Maisie Dobbs (26 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

M
aisie waited anxiously at Maurice Blanche’s cottage. Billy had been at The Retreat for three days, and each evening at seven o’clock, Maisie set off in Lady Rowan’s MG, along country lanes filled with the lingering aroma of Queen Anne’s Lace and privet, to meet Billy Beale by the perimeter fence, across the road from the ancient beech tree.

Each evening, with summer midges buzzing around her head, she watched as Billy approached. First she would see his head, bobbing up and down in the distance, as he walked across the fallow fields of tall grass. Then as he came closer, his wheaten hair reflected the setting sun, and Maisie wondered why no one noticed Billy Beale taking a walk each evening.

“Evenin’, Miss,” said Billy as he curled back the fence wire and clambered through.

“Billy, how are you?” As always, Maisie was both relieved and delighted to see Billy.“You’ve caught the sun, Billy,” she remarked.

“Reckon I ’ave at that, Miss.” Billy rubbed at his cheeks. “All this working on the land, that’s what’s done it.”

“And how is it, the working on the land?”

“’Not bad at all, Miss. And it seems to do these lads good. You should see some of them. Seems that they were right down in the dumps when they came ‘ere. Then slowly, like, the work and the fact that no one looks twice at them starts to give them the, you know, the sort of confidence they need.”

“Nothing unusual, Billy?”

“Can’t say as there is, Miss. O’ course, not that I can go around asking questions, but I keep my eyes open, and it seems like it’s all on the up and up. The major is a funny bloke, but ’e’s doing ’is bit, i’n’e? And now that there’s space ’ere, what with some fellas gone, they’re taking other blokes, with other injuries, not just to the face and ’ead, like. But you know that, don’t you, otherwise I wouldn’t be ’ere, not with this fine lookin’ physog.”

Billy grinned at Maisie and rubbed his chin.

“Quite, Billy. So is everyone happy there?”

“I should say so, Miss. Not much to dislike, is there? Mind you, there is one bloke, has some terrible scars on his face, just ’ere.”

Billy turned his head to the right, and with the forefinger of his left hand indicated a line going from his ear, to his jaw, then to his chest. He grimaced, then continued.

“I think ’e’s ’ad enough of being out ’ere—says that he feels good and well enough to get back to the real world.”

“And what does the major say to that?”

“I don’t know that ’e’s said anything, Miss. I think they like ’em to give it some thought, you know, them as wants to leave.”

“What makes you say that? What would stop someone from just leaving? It’s in the contract that you can leave when you want.”

“Well, what I’ve ’eard is that some blokes get back their confidence and next thing you know, they want to go back out, face the world. Then when they get back out, they find that it ain’t all that rosy, that they get the stares an’ all. Apparently that’s ’appened a few times, and the blokes topped themselves.”

“Is that what you’ve heard, Billy?”

“’ere and there. You ’ear talk. They think that this fella, who’s wanting to get back to what ’e calls the ‘real world,’ is worrying the major. Seems the major has said ’e’s . . . What was it ’e was supposed to ’ave said?”

Billy closed his eyes and scratched the back of his head. As he did so, Maisie saw the red sunburn at his neck, the farm laborer’s “collar.”

“That’s it. The major ’as said ’e’s suspectible.”

“Do you mean susceptible, Billy?”

Billy smiled again.“Yes, reckon that’s it, Miss.”

“Anything else, Billy?”

“Not really, Miss. The major seems a really good bloke, Miss. I don’t know what ’appened to those fellas you found out about. P’raps they left and then was the type what couldn’t stand up to bein’ on the outside. But I will say this. There’s blokes ’ere what love the major, you know. Think ’e’s a lifesaver. And I s’pose ’e is really, when you think about it. Given some boys a way of life since the war, boys who thought they ’ad none.”

Maisie noted Billy’s comments on index cards and nodded her head. Slipping the cards and the pencil into her work-worn black document case with the silver clasp, she looked directly at Billy.

“Same time tomorrow evening, Billy?”

“Yes, Miss. Although, Miss . . . can we make it a bit earlier? ’bout ’alf past six? Some of the boys are ’aving a snooker tournament. Like to give it a go if I can. Join in with a bit of fun, like.”

Maisie was silent for some seconds before replying.“Right you are, Billy. But keep your eyes open, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry, Miss. If there’s anything funny goin’ on ’ere I’ll find out all about it.”

Maisie watched as Billy turned and walked through the field again. She walked back across the road, opened the car door, and sat down in the driver’s seat, leaving the door ajar to watch Billy become but a speck in the distance.

Had she made a mistake? Had her gift, her intuition, played tricks on her? Were the deaths of Vincent—and the other boys who used only one name—suicide? Or simply coincidence? She sighed as she started up the MG again.

Maisie spent her days at Chelstone close to the telephone. She would pass a precious hour or two with her father each day, but quickly returned to the dower house in case she was needed. Together she and Maurice went over old cases for clues and inspiration, and speculated over the details of life at The Retreat.

“I would very much have liked to see the postmortem findings on our friend Vincent, and his colleagues.”

“I located the inquest proceedings, and it seems that they were all attributed to ‘accidental death’ in some form or another.”

“Indeed, Maisie. But I would like to inspect the details, to observe through the eyes of the examiner, so that hopefully I might see what he did not. Let’s go back over the notes. Who conducted Vincent’s postmortem?”

Maisie passed Maurice the report.

“Hmmm. Signed by the coroner, and not the attending examiner.”

Maurice stood up and walked around the room.

“To solve a problem, walk around,” he said, noticing her smile.

How often in the past had they worked together in this way, Maisie sitting on the floor, legs crossed in front of her, Maurice in his leather chair. He would get up, pace the floor with his hands together as if in prayer, while Maisie closed her eyes in meditation and breathed deeply, as she had been instructed years ago by Khan.

Suddenly Maurice stopped walking, and at almost the same moment, so close that neither would have been able to say who was first, Maisie came to her feet.

“What is it that you find so interesting about the reports, Maisie?”

She looked at Maurice.“It is not the actual contents of the report, Maurice. It is the lack of detail. There’s nothing to go on, no loose threads. There’s not the slightest particle of information for us to work with.”

“Correct. It is too clean. Far too clean. Let me see . . .” Maurice flipped the pages back.“Ah, yes. Let me telephone my friend the chief inspector. He should be able to help me.” He looked at the time, it was half past nine in the evening. “Indeed, he should be delighted to help me—his interior will have been warmed by his second single malt of the evening.”

Maisie took her place on the cushion again and waited for Maurice. She heard his muffled voice coming from the room next door, the rhythm of his speech not quite English yet not quite Continental. The telephone receiver was replaced on the cradle with an audible thump, and Maurice returned.

“Interesting. Extremely interesting. It seems that the attending examiner in the case of Vincent, and likely also in the other cases, was on call in the early hours of the morning, with his duty ending at half past eight—and so was able to go to The Retreat immediately after he was summoned. He returned home after completing his cursory examination and writing a brief report. His name, Maisie, is Jenkins. Armstrong Jenkins. Something of a coincidence, I think. And the examination lists time of death at . . . let me see . . . yes, it was at five o’clock in the morning.”

“Dawn,” said Maisie.

Maisie leafed through the papers that she had spread across Maurice’s desk. Her mentor came to her side.

“Maurice. They died at dawn. The time of death for each of the men buried at Nether Green is dawn.”

“An almost mystical hour, don’t you think, Maisie?”

Maurice clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the window.

“A time when the light is most likely to deceive the eye, a time between sleep and waking. A time when a man is likely to be at his weakest. Dawn is a time when soft veils are draped across reality, creating illusion and cheating truth. It is said, Maisie, it is darkest just before dawn.”

“S
o there’s still nothing much to tell you, Miss.”

Billy Beale stood with his hands in the pockets of his light sailcloth summer trousers, and kicked at the dry ground between his feet. He had been at The Retreat for only a week.

“Don’t worry, Billy. It wasn’t definite that you would find something. You’re only going to be here a short time anyway. I just thought that some inside observations might be helpful.”

Maisie moved to stand next to Billy, and without his noticing, adopted the same stance. She was wearing trousers again, and a light cotton blouse, so it was easy for her to place her hands in her pockets, emulating Billy’s pose exactly.

He’s embarrassed about something, thought Maisie. There’s something he doesn’t want to tell me. As Billy moved in discomfort, so did Maisie. She closed her eyes and felt Billy’s dilemma.

“And you think this Adam Jenkins is a good man, do you, Billy?”

Billy kicked at the ground again, and though his face was tanned from working on the land, she saw a deep blush move from his chin to his cheeks.

“Well, yes, reckon I do, Miss. And I feel awful, at times. After what ’e’s done for them, ’ere I am sniffin’ around for something nasty.”

“I can see how that might be difficult for you, Billy. You admire Adam Jenkins.”

“Yes. Yes, I admire the man.”

“That’s good, Billy.”

Maisie turned to face Billy and with the intensity of her gaze compelled him to look back at her.

“That’s good. That you admire the man. It’ll make your time here easier, and what I ask you to do easier.”

“’ow do you mean?”

“Just go about your business, Billy. Just go about doing what you have to do here. You don’t have to do anything other than be yourself. Although I do request two things:That we keep to our evening meetings, that’s one. The other is that you take care to maintain your assumed name. Do not give anything away. Is that clear?”

Billy relaxed as Maisie spoke to him, and nodded his head.

“I just want to know about your days. That’s all, Billy. Then next week I’ll come and collect you. In fact, I’ll come tomorrow if you want.”

“No. No, miss. I’ll stay on as we agreed. Don’t expect I’ll find anything, though. These ’ere meetings might get a bit boring.”

Maisie nodded her head, and continued to mirror Billy’s movements with her own.

“Just one more thing, Billy. About the man who wanted to leave. Remember, you told me about him? What’s happened to him?”

“Can’t say as I’ve seen ’im for a day or so. Mind you, that’s not unusual, if one of the fellas wants to ’ave a bit of time alone. Like they do.”

Billy stopped speaking, kicked his feet at the ground, then looked up at Maisie.

“What is it, Billy?”

“Just a thought, though. So keen to leave, ’e was. End of the month, ’e said. Wouldn’t think ’e wanted any time to ’imself, now I come to think about it.”

Maisie made no move to agree or disagree. “Like I said, Billy. You don’t need to go snooping around. Just meet me here every day.”

“Right you are, Miss. Now then. Best be going, before I’m missed.”

Maisie waited a second before responding to Billy’s movement toward the fence.

“Billy . . .”

“Yes, Miss?”

With his good knee bent, ready to go through the hole in the fence, Billy turned to meet Maisie’s direct stare.

“Billy. Don’t you think that someone would understand that you just needed some time to yourself—if you’re back a bit late, that is?”