Pardonable Lies
On the morning of October 3, she set off for Cambridge, to be collected at the station by Sir Cecil’s chauffeur and driven over to Saplings. Lawton’s manservant, Brayley, was there to greet her when the motor car pulled up alongside the house. He did not allow his eyes to meet hers but instead executed a shallow bow before offering to take her coat.
“Sir Cecil will see you in the drawing room, Miss Dobbs.” He spoke as if their conversation on the street in Cambridge had never happened, as if he had never warned her to cease her investigation on behalf of his employer.
“Thank you.” Maisie walked past him, not waiting for him to escort her to the drawing room. She knocked and entered.
“Ah, Miss Dobbs. Good morning. I understand you have been unwell, a chill caught while in France.” Lawton betrayed his nervousness with cordial chatter. “I must say, that was probably all my fault for sending you there on a wild goose chase in the first place, but jolly good show for going and for being so thorough with your investigations per my brief to you. Of course, it’s not as if I didn’t know, you know—”
“Sir Cecil, may I sit down?” Maisie thought it interesting that this man who was so assured in court was actually quite clumsy outside his preferred milieu. But then, this was no ordinary interview.
“Yes, do take a seat. Brayley will be here with morning coffee shortly. I must say, I am gasping for a cup.”
“Sir Cecil, I have arrived at the following conclusions regarding your son.”
Sir Cecil Lawton was sitting on the edge of his buttoned leather chair. Now, realizing that it made him look less than the important man he was, he sat back and tried to assume a more relaxed position. “Go on.”
“I began by comparing Ralph’s records with what we have been given to understand occurred in France. I can tell you that your son was a brave aviator who served his country to the highest standards. He accepted the most dangerous of assignments.”
Lawton nodded. Maisie paused to consider his posture, his demeanor. Is there sadness? Does he demonstrate regret?
“In fact, I do believe you may be unaware that on several occasions he delivered intelligence agents to their fields of operation behind enemy lines, work that demanded skill and courage.” Maisie saw Lawton raise his eyebrows, but he said nothing. He wants only for me to tell him that his son is dead. “Naturally, this information is in complete confidence. We are both bound by our loyalty to our country, Sir Cecil, and this information was procured at considerable risk.”
“Your report will remain within the walls of this room.”
“Thank you. The assignment that led to the crash was a particularly dangerous one executed at dusk. He was required to fly into enemy territory to drop a hamper of carrier pigeons for use by an agent he had previously transported to the area. His De Havilland came under enemy fire and he crashed. His craft exploded into flames upon impact.”
“And my son was killed.”
Maisie paused until Sir Cecil met her eyes with his own. She had considered her words with care. “I can confirm that Ralph Lawton died in the inferno.”
Sir Cecil exhaled deeply, though Maisie could see that it was a sigh of relief and not of regret.
“As you know, his remains are buried at Arras and commemorated there, along with others from the Flying Corps who gave their lives in the war.”
“Did he suffer? Do you think he suffered?”
Maisie reflected on the scarring on the neck and hands of the man who called himself Daniel Roberts, or the young boy in a photograph with his best friend, and on the man who had now found a semblance of peace.
“I cannot make this easier for you, Sir Cecil. I believe he suffered, though he is in a better place now.”
They were silent for a while, during which time Lawton’s manservant came to the drawing room bearing a mahogany tray with a silver coffee service and white china cups and saucers. The strong smell of fresh coffee brought Maurice to mind, and Maisie felt his presence, remembering his teachings upon the nature of truth. They had spent many hours of her apprenticeship speaking of the distinctions between fact and truth and the nature of the lie. Indeed, it was the powerful yet cloudy haze between those distinctions that had been at the heart of their recent discord.
“You have done well, Miss Dobbs. I wish my wife were still with me so that she could also hear your report. It would have served her better than the lies she heard from those crackpot mischief-makers.”
“Your wife did what she thought best, Sir Cecil. And their words brought comfort along with turmoil.” Maisie paused and reached into her document case. “My written report will follow. In the meantime, I have brought my final invoice, together with an accounting in respect of expenses for your perusal.”
Lawton reached for the envelope, taking out the page that bore Maisie’s account. “Let me deal with this now. I will return in a moment with a check for you.”
“Thank you.”
Maisie stood and looked around the room, noticing a collection of silver-framed photographs on a sideboard. She walked across the thick carpet and examined each photograph in turn. Most were taken in studios, formal sittings of Sir Cecil and Lady Agnes Lawton individually, as a couple, and then with their son, a frail-looking boy, with a countenance that seemed sad. Then she turned to another photograph of father and son. Though it was not taken in a studio, it had the hallmarks of formality, of the rules of behavior that each was bound to maintain. Maisie smiled, remembering the wall of photographs at the Partridge villa in Biarritz, of the three boys caught laughing, perhaps scrambling over their father in good-natured high jinks, then another showing Douglas with his arm around his eldest son as they both peered into a tide pool, trousers rolled up, heads close. There was truth in the images in front of her, a truth that helped her bear the weight of the story she had recounted to Sir Cecil: Ralph Lawton had suffered but was now free.
“There you are.” Lawton entered the room and handed Maisie a check. She glanced at the figure and noticed that the amount was a sum greater than that indicated in her final bill.
“Sir Cecil, I—”
He held up a hand. “Not only did you execute your investigation to a degree of thoroughness beyond that which I expected, but I have received word that charges against Miss Avril Jarvis have been dropped. She will be released on Monday. Of course, there are some administrative details, but the result is minimal work for my chambers.”
“Thank you, Sir Cecil.”
“Thank you, Miss Dobbs. My wife can rest in peace now, as does my son.”
Maisie walked toward the door, turning to her client on the threshold. She held out her hand. “You can rest too, Sir Cecil. You have kept your promise. Good day.”
AS SHE LEFT the room, Maisie was met by Brayley, who was to escort her to the motor car for her return to the railway station. She stopped, touched him on the arm, and pointed to the corridor that she supposed led to the kitchens.
“May I have a word?”
The man faltered, his face reddening. Their last conversation had proved adversarial on his part, but in this house he was subordinate. “Of course, m’um.”
They walked along the corridor until they reached an alcove with a bay window looking out onto the grounds.
“This will do.” Maisie looked around to ensure that they were alone. “You threatened me, Mr. Brayley?”
“Please, m’um, in my loyalty to my employer, I suffered a lapse in judgment. I beg of you, please do not speak to Sir Cecil of my visit to see you.”
“If I was going to speak of it, I would have done so by now. And after you came to see me, you came to watch me, to discover what I might have found out by following me.”
The man shook his head. “I just wanted to protect him. His son had a…a past. It would be a terrible thing if people knew, if your investigations revealed the truth.”
Maisie paused, again checking the pulse of the conversation. “And was it you who caused me to crash my motor car? Was it you who ran fr
om Goodge Street station into my path?”
The man frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Yes, I admit, I followed you on two occasions and was even watching you come and go from your accommodations. I thought I might be able to talk to you again, but I did not try to cause you injury.”
Maisie frowned and nodded. She believed him but was not mollified. “You acted foolishly, Mr. Brayley. I could have you locked up for your behavior.”
“I beg of you—”
Maisie raised her hand. “Be calm. I might have sought to protect my employer in the same way.” She looked out at the view over the gardens, and then back at the manservant. “You must never speak of this again, of the promise Sir Cecil made.”
“I never have, m’um.”
Maisie pulled on her gloves. “I’m ready to leave now.”
They walked toward the waiting motor, and as the haggard manservant held the door for her she whispered to him, “Your secrets are safe. Goodbye, Mr. Brayley.”
As the motor car made its way slowly down the gravel driveway, Maisie leaned forward to watch as the flat fenlands swept past. So Brayley had tried to scare her, had tried to hamper her investigation into the life and death of Ralph Lawton, but he had not tried to kill her. Now she must move on, to explore the next possibility. Though tired, she knew she was regaining strength. And she would need strength to meet the person who would have her dead.
IT HAD BEEN another long day. Tomorrow she would go to Chelstone, though she had not decided whether to drive or travel by train. When she arrived back at Ebury Place, Sandra informed her that Eric was anxious to see her: He had collected the repaired MG just that morning and could not wait for her to see it. Despite the fact that she was gasping for a cup of tea, Maisie went directly to the mews that ran parallel along the rear of Ebury Place, to the garage where the Compton motor cars were kept. The old Lanchester was kept shining. Despite the fact that Lord Compton was now generally transported in the newer Rolls-Royce, he preferred to retain the Lanchester for sentimental reasons. “It’s a damn good motor,” he had been heard to say to George, his personal chauffeur. Though dwarfed by the Lanchester, the MG took pride of place and was gleaming as Maisie entered the garage.
“Oh, my goodness! What a wonderful job!”
Eric moved around the vehicle bearing a chamois, which he used to buff a hardly visible mark here or a speck of dust there. “I tell you, that Reg Martin is a right genius with a motor, specializes in coach work, and is a true craftsman.” He paused to stand back and admire the MG. “You wouldn’t even know what she’s been through.”
Maisie nodded. “She’s a treat, Eric.” She raised her eyebrows. “But now I had better see the bill, hadn’t I?”
Eric shook his head. “All taken care of, m’um.”
“What on earth do you mean? The man doesn’t work for nothing. In fact, in these times I’m amazed he’s still in business. Why am I not to have a bill?”
“Better talk to His Lordship. Came out here himself, he did, while you were over there in France. Unlike him, really. You know, he don’t say much, His Lordship, but he instructed me to have the bill sent to him, said he got you into this, and if you hadn’t been working for his friend this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Oh, dear. I do so hate to be beholden.” Maisie touched her forehead, fingering the now-healed scar.
“Nah, you ain’t beholden, m’um. It’s him that’s beholden; that’s why he’s paid for the repairs. Now then, when’re you taking her out? You could take her down to Kent tomorrow. Nice run down early in the morning—”
Maisie shook her head. “No, Eric. Perhaps early next week. Perhaps I’ll take her for a spin then.”
Eric frowned. “Right you are, m’um. Soon as you’re ready, she’ll be here, spick-and-span.”
Maisie thanked the young man and turned to leave, but just as she reached the door, he called to her.
“M’um?”
“Yes?” Maisie turned to the young man.
“Just in case you change your mind, I’ll have her out in the mews nice and early. And if you like, what with it being your first time out after your accident, I’ll go with you. I can come back on the train. I remember talking to old Reg, and he said that after a driver has come a bit of a cropper, it’s nice to have company.”
Maisie smiled. “That’s a very generous offer, Eric. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”
Reaching her rooms, Maisie sat at her desk, reaching into her document case for the manila folder in which she had kept her notes on the Lawton case. A clutch of index cards were tucked inside the flap, ready to place into the card file when the case was closed, so that all references would be maintained for future use, should they be required.
She tapped her green fountain pen on the edge of the wooden desk. On Monday she would travel to visit Jeremy Hazleton and his wife. She needed to see Ralph Lawton’s old friend one more time. Maisie made a church and steeple with her fingers, resting her head on clasped hands with her elbows on the desk. She thought for a while, then took out the notes she had made during the conversation with Andrew three weeks ago, when she had sought not a personal conversation but, instead, his medical knowledge and his specific training in orthopedics.
A fire crackled in the grate, drawing Maisie away from her desk to the armchair. She gazed into the flames licking up toward the chimney, allowing her mind to wander the caverns created by the hot coals before her. Perhaps I should get behind the wheel again. Perhaps I should accept Eric’s offer. I’ll see how I feel in the morning. But as she fought to keep her heavy eyes open, a sensation crossed her heart that she immediately put down to one of trepidation regarding the act of driving a motor car again. She was so tired she did not consider that her intuition had spoken.
Maisie rose later than usual to a day that seemed bright enough, but with a few threatening clouds in the sky. She bathed, collected her weekend bag, and took the liberty of knocking on the kitchen door and entering the servants’ domain.
“If you don’t mind, I thought I’d have a quick cup of tea here. It’s so quiet in the house, I feel like the only person in the world!”
Sandra and Teresa were counting linens and Eric, the footman cum chauffeur, was leaning against the sink, a cup of tea and a biscuit in hand. He turned quickly as Maisie entered.
“Don’t stop drinking your tea, Eric. I’ve just come in for a bit of company. In any case, I wanted to speak to you about the MG.”
“She’s been outside in the mews since seven this morning, m’um, waiting for you just in case you decided to drive.”
“Well, I think I should.” She smiled at Sandra, who had just placed a fresh pot of tea and a china cup in front of her. “It’s a fine day, so I’ll take the bull by the horns. I am delighted to have her back, so I will drive!”
“Good for you, m’um!” Eric put his cup into the sink and went toward the back door. “But if you think you need someone—”
Maisie raised a hand. “No, that’s not necessary, Eric, but your offer is a kind one, as I said yesterday.”
“Right then, I’ll just run the duster over her one last time and get her started for you.”
“I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
Eric touched his cap and left the kitchen. Sandra and Teresa looked at each other and shook their heads.
Maisie joined Eric in the mews exactly fifteen minutes later, the MG’s engine idling as he continued to sweep the duster back and forth across the bonnet. “There won’t be anything left of Mr. Martin’s paintwork if you go on like that!” said Maisie.
“Got to have her perfect for you.” He pushed the duster into a back pocket and reached for Maisie’s bag, which he placed in the boot before opening the door. “Take it nice and easy, m’um, and you’ll forget that little bump on the Tottenham Court Road ever happened!” He tapped the bonnet twice as Maisie put the car in gear and drove slowly out of the mews.
Through London
, out along the Old Kent Road, and on toward Sevenoaks, the traffic was light and the weather good, though not quite good enough to brave the elements with the roof drawn back. At first driving no faster than ten miles per hour, Maisie quickly gained confidence and by the time the city streets had given way to the new suburbia and then the Weald of Kent, it seemed that Eric was right: The accident might never have happened. She would put it all to the back of her mind. River Hill lay just ahead; then she would be on toward Tonbridge, followed by Chelstone. She turned her thoughts to lighter matters as she drove, changing gears to pass a horse and cart and then accelerating to fifty miles an hour along the almost-empty road.
The girls in the kitchen had been full of talk about the airship that was to leave England for Paris at the weekend. The R-101 was a feat of engineering and a symbol of spirited adventure. Maisie found that their conversation was often about such things, of the places they would go “if they had the money,” of the houses they would live in if they were blessed with riches, and the clothes they would wear if they married a wealthy man. The kitchen was their cocoon against the reality of the economic crisis that gripped the country.
Counting her good fortune, Maisie changed gear as she approached the hill and applied the brake pedal at the top. She heard the whine of the gears, a force she expected to be accompanied by the pull of the brakes. She pressed her foot to the brake pedal again: nothing. She changed to an even lower gear, sitting forward as the long winding hill curved downward, but despite her dexterity with the controls of the MG, she felt the car begin to careen out of control. Oh, God, please, help me. She pressed the brake pedal to the floor hard again, yet still there was nothing. She pulled back on the gear and played the hand brake back and forth, all measures that proved inadequate to this dangerous mix of gradient and velocity. Now, both hands on the wheel, she felt her body twist and turn with each curl of the road, the hill pulling her down, down.