had started walking back towards the north entrance of St. James’s Park. Celia looked at her watch.

  “Oh my goodness! I must hurry. Christopher is taking me to the theater this evening. It’s quite amazing, you know. He’s always been such a stick-in-the-mud, but now he’s planning all sorts of outings. I love the theater. I thought I would never go again when I married Christopher, but he’s suddenly become quite agreeable to an evening out.”

  “How lovely! I must dash too, Celia. But before you go, could you tell me where The Retreat is? I have a friend who may be interested to know about it.”

  “It’s in Kent. Near Sevenoaks, that area. In fact, it’s not too far from Nether Green. Good-bye, Maisie—and here’s my card. Do call me again for tea. It was so lovely. I feel so very light after spending time with you, you know. Perhaps it’s being out here in the fresh air of the park today.”

  “Yes, perhaps it is. Have a lovely time at the theater, Celia.”

  The two women parted, but before making her way to the St. James’s Park underground station, Maisie walked back into the park to reconsider their conversation. She would probably not see Celia again.

  Vincent had died while living in a community of ex-soldiers, all of whom, initially, were facially disfigured in some way, although it seemed that the doors were now open to those who had other injuries. There was nothing untoward about the motives of Adam Jenkins, who seemed to want to help these men. It must cost a pretty penny to arrange care for the residents, but then again, resources were pooled, and they were self-sufficient and working on the farm. A farm called, ambiguously, The Retreat. Maisie considered the meanings of “retreat,” and wondered if the soldiers were, in fact, relinquishing their position, seeking a place of shelter from the enemy. For such men perhaps life itself was now the enemy.

  Maisie picked up the heavy black telephone and began to dial BEL 4746, the Belgravia home of Lord Julian Compton and his wife, Lady Rowan. There was a short delay, then Maisie heard
the telephone ring three times before being answered by Carter, the Compton’s long-serving butler. She checked her watch immediately the call was answered.

  “Compton residence.”

  “Hello, Mr. Carter. How are you?”

  “Maisie, what a pleasure. We are all well here, thank you, but not looking forward to Cook’s retirement, though it’s long overdue.”

  “And what about you, Mr. Carter?”

  “Now then, Maisie, as long as I can manage these stairs, I will be at the house. Her ladyship has been very anxious to speak with you, Maisie.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s why I’ve telephoned.”

  “Oh, well. . . . I should know better than to ask how you know, Maisie.”

  “Mr. Carter, that really doesn’t take a lot, does it? Lady Rowan is a terrier in disguise.”

  Carter laughed and connected the call to Lady Rowan, who was in the library reading the late-edition newspapers.

  “Maisie, dear girl. Where have you been? I thought you’d gone off somewhere.”

  “No, Lady Rowan. I’ve been busy.”

  “Excellent news. But you really must not be a stranger to us. Are you sure that you wouldn’t like to move into the upstairs apartments? I know I keep asking, but this is such a big house now. It never used to seem this big. Perhaps I’m getting smaller. They say that about age.”

  “No, Lady Rowan. Not you. Shall I come to see you this week?”

  “Yes. Definitely. Come tomorrow. And I insist that you have dinner with me, and that you stay. I simply cannot have you traveling on your own after dark, and I know that you will refuse any offer to drive you home.”

  “Yes, Lady Rowan. I’ll stay—but just for one night. Is everything all right?”

  There was a silence on the line.

  “Lady Rowan, is everything all right?”

  “I want to talk to you about James. I thought you might have some advice for a poor misunderstood mother.”

  “Lady Rowan—”