Pardonable Lies

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Inspector. Am I very late?”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Dobbs. No, you’re not late at all. But I do have another appointment this afternoon, so I must leave promptly.”

  “Right you are.” Maisie stepped forward into the café and walked toward a small table near the window that had just been cleared. Communication with Stratton had been rather stilted since the summer, when his invitations to supper or the theater had been met with refusal. Maisie had considered any meetings that went beyond the bounds of their professional relationship a poor decision, though she had entertained the idea for a while. And though she was now walking out with Andrew Dene, there was still something about Stratton that Maisie found rather likable.

  They ordered tea, toast, and jam and moved the conversation quickly to the case in hand.

  “The Jarvis case will go to trial in January.”

  “I see.” Maisie shook her head, declining the sugar pot, which Stratton had pushed toward her. She watched as he scooped two large teaspoonfuls into his cup of tea and stirred briskly.

  “She stands accused of murder. There are no other suspects.”

  “But what about a lesser charge? The girl was abused, was pushed onto the streets.”

  “So are a lot of young girls. Go down to Soho, Miss Dobbs. Whether we like it or not, the streetwalkers are as young as ten or eleven. And they don’t murder the pimps.”

  Maisie pressed her lips together. “What if—just what if—she’s innocent?”

  Stratton placed his cup down on the saucer with a crack that attracted the attention of onlookers. Maisie did not flinch but, instead, ensured that she looked at him directly. She sipped her tea.

  “She is guilty.” Stratton leaned back. “Look, I know you don’t care for Caldwell, and I admit he can be an abrasive tyke. And I know you had words with him during my absence—he had every right to insist that any new information was brought to our attention—but he’s a terrier on a case. He has proof beyond doubt that the girl is the killer.”

  Maisie nodded. Yes, I’m sure he has.

  “In any case, I understand that you have engineered it so Sir Cecil Lawton will be defending her in court. She’ll stand a better chance than most.”

  “If she survives Holloway.”

  “Don’t underestimate the girl. The months spent on the streets will have hardened her. She’ll survive Holloway very well.”

  The thought of incarceration in Holloway Prison made Maisie realize that she had had enough of the conversation. She had hoped to find out more about the police case against Avril Jarvis, but the attempt was proving to be fruitless. She pushed her teacup away to indicate that it was time to leave. Stratton seemed surprised.

  “Of course, you will be called as witness by the prosecution.”

  “As well as for the defense, in cross-examination, Detective Inspector Stratton.”

  Stratton smiled. “Of course.”

  As they stood, conversation became general in nature. Then, as Maisie brushed her hand against her forehead, she exposed the dressing concealed by her fringe.

  “Heavens, what have you done to yourself?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a bit of a whack, I’m afraid. Someone coming through a door as I was leaving, you know the sort of thing.”

  “You should be careful. Have you had it looked at?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s all right. Just pinches a bit at times.”

  “EVERYTHING AWRIGHT, MISS?”

  “Yes, thank you, Billy.” Maisie had taken off her hat and coat and was settled in a chair by the window, looking at the case map spread out in front of her.

  “Stratton any ’elp to us today?”

  “Not really, not in terms of Avril Jarvis.”

  “Well, we can’t expect much from ’im really, can we?”

  Maisie changed the subject. “You’ve got your tickets for Taunton?”

  “Yes, I’ll go down on the early train Saturday, then come back on the last train. I want to get ’ome by the end of the day. You’re off to France on Friday then?” Billy was frowning.

  “Yes, I’ll be leaving early too.” Maisie bit into her bottom lip.

  Billy frowned even more deeply, then slapped his forehead. “Glad you reminded me. Mrs. Partridge telephoned. Never answered the telephone to abroad before, so it was nice to talk to ’er.”

  “Mrs. Partridge telephoned? What did she say?”

  “Oh, it’s all right. She said she’d place a call later, so the ol’ dog ’n’ bone should be ringing any time now.” Billy was interrupted by the loud double ring from the black telephone on Maisie’s desk. “Talk of the devil. Bet that’s ’er now!”

  Maisie walked swiftly to the desk and picked up the telephone receiver. “This is Maisie Dobbs.”

  “Don’t you give the number anymore? Has that gone out of fashion?”

  “Priscilla!”

  “I’m glad you recognized me, old girl.”

  “Not so much of the old, Pris.”

  “Sorry. Look, I just wanted to confirm your dates. When will you come to Biarritz? I know that if I don’t nag, you won’t come.”

  “It’s an expensive nag, isn’t it. This telephone call must be costing a fortune.”

  “When are you coming?”

  “I leave for France on Friday, so I would imagine in a week.”

  “Book your seat, then. I want to make sure you are coming, so I will expect a telegram from Paris with your arrival time next Wednesday or Thursday.”

  Maisie sighed. “All right.”

  “Don’t sound so dull, Maisie. You’ll love it here. You need the break. Now then, how is the flat-hunting going?”

  Billy had left the room, so Maisie felt free to speak. “I’ve actually found a very nice property. In Pimlico, a new block. Rather modern, and only a few streets from the water.”

  “Ugh.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, Pimlico’s not bad, I suppose, but that awful swill they have the cheek to call a river—I bet you were a little mudlark as a child, searching for treasure when the tide went out! But each to her own. When are you moving in?”

  “Not so fast, Priscilla. There are some problems.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m a woman, a spinster. They don’t like to give property loans to women.”

  Priscilla sighed. “Yes, I thought you might run into that old chestnut. But never fear, your friend is here. Leave it to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just leave it to me. There are people, Maisie, who would drive stakes through their toes rather than offend me, so I will appear to be offended if they do not help.”

  “Who?”

  “My bankers, of course. No, don’t consider arguing. The old boys’ club isn’t just for boys, you know.”

  “You’re not to do anything of the sort. In fact, I forbid it, Pris—I can do this alone.”

  There was a sigh from Priscilla, who did not counter Maisie’s objection but moved instead to the subject of her brother. “Maisie, what about Peter? Do you think there’s a chance you’ll be able to find out anything?”

  “I’ll do my best, as you know, but his records have been hard to trace.” Maisie continued quickly, to avoid an interruption by Priscilla. “You know, there’s something in one of Peter’s letters that I am curious about.”

  “Go on.”

  “What’s all this about roses? Was he interested in flowers?”

  Priscilla laughed. “What do you mean?” There was a brief pause, then before Maisie could speak again, the voice on the line continued. “Oh, yes, I know what you’re talking about now.” Maisie heard her draw upon her cigarette, then cough. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t exactly know what he meant, so I just passed over it. I remember thinking it was a reference to Patrick and I was too dense—and tired—to get the joke.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, when the boys were younger—and remember, I was the youn
gest and a girl, so I was left out of just about everything—Pat thought they should form a sort of Evernden secret society. They used to run off into the woods, their jackets fastened around their necks like capes, pretending to be highwaymen—you know what boys are like! They would leave letters under one another’s pillows, that sort of thing, and they had this special wax seal. I think they’d found it in the attic, where they held their inner-circle meetings, raising old pewter cups filled with ginger beer.” Maisie heard Priscilla’s voice catch as she spoke of her beloved brothers. “Anyway, the seal was a rose. They’d leave a trail of red wax all over the place and drive my mother mad. As I said, I was definitely left out of the game, but I thought Peter mentioned it in his letter as a reference to Pat and Phil, that they were both well, or something like that.”

  Maisie frowned, running the telephone cord through her fingers, deep in thought.

  “Hello?”

  “Sorry, just thinking. Look, there’s something you can do for me, Pris. I want you to think—and I do mean think; please don’t just say you’ve done it—really think about anything and everything Peter may have said about being in France, even if it’s nothing to do with his service.”

  “All right, I’ll think about it. Whatever is going on, Maisie?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” The conversation was interrupted by an operator and the call ended. Billy entered the room at that point, so she was slow to replace the receiver. In the one or two seconds before the receiver met with the bar that cut off the line, Maisie heard another click. She lifted the receiver to her ear again. “Hello. Hello? Is anyone there?”

  The line was silent.

  “SO WHAT ACTUALLY ’appened, Miss?”

  “I told you. The operator disconnected the line and then there was another click.”

  “Well, p’raps you missed the first one, where she pulled out the jack.”

  “Billy, I heard that. This was different. It was seconds after, as if there was someone else on the line. Listening.” Maisie knew she was becoming tense, could feel the muscles in her neck begin to pull.

  Billy frowned. “Miss, you’d ’ave to be pretty ’igh up to eavesdrop on a personal line. Mind you, I will tell you this: My mate who works on the exchanges reckons them operator girls sometimes listen to the calls, you know; they wave to each other if they’ve got a good one on the line so that everyone can get an earful.”

  “Charming!”

  “But I don’t reckon the calls that come ’ere are very interestin’, not compared to some of ’em, you know, women cryin’ over their ’usbands to each other, the more personal goings-on.” Billy paused. “Who’d want to listen to what you’re sayin’ to Mrs. Partridge?”

  Maisie was silent for a moment, then replied, “The search for her brother’s last known whereabouts has just become even more difficult.” She turned and looked at Billy. “It seems that not only are his records missing but, unless I am mistaken in my supposition, he was engaged in very dangerous work during the war.”

  “Weren’t we all, Miss? If you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

  “Granted. Of course you’re right. But I believe his work might have been a bit more covert, and I think he tried to tell his sister as much.”

  “Bit more what?”

  “Secret, Billy. I suspect he may have been assigned to an intelligence position—which could be anything from code-breaking to intercepting messages. Who knows? A lot of that kind of work was pretty mundane on a day-to-day basis.”

  “And a lot of it weren’t anything a sane person would do, Miss, and that’s a fact.”

  “Which is why I’m suspicious about the line.”

  Billy nodded. “Look, I’m going to walk around outside and ’ave a dekko to see if I can see anything unusual. Of course, if someone were listenin’ it could be done at the exchange or closer, right ’ere in the buildin’ even.”

  “All right, go on, Billy, though I suspect you won’t find any evidence of a listener. In the meantime, we must take care with conversations on the telephone. No details of any cases must be divulged in a telephone call—or in a letter, for that matter. Only in person with the client or anyone with whom we may need to discuss particulars.”

  “Right you are, Miss.”

  As soon as Billy left the office, Maisie slumped into a chair by the window and placed her hand on her forehead where the wound from the motor car accident was pounding. Who is following me? Who tried to kill me? Who is out there, listening? She began to consider those she had made inquiries with over the past two weeks: Avril Jarvis, Priscilla, Madeleine Hartnell. Then there was Jeremy Hazleton and his wife. Sir Cecil Lawton, along with the manservant, Brayley. And of course Stratton. Think. Think. Who would wish me dead—and why?

  APART FROM PACKING, Maisie had only one more commitment before she set off on Friday morning via train for Dover: the meeting with Lord Julian. The travel plans were now finally set. To avoid coming into London, Maurice would join Maisie’s train at Ashford, and they would travel together to the ferry connect with the Golden Arrow’s ferry service. During her absence, work would begin on the MG. She had received the estimate for repairs, and Eric had taken his favorite motor along to the garage where it would remain for several weeks. He had promised to visit the repair shop several times to check on progress, to ensure that the MG came back, in Eric’s words, “spick-and-span.”

  Maisie arrived at the red-brick offices belonging to the Compton Company on Arbuthnot Street fifteen minutes early, according to the clock on the outside of the building. She decided to walk for a while to ensure that all the necessary questions were in her mind, ready to put to Lord Julian, should the opportunity arise. Maisie loved the City, the legacy encapsulated in that one square mile of London. There was something about this area and its proximity to the river that was a lifeblood—a poisoned lifeblood—of such a powerful place. Perhaps there is something here for me, thought Maisie, as she waited for the moments to tick by until her appointment.

  “Maisie, jolly good to see you!” Lord Julian stepped forward from his desk and came around to shake her hand. His secretary left the room with her head slightly bowed.

  Maisie took the seat indicated by her former employer. “It’s kind of you to see me, Lord Julian.”

  “Not at all, but I’m a bit overextended on time, I’m afraid.” He handed an envelope containing several sheets of paper to Maisie. “Here are some of my notes on Hazleton. Only had access to the files for a very brief period, you understand.”

  “Thank you, I’ll read them this evening. Did anything stand out?”

  Lord Julian shook his head. “Not really. It all seemed rather a shame, actually. He appears to have been a fine young man—not that he isn’t now; that’s not it. But you’ll see that originally a far better prognosis regarding the outcome of his wounds was put forward. Must have been terrible for the poor fellow to relapse and end up in a wheelchair when at first they thought a couple of canes might do.”

  “I see.” Maisie frowned and flipped open the envelope. Remembering Lord Julian’s limited time, she apologized, replaced the notes, and put the envelope into her document case.

  “I am most grateful. Thank you, Lord Julian,” said Maisie, standing.

  “A pleasure. Anything else while I am still here?” It was a perfunctory offer, with no reply anticipated. She was quick to respond.

  “Actually, I do have one question,” said Maisie. “And no answer is required at this moment, but please let me know if anything comes to mind.”

  “Go on.”

  “Lord Julian, do you have any contacts in military intelligence? Anyone you served with at the War Office who would be able to trace records belonging to someone who may have been with the intelligence corps? I need confirmation of an affiliation.”

  Lord Julian shook his head. “Not me. I can’t think of anyone I could call upon; there were, after all, different intelligence organizations. And wasn’t the corps—such as it’s been since the war??
?disbanded last year?” He paused. “Of course, there are those I know, but with that sort of work, we’re going into a different type of terrain.” He paused, then smiled. “But Maisie, you know the very person who could probably answer all of your questions.”

  “I know someone? Who?”

  Lord Julian laughed. “And I thought you knew everything!”

  “Who is it?”

  “Why, Blanche, of course. Talk to Maurice.”

  “Maurice?”

  “Yes. What do you think he was doing in the war, Maisie?”

  Maisie shook her head, now spinning with convergent thoughts once more. “I—I knew he worked all over Europe, and even in Mesopotamia. And I knew it was highly confidential. I just always thought it was political, to do with his contacts, those people he’d known forever. But intelligence?”

  “Our Maurice has a finger in a lot of pies, Maisie. He is the sharpest, most acute man I have ever known. I expect he will take the true extent of his wartime exploits to his grave, but I do know one thing: He was involved with the secret service and with several branches of military intelligence.”

  Maisie nodded, thanked Lord Julian again, and left the building quickly. Rushing along the narrow streets with tall buildings on either side, she made her way toward the water. Dusk was falling, the smog a yellow vapor around her, the light casting shadows that appeared alongside her as if they were ghostly street urchins from another time. Maurice. Maurice? Was his request to join her on this excursion a coincidence? Or was it motivated by something else. I knew that something was wrong. But what did she know? Maurice’s voice echoed down the years. It’s guesswork, hard work, guesswork again and supposition, taking what we have learned and applying it to what we know now, even when the cases are different. All cases challenge us: to reconsider who we are, how we see ourselves in this world, and how we view the past, the present, and the future from the unique observation point of our individual humanity. The needling out of information, of knowledge, is like trying to remove the tiniest splinter from a finger. The trick is to tease out truth without causing blood to flow—literally and figuratively—our own or that of another human being.