“Oh.”
“Yes, poor man couldn’t keep away from the bottle. Died of liver failure. Daniel did everything to help him, nursed him at the end, even.” Priscilla’s smile had evaporated. “Ricky just couldn’t forget the war, couldn’t put it behind him. Probably something to do with his hands; they were terribly scarred from burns.” Priscilla folded her arms as she spoke “Mind you, scars aren’t that unusual among the boys, are they? Look at Douglas. Daniel has some nasty scars too, right here.” She lifted her chin and indicated a swath of skin from her ear to her neck, then shook her head. “Ricky’s death made me shudder, I can tell you. It made me realize, more than ever, that Douglas had come along at just the right time for me.”
Maisie nodded. “I’m glad you found each other.”
Priscilla leaned toward Maisie and kissed her on each cheek. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m all in.”
“I think I’ll just go out onto the terrace for a little bit of calm before I go to bed.”
“You never change, Maisie—and I love you for it! See you in the morning.” She squeezed Maisie’s hand and turned to make her way along the tiled hallway.
“Good night, Pris.”
Maisie opened the French doors and walked onto a terrace at the side of the house. A cool breeze skimmed across her skin, and she pulled the cashmere wrap around her shoulders. A few minutes passed before she turned, came back into the house, and, instead of making her way to the main wing and the guest rooms, switched on the stair light. She mounted the stairs quickly, searching for that one photograph once again, that sunny day amid the many sunny days in Priscilla’s rogues’ gallery. Leaning closer, she found the image and squinted to inspect the brown-spotted photograph, the now-fading face; then she stepped away, turned off the light, and made her way downstairs and through the night-quiet house.
TWENTY-THREE
It was not until the afternoon of Maisie’s first full day in Biarritz that she finally had some time to herself. The house seemed to become silent quite suddenly. The boys attended a local school in the morning, followed by lunch at home and two hours with their private tutor; then, when their pent-up energy seemed ready to raise the rafters, Elinor, the Welsh nanny who had finally returned from the clutches of her Basque boyfriend, took them to the beach. Douglas worked in his study while Priscilla claimed a nap before dinner. Maisie had procured Daniel Roberts’s address from Giles, along with directions to his house, and set off, walking briskly down the hill before turning left and continuing on her way.
Eventually, she came to the narrow walled hillside road that led to Villa Bleu. Maisie made her way along the street where the rough walls were overhung with ivy, then stood for a while outside the cast-iron gate that led into the property’s walled gardens. She peered through to a cobbled patio interspersed with raised flower beds, still colorful with end-of-summer blooms. The modest villa immediately beyond was painted in a wash of pale blue that seemed to reflect the sky and the sea in the distance. An arched entrance led to a heavy wooden door. Maisie unlatched the gate and made her way along the path.
A wicker shopping basket and a pair of brown leather sandals had been cast aside by the door, along with a wet towel. A leather dog leash hung over the back of a wooden chair. Maisie reached forward and pulled on a knotted fisherman’s rope, which rang the large brass bell above. She winced as the clanging broke the afternoon silence. A dog in the distance barked just once; then there was silence again. She reached up and clanged again before hearing the single bark and a man shouting, “All right, all right, I’m coming,” in a mixture of French and English. Maisie saw a silhouette pass the window, and the door opened to reveal a tall man with jet-black hair that was wet and slicked back. He was wearing a fine cotton shirt and linen trousers rolled up to mid-calf.
“Bonjour.” His greeting was curt.
“Please, do you speak English?” Maisie felt a need for the greater confidence offered by conversation in her native language.
The man raised his hand, his finger and thumb just half an inch apart to indicate his ability. “Un peu. A little.”
Maisie smiled, and the man smiled broadly in return.
“I was hoping to see Mr. Roberts. Is he at home?”
“Ah, you have a problem with the automobile? Yes? Then you must go to the town, to Mr. Roberts’s business.”
Maisie shook her head. “No. Non. I have no automobile here. I would like to see Mr. Roberts on a personal matter.”
The man shrugged and made a point of looking at his watch. “Come in. I will see if he can meet with you. Your name?”
“Maisie Dobbs.”
He opened the door wider to allow Maisie to enter the room, which seemed almost chilly in the shadows of late afternoon. “Wait here. I will check.” Before closing the door, the man reached for the leather sandals and then padded through the entrance hall, along a hallway, and was gone. In the distance, Maisie could see a veranda similar to those at Priscilla’s house, though this one was decorated with shrubs planted in white and blue pots of varying sizes. She heard voices and then shoe-clad footsteps coming closer, along with the click-click-click of dog claws on tile.
Daniel Roberts came toward her, accompanied by a black Great Dane walking at heel. At first, she did not recognize the man, for his hair was completely white. It was not the gray of age, or an inherited color, but rather the shock of white that is known to follow terror.
“Miss Dobbs?”
“Yes. It’s good of you to see me, Mr. Roberts.” Maisie stood firm before Roberts, even though the dog had positioned itself not alongside his owner, but next to Maisie. She reached down with her hand and stroked the broad head. “What a magnificent creature.”
“He’s rather regal, isn’t he? The breed was Attila the Hun’s preferred dog of war, you know. They are ever-watchful but seldom feel the need to become a nuisance with incessant barking. His name is Ritz. Short and sweet.” He paused, making no move to invite Maisie to be seated in comfort. “What can I do for you, Miss Dobbs? People usually only want to see me about motor cars, and yet Paul tells me that you have no motor here.”
“I wonder, can we sit down? I have come to see you on a matter of some delicacy.”
Roberts smiled, almost as if he understood the purpose of her visit, and in that moment Maisie knew that, despite the scar that became visible as he turned into the light, this was the man she had seen before in photographs. Leading the way through to the veranda, Roberts pointed to two cushioned wicker chairs with a table in between. Maisie sat down first, followed by her host.
“Now then, I think I should come straight to the point, Mr. Roberts, so that no time is wasted.”
“Yes, do.” His voice was teasing, almost sarcastic.
Maisie rested her hand on one arm of the chair and turned to face Roberts in a manner that was neither urgent nor too relaxed. He sat up and leaned slightly toward her.
“Mr. Roberts, I conduct inquiries of a highly confidential nature for my clients. A couple of weeks ago I was retained by Sir Cecil Lawton, to prove that his son, an aviator, was indeed killed in the war.” Maisie paused for just a second to gauge Roberts’s emotions. He had not moved and was completely attentive, though Maisie detected the tweak of a half smile at the corner of his mouth. She continued. “My investigation naturally led me to France and now to Biarritz.” Maisie inclined her head and looked straight into Roberts’s eyes. “So, Ralph, that is why I am here.”
The man before her was silent, the muscles in his neck taut in a way that emphasized the scar where intense heat had seared his flesh. He held her gaze for half a moment and then looked away.
“Ralph?”
“You are mistaken, Miss—”
“Dobbs.” Maisie smiled. “I have come a long way, Ralph.”
“Look, I’m telling you I am not any Tom, Dick, Harry or Ralph. My name is Daniel Roberts.” Visibly shaking, the man stood up and moved toward the door as if to swiftly expedite departure of t
he unwanted guest.
“Wait!” Maisie remained seated, reaching into her shoulder bag before turning once again. There were two photographs in her hand. “I’m sorry, Ralph, even with time, with scars and with a new identity, I could recognize you anywhere.” She held out the first photograph, of two young men laughing after a game of tennis a carefree lifetime ago.
The man was silent again, taking the photograph and looking at it before reaching for the second photograph, which bore the image of the same two young men at the Café Druk. The black dog at his side began to whimper.
“Mr. Lawton? Ralph?”
“Yes?”
“It is you, isn’t it?”
Ralph Lawton nodded and then spoke, the words catching in his throat. “It’s been quite a long time since anyone called me by that name.” He placed the photographs on an adjacent table.
“How long?”
Lawton’s eyes flashed and Maisie felt the energy of his delayed anger almost as if it were a sudden cold breeze. Then he laughed. “I don’t believe it. The old man finally found someone to track me down!”
Maisie frowned but did not counter the outburst.
Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his beige trousers, Lawton paced back and forth. “Of course, you do realize, don’t you, Miss Dobbs, that you can never tell him where I am, can never tell anyone that I am here.”
“My client—”
Lawton stopped in front of Maisie and leaned toward her from the waist, his hands still in his pockets. She thought he looked like a recalcitrant schoolboy. “He doesn’t want to know. Not really. No, he retained you knowing—believing—that you would only go through the motions, confirm my death, collect your fee, and then he could go on as if nothing had happened, his conscience clear.”
Maisie responded quickly, before Lawton could reflect on his words. “Ralph, how do you know the truth of your father’s feelings toward you now?”
Lawton paced again, and then he came back to Maisie, taking his chair in a manner that revealed his frustration. “My name is Mr. Roberts, to you, Miss Dobbs.” He took a deep breath and leaned forward again, addressing Maisie as one might speak to a person who is hard of hearing. “He-does-not-love-me. He does not even like me, Miss Dobbs. He would be appalled to know I am alive. His world—and mine, come to that—would fall asunder if he were forced to acknowledge me again.”
“How do you know? After all, time—”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Come on! Don’t give me any ‘time heals’ nonsense. You have no idea, no idea what you are talking about.” Lawton’s voice had almost reached screaming pitch, and now he issued a deep sigh. “Look at me. Look at who I am, what I have here.” He waved his hand around the veranda, at the house. “Look at my friend, Paul. Then when you see my father, look at him, his world. There is no place for me. There is no place for us as father and son, as family.”
Maisie nodded. Yes, she understood.
“You know about your mother?”
He nodded, pressing his lips together and looking away so that Maisie could not see his face.
“I read it in The Times.” He shrugged, giving a nervous half laugh. “Hardly ever read a newspaper, but a customer left a copy at my garage. I suppose someone up there wanted me to know….” His words drifted. Then he turned to Maisie. “I don’t know anything about you, Miss Dobbs, but please don’t bring your preconceived notions of family to my house and think you can fit the word Lawton into it. We were born of the same blood, but we are not…not joined. There is nothing here.” He thumped his chest with his fist, then pressed his closed hand to his mouth. He turned to Maisie with tears in his eyes and went on. “Can you possibly grasp how difficult it was to build a life here? To make something of myself, something I could never have done if I had gone back after the war? I am someone to myself here. There I am nothing. Nothing. I am nothing because I am the son of Cecil Lawton, KC, and I am not sir material.”
There was silence between them. Maisie noticed that as his voice became more urgent, the giant dog had rested his head on his master’s knee as if to quell his temper, to calm him. Lawton leaned forward, held his face to the animal’s soft cheek, and looked up at Maisie.
“You have done a good job, Miss Dobbs. I am in awe of your tenacity and skill. I suspect, however, that you are a woman of some depth, so listen: I am Daniel Roberts. Ralph Lawton died in a ball of flames when he was shot down in the war. His grave is at Arras; you should visit it to make sure. I am sorry. I cannot help you.”
Maisie nodded. “One last thing, Mr.—Roberts. I am curious to know how you came to Biarritz.”
Lawton was silent for a moment, considering Maisie’s question. Then he turned to her, his eyes narrowed against the sun. “To tell you the truth, I can barely remember it. I did not come out of the crash unscathed, even though the fire didn’t start until after I had fought to land in one piece—I had only seconds before…” He sighed, then continued. “I was hidden—heaven knows where, in a cottage, a barn, a very lonely place—for a day or two. My wounds were tended by a young woman. I saw the man who dragged me from the aeroplane just once. I remember knowing I had seen him before, that even though he had worn a balaclava and was disguised, this was the man that I’d brought in. He was the reason I was on my way back to that field, to drop a hamper of pigeons—which I managed to throw out.” Lawton gave another half laugh. “He came to tell me that I would be taken from the village, that people would pass me from one to the other. I think he was leaving too; it was probably too dangerous for him to stay after my aerobatics display. He told me they would try to get me on a train for wounded that went to the coast, that hospitals for the French soldiers were there, that I should remain mute and I would be considered shell-shocked. I thought my best bet might be to try to get into Switzerland, but they had a plan—and it seemed there were already quite a few German deserters making for the Swiss border.” Lawton plunged his hands into his pockets and looked out to sea. “I remember being moved under cover of darkness, as he’d described, from one village to the next. Then I awoke on a train full of wounded soldiers, so I did what I was told and kept my mouth shut.” He paused again, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t believe how many there were who had no name and no recollection of what had happened to them. I was just another anonymous soldier in a French uniform, another injured soul to bring back to health by the sea and then discharge.” Now he looked directly at Maisie. “It was too fortuitous an opportunity to allow it to slip through my fingers. I decided there and then that I could start again. I didn’t even need to invent a past for myself. People don’t ask a lot of questions here, you see—the answers can be too terrible to comprehend.”
Maisie nodded. Once again silence descended until Maisie asked one more question. “Do you know who Priscilla Partridge is?”
“Of course, everyone who was here after the war knew partying Prissie. But there again, people knew she’d had a terrible time; you could see it on her face.”
“But do you know who she is, Mr. Roberts?”
“What do you mean? Who is she?”
Maisie stood to leave, picked up her bag, and stroked the dog as she stepped alongside the man who called himself Roberts. “Her brother is the man who tried to save Ralph Lawton from the inferno after he crashed.”
Roberts held his hand to his forehead and ran his long scarred fingers back through the shock of white hair. “I—I—don’t understand. How could she have known?”
“She doesn’t. And it’s probably best left that way. But I thought you would like to know. Goodbye, Mr. Roberts. You have been most kind in allowing me so much of your time.” Maisie reached for the photographs as she turned to enter the house, then drew back her hand. She had no further need of them.
“Wait, wait! Wait a minute. Look, what will you say? To my father?”
Maisie inclined her head. “I am not sure yet. My clients place enormous trust in me, Mr. Roberts. I must respect that trust with the truth of my fi
ndings. So I do not yet know what I will say. But I also follow the maxim of a dear friend of mine, a doctor, who says, ‘First, do no harm.’ Hence, I will respect your wishes and your life here.”
After shaking Roberts by the hand, Maisie departed the house and walked away quickly into the dusky late afternoon. The sky was clear, the air chilly, so she pulled her new cashmere wrap around her shoulders as she made her way back to the Partridge villa. And as she walked, she knew her work was far from over, for now she bore the weight of truth regarding the true identity of Daniel Roberts.
DINNER THAT EVENING was a sparkling event, with friends invited from around the town, most of them expatriates, many artists or writers, one a photographer of landscapes. Maisie enjoyed a healthy appetite, realizing that lately she had eaten little, barely picking at each meal. There was first a course of terrines and pâtés served with crusty baguettes, followed by salad, then roast duck with a medley of vegetables that were so fresh and crisp that Maisie had seconds. Then a sweet chocolate mousse with candied cherries delighted the guests, and finally the cheese course. In Britain, at such a dinner, the ladies would have retired to the hostess’s salon as the cigars and port were brought out, leaving the men to speak of politics and sport. But here in Biarritz, the women remained at table, with one particularly tall woman, an actress, helping herself to a Havana cigar, which she clipped expertly, like a true aficionado.
Back and forth, the conversation crackled with opinions, a raised voice here, a laugh there, perhaps one voice holding court, then another in reply. Maisie found that, although burdened, she laughed with her companions and took part in the debate regarding the future of Europe, for the guests had all served in the war and were fearful of another. It was in the early hours that the company finally departed and Maisie made her way to her room, where she realized that Dene had been at the back of her mind for much of the evening. She had not written, as promised, nor had she sent a telegram. She must do so before leaving Biarritz tomorrow.