Pardonable Lies

  Could it all be coincidence? No. No. One of her first lessons from Maurice, the one that was repeated time and time again in case after case until it was imprinted on her very soul, was: Coincidence is a messenger sent by truth.

  And what was the truth of Maurice’s insistence on traveling with her? I will have to remember every single lesson, every single move and conversation. The words came to Maisie instinctively as she watched the water flow murkily on its way downriver, toward the gushing torrent where the Thames met the sea. And she hoped against hope, especially now, especially when she needed her mentor more than ever before, that she and Maurice would be working not against each other, but together.

  PART TWO

  France, September 1930

  FIFTEEN

  Maisie left London before seven in the morning, her clothes, books, and papers packed in a small case of dark brown leather with straps across to ensure her belongings were secure. She carried her black document case and wore a gray-and-blue tweed jacket with a pale gray silk blouse, light gray woolen trousers, black shoes, and, to top off her ensemble, a dark gray hat with a broader brim than usual, a black band and a dark blue feather on the side, which was attached to the band with a deep blue stone in a sapphire cut. She had collected her watch from the mender’s yesterday, and it was now pinned in its customary place on the left-hand lapel of her jacket. The clothes were not new, though she had retrimmed the hat herself recently. But the case was very new, a gift from Dene delivered the day before. Two hours after that first delivery, a large box of chocolates arrived for Maisie, and included a simple message: With love. The second gift caused Maisie to shake her head, for she knew Dene to be impulsive at times and had recently taken to sending her chocolates. She had not the heart to tell him she did not care for such sweets and, as usual, left the box in the kitchen with a note: Help yourselves!

  Carrying her mackintosh over her arm, she boarded the train clutching her luggage tightly. She had telephoned her father the night before, wishing deeply that she were traveling to his cottage and the embracing familiarity of the place that was now firmly his home, though he was London born and bred.

  “Who’s that?” Her father’s words upon picking up the telephone receiver always caused Maisie to smile.

  “It’s me, Dad, unless you were expecting someone else.”

  Her father laughed. “It’s this bloomin’ piece of nonsense. Can’t get used to the thing.”

  “At least I know I can reach you if I need to.” Maisie paused. She could feel her father’s tension, though he did not speak. “Well, I’m off tomorrow, so I thought I would telephone. I’ll see you on the way back. I’ll come straight to Chelstone from Dover when we arrive back in England.”

  “Will you be awright, love?”

  “Yes, of course, you know me. I’m always all right.”

  There was a pause before her father continued. “I do know you, Maisie, and I know this little shindig over there is botherin’ you.”

  “I said I’ll be all right.”

  “Well, I know what your mother would say.”

  Maisie shivered and once again felt a sudden urge to turn around.

  “What did you say, love?”

  “I said, what would Mum have said?”

  Frankie Dobbs was slow in responding, and Maisie knew that even after all these years, he ached for the company of his wife. “I reckon she would have told you to get on over there to France. She would have told you to slay your dragons, Maisie. Do your work and slay your dragons. Then come home.”

  Maisie reflected upon his words as the train pulled out of Charing Cross Station and knew he was right. Her father, whom she had never taken to be a philosopher, was absolutely right. She must do her work, slay her dragons, and then come home.

  THE TRAIN PUFFED and chugged its way though Kent. Sitting by the window, Maisie delighted in seeing a fresh ground-mist lingering above the fields. She loved this time of year in Kent, when autumn was in the air, the leaves just beginning to turn, their pale yellows and deeper greens a promise of the rich reds, browns, and golds to come. And this was hop-picking time, the train almost full of Londoners on their way to Paddock Wood, to Goudhurst, Charing, Yalding, Cranbrook, and Hawkhurst, and to every other Kentish town and village with farms where the hops were hanging heavy on the bines, waiting to be picked. Of course, many had already traveled by charabanc, others in lorries laden to the gills with boxes, but many would take the train to Tonbridge, then change for the branch lines that would deliver them to their final destination. Pots and pans, folded bed linens pushed into old pillowcases and tied with string, shabby suitcases, boxes, and tilly lamps were stowed in the luggage racks, and throughout her journey, Maisie sat silently and smiled, listening to the banter she knew so very well. The talk was of how the hops might be in this field or that field, for this grand exodus of Londoners went to the same farms each year and knew the land as well as any country farmworker. They talked about the hopper huts, whom they might see, and the singsongs they would have at night when the picking was done. Maisie almost wished she were going with them instead of to France.

  The next stop was Ashford, and as the train began to slow, Maisie pulled down the window, looking out for Maurice. Finally she saw him, standing on the platform, two suitcases held by the Comptons’ chauffeur.

  “Maurice!”

  “There she is, sir, over there.” George pointed to Maisie, and Maurice looked up.

  Expecting Maurice to step up into the carriage, Maisie frowned when a porter joined them and then boarded the train while they waited on the platform.

  “This way, miss.” He took Maisie’s luggage from the rack and indicated for her to follow him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Gentleman said you’d be in second class, so we’re moving you to first. He’s got the tickets.”

  Maisie shook her head and followed the porter, who took her to join Maurice, now settled in the first-class carriage. After the porter had stowed Maisie’s new leather case, Maurice pressed a coin into his hand and waved through the window to George, who touched his cap and turned to leave the station.

  “This is rather extravagant.” Maisie settled into the seat, placing her document case next to her. She automatically let her hand remain on the case, then saw that Maurice had noticed and removed her hand quickly.

  Blanche smiled. “Yes, perhaps. Though when one reaches my age, one is inclined to indulge in comforts where one can. I thought it would give us an opportunity to speak in confidence, Maisie—to reconnect with each other in person. It has been some months.”

  “Since early summer, Maurice.”

  “Ah, yes, and you have been seeing more of Andrew.”

  Maisie blushed. Andrew Dene was another protégé of Maurice Blanche, though not as close as herself. “Yes, we’ve spent time together. He’s good company.”

  “Oh, I think there’s more to it than that.” Maurice looked out of the window for a moment. “Well, on Andrew’s part anyway. I would have thought you were very well matched, the two of you.”

  “As I said, he’s good company. I enjoy our time together.”

  “May an old gentleman make an observation?”

  Maisie inclined her head. She wanted very much to say no but instead replied, “Of course.”

  “Well, just one comment; then let’s discuss the true purpose of your journey and your case.”

  “Go on.”

  “You know, particularly where Andrew is concerned, I think it may well be possible for you to have your cake and eat it.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  Maurice held up his hand. “That’s all, Maisie. Now then, the case of the aviator.”

  Maisie paused for a moment, then opened her document case and took out a map. She moved to sit next to Maurice, the map on her knees. Maurice took out his spectacles, placed them on his nose, and looked at the point Maisie indicated.

  “This is where Ralph Lawton’s De Havillan
d went down. It was just outside Reims, in the village of Sainte-Marie, which was occupied by the Germans. The German authorities went through the correct channels of notification, and his remains—well, such as they were; I understand the remains in this case comprised only metal identification tags that were all but melted—his remains were repatriated after the war and now lie in the cemetery at Auchon-Villiers.”

  Maurice took off his spectacles and frowned. “Maisie, it is awfully difficult to completely incinerate a human body, as you know. Your studies in Edinburgh would have encompassed the effects of fire on flesh and bone.”

  “Granted. However, this particular aeroplane, the Airco D.H.4, was not referred to as the Flaming Coffin for nothing. The fuel tank was situated precariously in a position that resulted in the most horrible outcome if shot down. It was a long-range craft equipped with a powerful twelve-cylinder engine that would give over six hours of flying time and therefore had a huge fuel capacity. Now—”

  “You have become an expert on aviation.”

  Maisie shook her head. “Not really. James Compton was an enormous help, and I have access to Ralph’s flight records, as well as his personal journal.”

  She looked at Maurice, watching his response. He gave away nothing but simply nodded and replaced his spectacles, peering toward the map. Maisie continued.

  “Now, this craft was generally used for bombing runs into enemy territory and would usually have an observer, but it was also quite nimble, able to make fast and accurate changes in direction. Interestingly enough, Ralph was flying alone that day and was not carrying bombs; the journey would have been quite swift, with the plane easy to maneuver.”

  “I see.”

  “So what was he doing with no bombs and no observer over enemy territory? Why didn’t he try to fly back across Allied lines before crashing? He was an experienced aviator, one who would never let his aeroplane get into enemy hands—even if he knew it would burn to a cinder.”

  Maurice removed his spectacles again. “Remind me of your remit, Maisie.”

  “To prove that he is dead.”

  “Then I see no need to investigate Ralph Lawton’s assignment at the time of his death. You need only to corroborate accounts of his death, visit the grave and you have completed your task.”

  Maisie frowned. “But Maurice, we’ve always worked diligently, answering each and every question that arises in order to come to a completion of our case. It is how you have taught me; it is ingrained in the way I work.”

  “That was not always possible when I worked alone, as you are doing now.”

  “I’m not alone. I have Billy.”

  “Your having Billy is not the same as my having you for an assistant.”

  “What do you mean? Billy has been an excellent choice.” Maisie sensed the annoyance rising. She had never before felt this way with Maurice.

  “Billy is a good choice, yes. He is a workhorse, without a doubt. But with you, I had no need for constant vigilance.” He paused. “One constructs one’s business according to one’s resources. I was most fortunate in being able to entrust so much to you. I sense that you do not have the same advantage, so you must, on occasion, take the case at face value, do only what you must to conclude, and move on.”

  Maisie shook her head in disbelief. “Maurice, I must continue with this case as I have planned, and I must follow where the clues, guesses, and suppositions take me. Clearly there must be an end to such a case, and we both know there is a time limit. But I will go forward according to my training from you and according to that which I feel is right.”

  Maurice regarded Maisie intently. “Indeed. But at what cost?”

  Maisie felt her eyes prickle at the corners. He knows. He knows I am distressed. At that moment the train began to decrease speed to an idle chugging as it approached Dover. She turned to look out of the window again, knowing Maurice’s eyes were still on her. But what if he wants me to draw back for another reason. Is he here to hamper my inquiries? Is that why he came?

  “Ah, we have arrived.” Maurice looked at his pocket watch. “I think we have time for a good lunch before the Golden Arrow arrives and we board the ferry with the other passengers. You know what they say about travel by sea, Maisie. A good lining to the stomach!”

  A porter came aboard to collect the luggage and Maisie stepped down from the carriage, turning to ensure that Maurice was on secure footing as he alighted onto the platform. And as she took his hand, she felt a shiver move along her arm into her neck. Her stomach lurched. The dragon was awake.

  FOLLOWING LUNCH IN the dining room of the Railway Inn, Maisie excused herself. Making her way to the hotel reception desk, she asked to use the telephone and was directed along the corridor to a wooden booth with concertina doors. Maisie looked around her, wishing she could shake off the constant sense that someone was watching her. Reaching the telephone, she closed the doors behind her and pulled the bolt across to ensure privacy. She dialed All Saints Convalescent Hospital in the Old Town, Hastings, and when the call was answered she pressed the button to connect.

  “May I speak to Dr. Dene, please?”

  “Yes, of course, I’ll put you through.”

  Maisie imagined the receptionist turning to the others in the administration office and raising her eyebrows as she said, “Miss Dobbs, isn’t it?” Could there be another who called? wondered Maisie.

  “Maisie, darling!” Dene’s enthusiastic greeting dispelled any doubts in her mind, though she had worried since Priscilla commented on his bachelorhood at a time when there was a surfeit of women her age in search of a sweetheart. “Shouldn’t you be on the high seas by now?”

  “Another hour or so, Andrew.”

  There was a strained silence for a moment.

  “I take it that you managed to fit everything into the case?”

  “Oh, yes, Andrew, it’s perfect. Just perfect. Thank you again—and thank you for the chocolates.”

  “Chocolates?”

  Maisie frowned. “Yes. The box arrived this morning, special delivery.”

  There was a delay of several seconds before Dene replied. “Well, I’m clearly not your sole admirer. And here I was thinking I was the only one who sent you chocolates.”

  “But, Andrew—”

  “Perhaps they were sent by a grateful client.”

  “Yes, of course. I wonder….” Maisie could barely concentrate.

  “Is there anything you need, Maisie?” Dene had already sensed that the telephone call might not have been made for sentimental reasons, though they had not seen each other for several weeks.

  Maisie brought her thoughts back to the present. “Actually, Andrew, there is. I need your expertise.”

  “My expertise? Gosh, do I look as if I have criminal tendencies?” Dene laughed.

  Maisie checked her watch, then with one hand reached into her document case, which she had placed on the small triangular wooden seat in the corner of the telephone box. She pulled out the notes given to her by Lord Julian concerning Jeremy Hazleton. “No, it’s your medical knowledge that I’m after, Andrew, you’re the only orthopedic surgeon I know.”

  “And you certainly don’t know any cranial experts, do you; you didn’t keep your appointment to have that head of yours looked at!”

  “It was kind of you to arrange it, Andrew, but there was no time. Anyway, my head feels much better. Now then, it’s about a man who sustained injuries that have led to paralysis, though at first it was thought he would have a better outcome. Look, if I just read out these notes from the attending physicians, could you tell me what it all means?”

  “Fire away, my intrepid one, fire away!”

  Some fifteen minutes later, Maisie replaced the receiver, promising to telephone Dene as soon as she was on home soil upon her return from France. Her curiosity regarding Hazleton had deepened, for Dene’s comments and assessment had served to broaden the gray areas evident in the MP’s medical history. But there was something bothering her even m
ore as she reached for her purse, which was tucked into a corner of the document case. She took out a coin and lifted the receiver once again, hoping that all was as it should be at Ebury Place. She hoped her call would reach Sandra in time. The double ring repeated several times. Maisie’s frown deepened.

  “The Compton residence.”

  “Sandra? Sandra, listen, there’s—”

  “Oh, m’um, it’s you!” Sandra exclaimed, as if she had been running.

  “Sandra, is everything all right?”

  “Well, I don’t know if it is.” She began to weep, then checked herself. “I’m sorry, m’um.”

  “What’s wrong?” Maisie clutched the receiver to her ear.

  “It’s Teresa. Been taken very poorly, she has. The doctor’s here now and they’re taking her to the infirmary. His Lordship has said—”

  “What’s the matter with her?” The apprehension was clear in Maisie’s voice.

  “She was working away, m’um, then suddenly—it was only a few hours after you left—well, she just sort of keeled over, clutching her belly and crying. She was screaming with the pain.”

  “Oh, God!” Maisie could feel the pain increasing inside her, a sympathetic discomfort as the story unfolded.

  “It was the middle of the morning, and Teresa said, ‘Well, if no one else is going to dig in, I’m going to have one of those chocolates that Miss gave us, set me up for a good day’s work it will, a bit of chocolate.’ So, she digs in, has a bite out of one of the chocolates, and says, ‘Oooh, that’s too bitter for me. It’s that dark chocolate; I prefer it sweeter.’ So she pushes the box away and off she goes with the polishes, but then she starts screaming—”

  “Is she all right?” Maisie could hear the cry in her voice.

  “We called the doctor straightaway. I got a glass of salty water, m’um, and made her drink it, held her head up and poured it down her. Then I stuck my fingers down her throat, so she’d bring whatever it was up again and—”