Pardonable Lies

For most of the time, Maisie was alone in the house but for a small complement of servants; then at the end of summer, Lady Rowan would sweep into town to take up her position as one of London’s premier hostesses. However, extravagance had been curtailed since last year when Lady Rowan, with a compassion uncommon among the aristocracy, declared, “I simply cannot indulge in such goings-on when half the country hasn’t enough food in its belly! No, we will draw in our horns and instead see what we can do to get the country out of this wretched mess!”

  Upon arriving at Ebury Place that evening, Maisie brought her MG to the mews behind the mansion and noticed immediately that Lord Compton’s Rolls-Royce was parked alongside the old Lanchester and that George, his chauffeur, was in conversation with Eric, a footman who took charge of the motor cars when George was in Kent.

  George touched his forehead and opened Maisie’s door for her. “Evening, m’um. Very nice to see you.”

  “George! What are you doing here? Is Lady Rowan in London?”

  “No, m’um, only His Lordship. But he’s not staying. Just a business meeting and then to his club.”

  “Oh. A meeting at the house?”

  “Yes, m’um. And if you don’t mind, he’s said that as soon as you returned he’d like you to join him in the library.”

  “Me?” Maisie was surprised. She sometimes thought that Lord Compton had merely indulged his wife in her support of her in the early years of her education, though he had always been nothing less than cordial in his communications.

  “Yes, m’um. He knows you’re going out later, but he said to say it wouldn’t take long.”

  Maisie nodded to George and thanked Eric, who stepped forward with a cloth to attend to the already shining MG. Instead of entering through the kitchen door, an informality that had become her custom, she walked quickly to the front entrance, whereupon the door was immediately opened by Sandra, the most senior “below stairs” employee in the absence of the butler, Carter, who was at Chelstone.

  “Evening, m’um.” Sandra gave only a short curtsy, knowing that Maisie hated such formalities. “His Lordship—”

  “Yes, George just told me.” She passed her hat and coat to Sandra but kept hold of her document case. She checked the silver nurse’s watch that was pinned to her lapel, a gift from Lady Rowan when she was sent to France in 1916. The watch had been her talisman ever since. “Thank you, Sandra. Look, could you run me a bath, please? I have to meet Mrs. Partridge at the Strand Palace by seven, and I really don’t want to be late.”

  “Right you are, m’um. Pity she couldn’t have stayed here. It’s not as if we don’t have the room.”

  Maisie patted her thick black hair and replied as she sped toward the sweeping staircase. “Oh, she said she wanted to be waited on hand and foot in a lavish hotel now that she has a few days’ respite from her boys.”

  Outside the library door, Maisie composed herself before knocking. The men’s voices carried; Lord Compton’s was sharp and decisive. The second voice seemed deep and resolute, and as Maisie listened she closed her eyes and began to mouth the overheard words, automatically moving her body to assume a posture suggested by the voice. Yes, this was a man of decision, a man of bearing, with weight upon his shoulders. She thought he might be a solicitor, though one thing sparked her interest in the seconds before she knocked on the door and walked into the library: The man’s voice, as Maisie interpreted it, held more than a hint of fear.

  “MAISIE, GOOD OF you to spare us a few moments of your precious time.” Julian Compton held out his hand to Maisie to draw her into the room. He was a tall, thin man, with gray hair swept back and a debonair ease of movement that suggested wealth, confidence and success.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you, Lord Julian. How is Lady Rowan?”

  “Apart from that wretched hip, there’s no stopping her! Of course, there’s another foal on the way now—perhaps another Derby promise in a couple of years!” Lord Compton turned to the man standing with his back to the fireplace. “Allow me to introduce a very good friend of mine, Sir Cecil Lawton, KC.”

  Maisie approached the man and shook hands. “Good evening, Sir Cecil.” She noticed the man’s discomfort, the way his eyes did not quite meet her own, focusing instead on a place over her shoulder before looking down at his feet, then back to Lord Julian. I can almost smell the fear, thought Maisie.

  Cecil Lawton was only one or two inches taller than Maisie. He had dark-gray wavy hair that parted in the center and was swept to the sides. He wore half-moon spectacles, and his bulbous nose seemed to sit uncomfortably above a waxed mustache. His clothes were expensive, though not new. Maisie had met many such men in the course of her work, barristers and judges who had once invested heavily in making an impression but, having reached the pinnacle of success in the legal profession, did not regard Savile Row with the reverence of their younger days.

  “I’m delighted to see you, Miss Dobbs; you may remember that we have met before. It was when you gave evidence for the defense in the Tadworth case. The man might have been on his way to Wormwood Scrubs, had it not been for your acute observations.”

  “Thank you, Sir Cecil.” Maisie was now anxious to know the reason for her being introduced to Lawton, not least to allow her time to get ready for supper with Priscilla. She turned to Lord Julian. “I understand that you wanted to see me, Lord Julian. Is there a matter I might assist you with?”

  Lord Julian looked at Lawton briefly. “Let’s sit down. Maisie, Sir Cecil requires confirmation of information received some years ago, during the war. He came to me, and I immediately suggested that you might be able to help.” Lord Julian glanced at Lawton, then brought his attention back to Maisie. “I think it best if Sir Cecil explains the situation to you in private, without any commentary from me. I know you would prefer to hear the details in his words, and any questions you put to him can be answered in absolute confidence. I should add, Maisie”—Lord Julian smiled at his friend—“I have informed my good friend here that your fees are not insignificant and you are worth every penny!”

  Maisie smiled and inclined her head. “Thank you, Lord Julian.”

  “Very well. Good. I’m off to my lair for ten minutes or so. I’ll be back shortly.”

  SIR CECIL LAWTON fidgeted in his seat, then stood again with his back to the fire. Maisie leaned back slightly in her chair, a move that caused Lawton to clear his throat and begin speaking.

  “This is most unusual, Miss Dobbs. I had not imagined that I might one day be seeking assistance in this matter….” Lawton shook his head, his eyes closed, then looked up and continued. “My only son, Ralph, was killed in the war.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir Cecil.” Maisie issued her regret softly. Sensing that Lawton had a burden to shed, she leaned forward to indicate that she was listening closely. He had pronounced his son’s name Rafe in the old-fashioned manner.

  “I was in a position to ask questions, so there was—is—no doubt in my mind that Ralph was lost. He was in the Flying Corps. Those chaps were lucky if they were still alive three weeks after arriving in France.”

  Maisie nodded but said nothing.

  Lawton cleared his throat, held his fist against his mouth for a second, folded his arms, and continued. “My wife, however, always maintained that Ralph was alive. She became very—very unstable, I think you would say, after we received the news. She believed that one day he would come back again. She said a mother knew such things. Agnes suffered a nervous collapse a year after the war. She had become involved with spiritualists, mediums, and all sorts of quackery, all in an attempt to prove that Ralph was still alive.”

  “There were many who consulted such people, Sir Cecil. Your wife was not alone in that respect.”

  Lawton nodded and pressed on with his story. “One of them even said that a spirit guide—” He shook his head and once again took a seat opposite Maisie. “I’m sorry, Miss Dobbs. The mere thought of it all makes my blood boil. The fact that one person can wield such power ov
er another is abhorrent. Is it not enough for a family to endure loss, without having a witch—” Lawton appeared to falter, then regained composure. “Anyway, my wife was told that a spirit guide had passed on a message from the other side that Ralph was not dead, but very much alive.”

  “How difficult for you.” Maisie was careful to maintain a middle ground as she listened to the story. There was something in Lawton’s manner as he spoke of his son that made her feel uneasy. Her skin prickled slightly at the nape of her neck, where the scar left by an exploding shell was etched into her scalp. His regard for his son was compromised.

  “My wife spent the final two years of her life in an asylum, Miss Dobbs, a private institution in the country. I could not afford rumors that might jeopardize my position. She was cared for in very comfortable circumstances.”

  Maisie looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. She needed to move on. “Tell me, Sir Cecil, how may I be of service to you?”

  Lawton cleared his throat and began to speak. “Agnes, my wife, passed away three months ago. There was only a small funeral and the usual notice of her passing in The Times. However, on her deathbed, she begged me to promise that I would find Ralph.”

  “Oh.” Maisie placed her hands together and brought them to her lips, as if in prayer.

  “Yes. I promised to find someone who is dead.” He turned to face Maisie directly for the first time. “I am duty bound to search for him. That’s why I have come to you—at Julian’s suggestion.”

  “Lord Julian was at the War Office during the war. I am sure he has access to records.”

  “Of course, and the search only revealed what we already know: Captain Ralph Lawton, RFC, died in France in August 1917.”

  “What do you want me to do, Sir Cecil?”

  “I want you to prove my son dead, once and for all.”

  “I’m sorry, but I must ask: What about his grave?”

  “Ah, yes, the grave. My son died in an inferno when his aeroplane came down. There was little left of the craft, let alone my son. His remains are buried in France.”

  “I see.”

  “I am taking this step to keep a promise to my wife.”

  Maisie frowned. “But such a search could go on indefinitely, and difficult to bear, if I may say so, Sir Cecil.”

  “Yes, yes, quite, I understand. However, I have decided that there must be a time limit set for such a task.”

  Maisie sighed deeply. “Sir Cecil, as you no doubt understand, in my work I am familiar with unusual requests and have taken on assignments that others have refused or abused. In a case such as this, my responsibility must extend to your well-being—if I may speak frankly.”

  “I’m perfectly all right, you know. I—”

  Standing, Maisie walked to the window, glanced at her watch, and turned to face Lawton. “Brutal honesty is often a requirement of my work, and I must—as I said—be frank. You are recently bereaved, and your wife has burdened you with a terrible promise: to find a son who, to all intents and purposes, is dead. It would seem that, since you received word of his death, you have not been able to seal his passing with the rituals that we must all go through to release those who are lost to the past.”

  Maisie paused for a moment, looked back at Lawton, and continued. “It is only through such a pilgrimage of mourning that we are free to remember the dead with a fullness of heart. In taking on this case, your passage through grief and remembrance will be of paramount consideration. You see, Sir Cecil, I am not yet sure how I might proceed with such work, but I know only too well how difficult it will be for you to relive your loss as I go about my inquiry. And of course I would be investigating those your wife consulted in her search for confirmation of her sense that he was alive.”

  “I see. At least I think I see. I thought you could just search records, go over to France, and…” Lawton’s words stalled. It was clear he had no idea what Maisie might do in France.

  “Allow me to make a suggestion, if I may, Sir Cecil. Consider all I have said, and the implications of my investigation. Then please telephone me at my office, and we will proceed from that day if you still wish me to search for the truth regarding Ralph’s death.” Maisie reached into her document case and pulled out a calling card that she passed to Lawton. It was inscribed with her name, followed by Psychologist and Investigator and her telephone number.

  Lawton studied the card for a moment before pushing it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Yes, quite. I’ll consider the breadth of my request.”

  “Good. Now, if you will excuse me, Sir Cecil, I really must hurry. I have a supper engagement this evening.”

  A single knock at the door heralded the perfectly timed entrance of Lord Julian Compton.

  “I thought you’d be just about finished by now.”

  “Yes, Julian. Miss Dobbs has been most helpful.” Sir Cecil held out his hand to Maisie.

  “I look forward to hearing from you in due course, Sir Cecil.” Maisie shook the proffered hand and turned to leave. “One more thing regarding your wife’s assertion, Sir Cecil: Should you choose to commence with the investigation, I will be curious to know if your wife ever attributed a reason for Ralph’s not returning home—if she thought him alive.”

  THREE

  Returning to her rooms, Maisie bathed, then styled her hair quickly before putting on her black day dress. She had no gowns or evening wear, choosing instead something from her wardrobe that would “do” for supper at the Strand Palace Hotel. She applied rouge sparingly, along with a swish of lipstick, and patted her hair one last time. Her long tresses had finally met the hairdresser’s scissors in early summer and, though the new haircut was stylish, she found she missed the weight at the back of her head and along her spine when she unpinned her chignon. Now the chin-length bob was growing out, which Maisie liked: For once in her life she was following fashion.

  Collecting the freshly polished MG, Maisie sped off toward the Strand Palace, where she was to meet Priscilla. Though they had kept in touch, the women had met only once or twice after Priscilla left England to live in Biarritz. At first, Maisie had questioned her friend’s decision to reside abroad, but she knew Priscilla needed to reignite an effervescent personality numbed by loss and grief. In Biarritz she had immersed herself in a round of parties but was saved from a life of postwar decadence by the quiet strength and resolve of her husband, the poet Douglas Partridge, who welcomed Priscilla into his home on the coast and into the calming influence of his life of artistic endeavor and introspection. Maisie was happy for her friend and considered the union sound. Priscilla had discovered true joy again and in so doing encouraged Douglas’s confidence in company. Now, with three sons, Priscilla’s enviable energy was often sapped by the end of the day, though Maisie wondered how her friend would ever fare if she lost the boys’ nanny.

  It wasn’t just Priscilla and her family that occupied Maisie’s thoughts as she maneuvered through the London traffic. She was troubled by the meeting with Sir Cecil Lawton, by a case that might be lucrative but seemed fraught with ambiguity. She liked to bring her cases to a complete close, to know her notes could be filed away with all loose ends tied. She could not fail to notice that Agnes Lawton had clearly asked her husband to find their son, whereas Lawton had briefed Maisie to prove him dead, a distinction that hinted at a client who might be more troublesome than most. She hoped Lawton would decide against the investigation.

  Maisie parked the motor car. As she rushed into the grand entrance of the Strand Palace, she caught a glimpse of herself in the newly refurbished modern and very avant-garde mirrored glass foyer and sighed. In truth, there was one aspect of the reunion that she was dreading: Priscilla was a self-confessed fashion hound. Her long limbs, aquiline features, and shining chestnut hair seemed to lend themselves to any style, any ensemble—always brand-new and very expensive. As she had written to Maisie, “I spend much of my day on my hands and knees or otherwise steeped in the life of three impish toads, s
o I never begrudge myself the odd shopping trip to Paris.” Maisie knew she would feel hopelessly drab in her company.

  MAISIE NOTICED PRISCILLA immediately, sitting on an armchair at the agreed-upon meeting place. She stopped for a moment to regard her old friend. Priscilla wore wide trousers of heavy black silk, with a pale gray chemise tucked into the wide waistband. A black silk jacket, shorter than the thigh length Maisie favored, was set upon her shoulders. Pale gray piping edged the jacket, and a gray silk handkerchief was tucked into a breast pocket. Maisie brushed a few specks of lint from her dress, which she suddenly felt to be pitifully behind the times. Priscilla turned to face her; then, with a beaming smile, quickly but elegantly unfolded her long legs and rose from the chair.

  “Maisie, darling, you look absolutely smashing. It must be love!”

  “Oh, come on, Pris.” Maisie kissed Priscilla on both cheeks before the women stood back to appraise each other.

  “Well, I’ll say this for you, you don’t have wrinkles.” Priscilla reached into her bag and pulled out a fresh cigarette, which she pressed into an ebony holder. Maisie remembered the flourish with which Priscilla would smoke her illicit cigarettes when they were at Girton, waving the holder to emphasize a point, sometimes blowing a perfect smoke ring before saying, “Well, if you want my opinion…” which she would give without waiting for a response.

  Priscilla put her arm through Maisie’s and led her conspiratorially toward the Grill Room. “Now then, I want to know everything—and I mean everything, especially about whoever it is that has given you a twinkle in your eye. I know you’ve had a couple of suitors, and I know that twinkle. I remember seeing it when we went to Simon’s leaving party. Do you remember—” Priscilla stopped suddenly. “Oh, God. Sorry, Maisie, I didn’t mean—”

  “Oh, not to worry, Pris. It was a long time ago. And it was a wonderful party, the best of my life.” Maisie smiled to let Priscilla know that a reference to Simon was not ill-timed. Captain Simon Lynch was the young army doctor whom she had loved, but whose terrible injuries in the Great War had rendered him incapacitated in body and mind.