Having made a cup of tea, she fried cubes of chicken, chopped the vegetables, made a stock and brought the soup to a boil before lowering the flame to simmer. At that moment the doorbell rang. Sighing, she turned off the gas and ran to the door, wondering who might be calling on her.
“James—why didn’t you use your key?”
James Compton shrugged. “I didn’t feel I ought,” he explained. “Just in case you weren’t in the mood to see me after all. I thought I would leave it up to you whether you answered the door or not.”
“Oh, come in. Let’s not act as if we’ve only just met each other.” She looked up at him and took his hand in hers. “We might have had a row, James, and I spoke harshly, I know, and for that I am sorry—but let’s not harbor fear of each other.”
“Maisie, I believe that’s exactly what we’ve been doing.”
“Come on. Hang up your coat and hat. I’ve soup on the hot plate, a fresh loaf, and some very nice pâté.”
James smiled. “I wouldn’t want for more, at this moment.”
Maisie laid the table with a cloth and cutlery while James put out two glasses and poured from the bottle of wine he had brought with him. Soon they were seated, each with a bowl of soup and slices of toasted bread.
“Not much soup left in the saucepan, but I can make enough toast to plug a leaking ship if you’re really hungry.”
“This is plenty, Maisie.” James took a spoonful of soup. “I think I’ve made a terrible mess of everything. I shouldn’t have made such demands of you. I’ve no excuse, except perhaps that I’m at my wits end, Maisie, not knowing how we might go on together, how we might, well, make a life . . . or not, because I just don’t know what you want or what I want or if we want the same things, and . . . I feel I’m floundering, and I don’t want to do that anymore. I’ve done it before, after the war, and I don’t want to flop around like a fish out of water, and I had such hope . . .”
Maisie reached across the table to cover his hand with her own. “James, hush. We’re both at fault, and yet we are neither of us at fault. I feel dreadful about my behavior, and feel as if I have failed you in so many ways. But I have thought long and hard about our recent conversations, at those times when we’ve struggled for honesty—with ourselves as much as each other—and I believe we are both beginning to realize that at the moment we just want different things.”
“What do you want, Maisie?” He grasped her hand. “I would do anything for you.”
“I know, James. Truly, I know. I wish I could tell you what I want, but I have come to realize that I don’t really know. I know only what I don’t want.”
“Sort of like Oliver Cromwell.”
“Oliver Cromwell? James, you flummox me at times,” said Maisie.
“One of the few things I remember from that period in history—in fact, from any period in history. ‘I can tell you, sirs, what I would not have, though I cannot what I would.’ That’s Oliver Cromwell for you.”
“I wish I could say I was in good company, but wasn’t he rather a killjoy?”
James laughed, though it was not a happy laugh.
Maisie set down her spoon and lifted her wineglass to her lips, taking a sip and keeping the glass in her hand.
“Tell me about being a farmer, James. Tell me about the places in Canada that made you want to have land there.”
James sighed. “I suppose it was when I first went to Alberta, probably ten years ago, something like that. I had business there, and one of the men I met—he’d been born on a farm, and when I say farm, nothing we have here can compare to the sheer expanse available there—well, he’d found out I’d been in the Royal Flying Corps during the war and asked if I’d like to go up in his aeroplane. As you can imagine, I jumped at the chance, and on his part, I think he fancied himself as some sort of barnstormer.” James refilled both his and Maisie’s glasses. “But of course, I hadn’t been up since the war and it took my breath away. There I was, on a day filled with sunshine, looking out at fields upon fields of wheat as far as the eye could see, and I could not help but imagine—right here, in my mind, as if it were happening there and then—men fighting below me, the dreadful killing, as if they were thousands of ants warring with each other. Then it sort of faded, that memory, and I was left with the sun going down, splashed across the landscape like raw egg, and I felt calm again, soothed.” He sighed. “Oh, what a lot of rot. Listen to me rambling on.”
“James, you’re not rambling. I could see everything you described. I—I know this might sound strange, but I think you’ve found a place where you belong, and it probably explains why you’ve gravitated back to Canada so many times.”
“You could be right.”
“Then why don’t you do it, James? Go. Buy your farm. I am sure you can do something for the company while you’re there. Or perhaps not. Hand the running of the Compton Corporation over to that second cousin, or whatever he is.”
“I can’t just abdicate my responsibility, Maisie. What kind of man would do that? In any case, not only are those same prairies beset with problems at the moment—dust storms, locusts, an onslaught of biblical proportions—but I would want you at my side.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. Both sipped more wine, and then Maisie spoke again.
“James, I am sorry to tell you this, but I don’t think I can see myself as a farmer’s wife in Canada. Or England, or France, or anywhere else. But I will do all I can to help you when you’re certain of your path.”
“I know. That’s something I’m sure of, that you will help me if that’s what I choose.” He blew out his cheeks, a mannerism Maisie had come to regard with affection. “But can we be together until we both know what we’re doing?”
“Yes. Yes, I think we can. But let’s promise we’ll agree to part, as friends, and with respect, if and when one of us knows definitely.”
James raised his glass. “To us, then.”
“To us. And to raw-egg sunsets everywhere.”
They laughed as their glasses touched.
Chapter Thirteen
James was still sleeping when Maisie left the flat the following morning. They had talked long into the night and, as she reflected during her drive down to Brighton, a new intimacy had been forged between them, a pact that might not be understood by anyone else but which brought with it a mutual empathy that had perhaps not existed before. She wondered if either of them were harboring false hope that the end, when it came, would be without sadness; she suspected James might still be nurturing a faint glimmer of expectation that she might, after all, agree to become the wife of a man of commerce who would have preferred being a farmer. Oh, who knew what was going to happen in the world? She might change her mind next week and decide that fighting dust and locusts was all she’d ever wanted to do.
She arrived at the home of Mildred Taylor at ten o’clock. It was later than she had planned to arrive—she had been anxious to see Eddie Pettit’s former teacher again—but, thinking twice about arriving too early, she had stopped to walk on the South Downs. Having parked the MG close to the downs above the village of Plumpton, Maisie changed from her town-dweller’s footwear to her sturdy leather walking shoes, and strode out along a path well traveled by hikers. She remembered walking the downs years ago, with Simon. It was during the war, at a time when they were both on leave from their service in France. Now she pulled her coat around her as if to protect herself from the memories as much as from the strong breeze catching at her collar and her hat, which she took off, allowing her hair to be blown around her face. There was barely another soul to be seen when she set out on the path, which surprised her. After the war, however, in the early 1920s, the government had launched a series of advertisements aimed at getting the population out into the fresh air, encouraging people to go hill walking, which some master of the slogan had abbreviated to “hiking.” Soon it seemed as if footpaths everywhere were filled from Friday to Sunday with men, women, and children walking as if thei
r lives depended upon a thumping good, heart-pumping pilgrimage towards better health.
Today Maisie intended to walk for only an hour, and in that time passed several people making their way across the escarpment: two men appraising the day, using binoculars to better identify a bird or simply to view the landscape. A woman struggled along with a small wooden easel under her arm and a rucksack on her back; she could hardly see beyond her straw hat tied with leather cord under her chin. Maisie suspected the artist was probably somewhat optimistic regarding the day’s weather outlook.
Maisie’s thoughts of Simon—the love who had died long after the war, of wounds sustained in the conflict—brought not the searing pain that once caught at her chest with such power she thought her heart was truly breaking, but instead a sweet ache of remembrance for one who has passed and who was much loved. She no longer asked herself, “What if . . .” while wondering how their lives might have been different had there been no war. She might not be completely at peace with the past, but rubbed along with it because it was part of who she had become. And part of her life had converged with that of Eddie Pettit, with Maud, with the men who had come to her, caps in hand, asking for her help so that the memory of a simple man could be laid to rest. Now she must confront the mother of another man whose life was lost, a man she believed might have exploited the gentle giant who had a way with horses.
Returning to the MG, Maisie changed into her town shoes and, once inside the motor car, brushed her hair, applied a little lipstick, and went on her way. She parked the motor car outside The Lillies and, after knocking, waited for footsteps to approach along the passageway extending from the front of the house to the kitchen. It was Pauline Soames’ voice that came from beyond the door.
“Who is it? Who’s there?”
“Mrs. Soames, it’s Maisie Dobbs. Do you remember me?”
The door was unlocked in three places, and opened only as far as a chain would allow.
“Good morning, Miss Dobbs.” The woman did not open the door to its fullest extent, instead pressing her head against the frame to peer at her caller.
“I wondered if I might speak to you, Mrs. Soames. I’m alone, just me.”
The door was closed to allow the woman to draw back the chain, and then opened again.
“Come in. My sister’s gone to the shops, and I don’t like to open the door to strangers.”
“I understand, Mrs. Soames. Shall we go into the kitchen?”
“Yes. I was sitting in there, reading a book.”
When they reached the kitchen, Pauline Soames pulled out a chair and moved a book and some papers to one side. She offered a cup of tea, but Maisie declined.
“What can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie inclined her head, as if wondering what indeed she wanted from the woman. In truth she knew exactly what she wanted, but understood there was a need to choose her words with care.
“Mrs. Soames, I have come because I want to see Bart’s papers. You have his notes, you have drawings done for him by Eddie Pettit, and also in your possession, I believe, is a notebook belonging to Eddie that held within it details of his clients.” She paused. “I am not here to admonish you, Mrs. Soames, and I am not here to intimidate you. You are probably correct to fear the stranger at the door, but I assure you, the strangers in question would not allow three locks and a chain to stop them, if they wanted to enter this house. The papers might be better off in my possession—strictly speaking, a good number of them belong to Mrs. Pettit, if truth be told, because they are Eddie’s.”
“I—I don’t know.” The woman kneaded a handkerchief she’d taken from her sleeve and pressed it to her tear-filled eyes.
“I think we both suspect Bart did not take his own life. He was murdered because of certain knowledge he’d sought out.” Despite the fact that she had tried out words and phrases as she walked on the downs, Maisie still felt as if she were treading upon hot coals, trying to parse the truth in a way that might minimize the woman’s pain. “It was not right, was it, that Bart asked so much of Eddie? But in his defense, his life was sacrificed in the pursuit of the truth, and he was following the trail of a story that he believed should be known by all. I’m still unsure of what that truth might mean, but I know he sailed close to the wind, and that he soon learned there are those who would do anything to prevent release of the information he had acquired.”
Pauline Soames drew the handkerchief across her reddened eyes, pulling at the sore, inflamed skin.
“I told Bart, I told him he shouldn’t be so strong with Eddie, that he was like a young boy, really, and you wouldn’t ask that of a child, to go creeping around someone’s property, drawing this and writing down secret things. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right, but Bart—you had to know him, Miss Dobbs, he was a very determined man. He was my son and I loved him, and in so many ways he was good to Eddie; he listened to him, he talked to him as if he was a man. You see, so many people just patronized him—‘Oh, good old Eddie, come on over and see to my horse,’ and when they were done with him, that was it, no more ‘good old Eddie’ anymore. No, they just wanted him off their property until they needed him the next time.”
“Mrs. Soames, I don’t doubt that there were people like that, but don’t be blinded in your grief. You cannot deny that there were people who loved Eddie, who looked out for him and would have done anything for him.”
Now Pauline Soames clenched her fists. “There was more to Eddie than people thought, and, God love her, Maud did her best. But he had a gift, you know, every child has a gift, but with some it’s hidden.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Wait here, and I’ll show you.”
Maisie sat at the kitchen table, listening as Pauline Soames climbed the stairs, went into the bedroom at the front of the house. It sounded as if she were pulling things out from under the bed.
“Oh dear,” whispered Maisie to herself. “That’s the first place anyone would have looked.”
The woman returned to the kitchen with a box in her hand. It was no deeper than a shoe box, but wider, to accommodate papers.
“Bart gave this to me, for safekeeping. To tell you the truth, I was too scared to look inside; and it wasn’t my place to snoop, anyway. It’s his private papers.” She set it in front of Maisie. “Go on. You wanted to see what he’d left, so here you are.”
Maisie stood up, looking down at the box. She pulled back the string and lifted off the lid. Each of four folders bore a white label with a blue border, inscribed in handwritten capital letters:
OTTERBURN & CHURCHILL: AERONAUTICAL DRAFTS
OTTERBURN: PROPAGANDA
OTTERBURN: PATRIOT? NATIONALIST?
OTTERBURN: PROCUREMENT AND POLITICS
Maisie sat down, taking out the first folder. She frowned as she turned the pages, each of them bearing a drawing of an aeroplane, with engineering dimensions scribbled alongside.
“These are Eddie’s drawings, aren’t they?” Maisie held one up to show Pauline, who glanced at the drawing, then turned her head.
“I really would rather not know what’s in there—it could be me dead next.” She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief again.
“I think you must have looked already, to know I’d find excellent examples of Eddie’s dexterity in the art of copying. In any case, I’ll take them with me, but I want to go through them here. Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
Maisie looked up. “Just in case I part company with the papers on the way home.” She faced Pauline until the woman felt Maisie’s gaze and was compelled to meet her eyes. “Tell me about Eddie’s skill with pencil and paper. How could he do this?”
“What most people didn’t know about Eddie was that he could copy drawings. In fact, he could look at something—a bridge, a building, a row of houses, a boat—and then down at a sheet of paper, and with a pencil in his hand he could just draw it. He could do the same thing with letters, if he had a mind to, and that’s why I had to
be very careful with him, to make sure he was writing something down that he’d thought about, and not just copied. But as you can see, he’d laid his eyes upon these drawings somewhere and copied them.”
“So, let me see if I have this right—Bart realized, indeed, perhaps you told him, that Eddie had a gift for copying letters and images. Yes?”
The woman nodded.
“Right, so Bart then asked Eddie to copy down anything he found interesting—perhaps, for example, Eddie had been called in to meet John Otterburn, who was impressed by the way he worked with one of his horses and wanted to meet the young man who had calmed the animal. Oh, and I think Eddie might have accidentally left his book, the one with all his customer names in, when he came for his lesson—and Bart found it. That might have been the beginning of everything. Does that sound about right?”
“Yes, that’s about right—I would imagine.”
“You would imagine? All right, so let’s imagine Eddie standing in Otterburn’s study at his home—perhaps Otterburn had heard from the groom that Eddie had worked miracles with his favorite horse and wanted to meet him—and Eddie sees a pile of drawings on the desk, of aeroplanes, only John Otterburn hasn’t bothered to move them because Eddie came in while he was working and as far as he’s concerned, Eddie is a simple man who can barely hold a conversation, let alone a memory, in his head. Yes? So they have a chat, but instead, Eddie’s mind has gone click-click-click, like a camera, and soon he’s sitting at your kitchen table with Bart—his friend, Bart, who treats him like an equal—drawing pictures of aeroplanes because he wanted to please Bart, to show how much the gift of his friendship meant to him, because as far as Eddie’s concerned, he’s found a big brother and he would do anything for him. And you were there, weren’t you, Mrs. Soames?”