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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Maisie Dobbs
- Sprache: Englisch
It's early 1938, and Maisie Dobbs is back in England. On a fine yet chilly morning, as she walks towards Fitzroy Square - a place of many memories - she is intercepted by Brian Huntley and Robert MacFarlane of the Secret Service. The German government has agreed to release a British subject from prison, but only if he is handed over to a family member. Because the man's wife is bedridden and his daughter has been killed in an accident, the Secret Service wants Maisie - who bears a striking resemblance to the daughter - to retrieve the man from Dachau, on the outskirts of Munich. The British government is not alone in its interest in Maisie's travel plans. Her nemesis - the man she holds responsible for her husband's death - has learned of her journey, and is also desperate for her help. Traveling into the heart of Nazi Germany, Maisie encounters unexpected dangers - and finds herself questioning whether it's time to return to the work she loved. But the Secret Service may have other ideas . . .
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Seitenzahl: 438
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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JOURNEY TO MUNICH
A Maisie Dobbs Novel
JACQUELINE WINSPEAR
Contents
In Memory of Joyce Margaret Winspear 1927–2015
Even if the whole world was throwing rocks at you, if you had your mother at your back, you’d be okay. Some deep-rooted part of you would know you were loved. That you deserved to be loved.
– JOJO MOYES, ONE PLUS ONE
The wheel is come full circle, I am here.
– WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, KING LEAR
CHAPTER ONE
Holland Park, London, February 1938
The day was bright, the air crisp, with sunshine giving an impression of imminent spring, though as soon as a person ventured out from a warm, cocooned interior, a nip in the chill outdoors soon found its way to fingertips and toes.
Maisie Dobbs – as she preferred to be known, though she was now the bearer of a title through a marriage cut short – opened her eyes and decided it was mid-morning, given the way the sun was shining through a crack in the curtains. No one had disturbed her, no one had come to her room with breakfast or tea, though she supposed Priscilla would bring a tray soon, afraid to leave her friend alone and awake for too long.
Someone – likely the maid – had been in to light the fire, for the room was warm and a gentle heat skimmed across her skin. Upon first waking, she thought she was still in Spain. But the deep mattress, soft pillows, and sheets reminded her that this was not her stone cell; she was not in her plain wooden bed with only a blanket to keep her warm, and there was no one to minister to in this grand house in Holland Park, a world away from battle, from soldiers who came to her filth-covered and bloody.
From a simple community she had grown to love, Maisie had come home to England – at first to Kent, to be with her father and stepmother, then to share the lingering grief of bereavement with her in-laws, who had lost their only son. How could she ever explain to them that service – tending the terrible wounds of those who fought for freedom from oppression – had lifted her own deep melancholy? How would they feel if she admitted that in becoming a nurse again, she’d found a reason to go on? Only now could she come home to face the landscape of her former life, and find her way through its changed paths and byways.
It was Priscilla who tracked her down in Spain, Priscilla who had brought her home to England, and it was to Priscilla she had come following the muted celebrations of Christmas and New Year at Chelstone, the estate where her husband had grown to manhood. It was Priscilla, she knew, who would leave her alone to do what she needed to do in her own good time – unless, of course, Priscilla had other ideas.
‘Maisie? Maisie?’ The knock at the door was insistent, as if, having waited long enough, her friend would no longer allow the late-sleeping guest any quarter. ‘Time for tea and today’s gossip!’
The door opened, and Priscilla Partridge stepped into the room – now ‘Tante Maisie’s room’, according to her three sons, who had spent their early years in France – carrying a tray with tea, toast, and a boiled egg, her hands steadying the silver platter as she closed the door with her foot. ‘The egg is soft, the toast is hot and crisp, the tea strong, and as you may have guessed – I didn’t do a bloody thing! Thanks must go to Cook.’
‘Sorry – I slept late,’ said Maisie.
‘I’m giving you a bit of a lie-in. Having that checkup yesterday would have taken it out of you. But at least you had a clean bill of health, and all seems to have healed. Tea?’
Maisie sat up. ‘Lovely.’ She raked a hand through her short-cropped hair.
‘I think you ought to see my hairdresser – though heaven knows, you didn’t leave yourself with much for him to work with, did you? Whatever possessed you to cut your own hair, and with a blunt knife by the look of it? I nearly went through that stone floor when I saw you shorn of your locks.’
‘My hair was getting on my nerves, and keeping it short made sense – something less to organise.’
‘Right-ho. I’m going to make an appointment for you in any case – one thing less for you to deal with. Now then, onto juicier things.’ Perching on the side of the bed and resting the tray on the eiderdown, Priscilla poured tea. ‘I have to tell you the latest about the Otterburns.’
Maisie took the cup. ‘Priscilla, I don’t want to know anything about the Otterburns.’
‘Sorry. I don’t blame you for feeling as you do about John Otterburn, but – anyway, this is about Elaine. I just heard the news from Patsy Chambers – I thought you would be interested.’
‘Ugh. When did you begin hobnobbing with Patsy Chambers?’
‘She has her uses. But I must tell you – Elaine Otterburn, delivered of her child just a few months ago, has upped and gone off.’
Maisie felt her skin prickle. ‘What do you mean, upped and gone off?’
‘Well, everyone knew her marriage to that chinless wonder, the Honourable Charles Whitney, was all done in a bit of a rush – remember me predicting the birth announcement would read “born prematurely”? I confess I was a little shocked at my foresight when I saw those actual words in The Times. It seemed that one week she was engaged, the next married, and then in short order a mother.’ Priscilla sighed. ‘Let me tell you, they gave that girl far too much rope her entire life, and it came home to roost. Apparently she has some friends, all young women of her age, you know, early twenties, who are in Germany – Bavaria – having a whale of a time. Her best friend – I’m amazed she has one – was sent there to be finished and stayed on with some other friends. Elaine has been popping back and forth to see them for ages now – you know, a Friday to Monday of parties. Now she hasn’t come back! All I can say is that it wasn’t like that in my day.’
‘You made it something like that, though.’
‘No, Maisie – what I got up to at Girton should be no indicator of what happened when I was in Switzerland. For a start, I was younger and chaperoned when I was sent off to finishing school, and I certainly wanted to come home at the end of it. These girls are in flats of their own, and it’s one party after another.’ She paused. ‘Plus, when I returned to England, I did not run away from my responsibilities. Neither did you. We knew what we had to do when the war came, and we did it. And you lied about your age. How old were you?’
‘Just shy of eighteen when I enlisted.’
‘I rest my case.’ Priscilla picked up her cup, taking a sip of the hot tea.
‘But why Germany? Everything I’ve read, everything Douglas has said about the situation there – it doesn’t sound like it’s a place to have a wild time.’ Maisie paused, musing. ‘Mind you, Elaine Otterburn managed to find a party in the middle of the Canadian nowhere the night before James was killed.’
Priscilla set her cup on the tray but continued to clutch it with both hands, as if to warm her fingertips. ‘But here’s what’s happened. Elaine’s abandoned her husband and child, and now not even the Otterburns have any idea where she’s to be found. She’s gone to ground.’
‘I don’t believe that. John Otterburn has money. He’ll find her. He’s probably got men searching everywhere for her.’
‘Oh, she won’t come home in a hurry.’
‘It’s not exactly safe there, is it, Pris?’
Priscilla reached for a slice of buttered toast. ‘It is if you have a bit of a thing for Herr Hitler and his raving Nazis.’
Maisie frowned. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘You heard Douglas at supper the other night – he’s writing an article on this very thing, though heaven knows who might have the courage to print it.’ Priscilla licked butter from her fingertips and pushed the plate towards Maisie, who took a slice of toast. ‘And you’ve seen it yourself, years ago, before you married James – didn’t you have a couple of cases where you witnessed the Nazi lovers in all their glory? There are people in high places who are enamored of Hitler and his cronies – and, much to John Otterburn’s embarrassment, his daughter has become one of them. Perhaps she became disenchanted with young motherhood – who knows? And remember, you were overseas and missed all the business with the abdication. You know what they call that Wallis in certain circles? America’s gift to the British! That was one way to rid ourselves of a Nazi-sympathising king! Don’t repeat that with my name attached to it, will you, darling?’ She laughed, then smiled at Maisie. ‘How about Bond Street? You’re looking a bit ragged around the edges. A few new garments are in order, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
Maisie shook her head as she finished a last bite of toast. ‘Oh, no, no, no you don’t! I have plenty of clothes – I just need to unpack properly. Brenda’s going to help me when I return to the Dower House next week. In any case, I have a few things to do today.’
Priscilla stood up and reached for the tray. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘I’m going to look at a couple of flats. The flat in Pimlico is rented, and I don’t want to go back there anyway – but I do want my own nest here in London.’
‘You could stay here for as long as you like – I would love it.’
Maisie reached for Priscilla’s hand. ‘And I love being with you, Douglas, and the boys – but I need my own walls around me, Pris.’ She went on before Priscilla could counter. ‘If I’ve time, I may go over to Fitzroy Square, just for a walk around.’
‘Slaying a dragon?’
Maisie shrugged. ‘Perhaps. And I’ve to see Mr Klein too. I want to find out if I can stretch to a new motor car.’
Priscilla looked up and sighed. ‘I don’t think that will be a problem, Maisie. But do let me come with you to look – you know I love a new motor car!’
Maisie laughed. ‘Oh, Pris, I think my idea and your idea of what to drive around in are two entirely different things.’
After viewing two flats in Chelsea and one in Maida Vale, Maisie decided she had had enough. Taking the Underground to Oxford Circus, she walked along Oxford Street towards the cafe where she had often stopped for a cup of urn-brewed tea and a plate of buttered toast. Though there had been changes along the way, thankfully the cafe was still there. She ordered tea and an Eccles cake at the counter and settled into a seat by the window. Her old contact at Scotland Yard, the Murder Squad detective Richard Stratton, had always referred to the place as ‘more caff than café’. She wondered about Stratton, and how he might be faring. He had been promoted to Special Branch, working with Robert MacFarlane, and had over time found his superior to be a difficult man. A widower with a young son, Stratton had – out of the blue, it seemed – decided to return to the profession for which he had trained before he enlisted for service during the war, when he became a military policeman. Much to the surprise of his colleagues, he accepted a position as a teacher of science and mathematics at a boys’ school in the West Country, far from London. His son would receive a free private education, he was given a cottage in the grounds, and – more important – he would be home every day with his boy. Maisie added up the years and decided that the son – what was his name? Had she ever known his name? He must be fourteen years of age by now. Almost a man himself.
The years spent away from England seemed to render everything around Maisie in sharp relief. Memories came and went as she walked towards Fitzroy Square: of people met, of conversations in the street, of events holding little consequence and others that had taken her breath away. She crossed the road when she approached the place where she had witnessed a young man, disturbed by the war that still raged in his mind, kill himself with a hand grenade, filling the air with the terror of a blood-soaked hell that haunted him.
She wasn’t sure how long she had been in the square, standing at the edge of Conway Street and looking over towards the former mansion that had housed the first-floor office of Maisie Dobbs, Psychologist and Investigator, but she felt her cheeks growing cold and her eyes watering. She pulled her now somewhat unfashionable cloche hat down farther to keep her ears warm, and snuggled into her winter scarf. It was as she began to walk away that she felt the nape of her neck prickle, as if someone had run a feather across her skin. At once she was afraid to look around. She had a distinct feeling that she was being watched. She stopped and half turned her head – was that a footstep behind her? Or was it a ghost from her past, reaching out to pull her in? She shook her head and began walking across the square towards Fitzroy Street, but still a wave of anxiety washed over her. She admonished herself: it was early days still, and she had been so afraid of returning to England, so fearful of how she might face the places she and James had been together before she left – before she accepted his proposal, and before their marriage, which was a happier union than either imagined it could be. As her eyes filled with tears, she stopped to reach into her brown leather satchel for a handkerchief.
‘Will this do, lass?’ The Scottish burr was unmistakable. Maisie turned to face Robert MacFarlane, the former Special Branch detective who apparently now operated in the undisclosed realm where Scotland Yard and the Secret Service met.
‘I might have known.’ She took the proffered white cotton handkerchief. ‘Have I no rest from you, Robbie MacFarlane?’
‘You do a pretty good job of escaping my notice, I’ll give you that.’
‘I hope this is an accidental meeting,’ said Maisie.
MacFarlane inclined his head towards the building that had once housed her office. ‘Did you know it’s for rent again? The last tenants moved out at the end of the year.’
Maisie blushed. ‘I didn’t know, but I’m not interested.’ She sighed. ‘How are you, Robbie?’
‘Cold. You would think I’d be used to this weather, being a hardy Scot, but that little sojourn in Gibraltar made my blood run thin, so I’m a wee bit on the chilly side.’ He turned and pointed towards a black motor car idling at the end of the street. ‘If you’re not busy – and I don’t think you are – a colleague and I would like to have a quick word.’
‘I’m not interested, Robbie.’
‘You might be. Could be just what you need. And I think you owe me a favour, after giving me the slip.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’m not interested in cloak-and-dagger assignments any more. I’ve had enough.’
‘You’re freezing cold, Maisie. Let me give you a lift somewhere. If I stand here a second longer, I’ll turn to stone.’
Maisie looked at the black vehicle again. The driver had emerged and opened the back passenger door, ready to receive them.
‘Oh, all right – you can take me to Bond Street.’
‘That’s the spirit, lass. And we can have a wee chat while we’re about it. After all, your country needs you.’
‘Who’s your friend in the motor car?’
‘Well, I think you’ve met Harry, the driver. And you’ve met Mr Huntley too.’
‘Brian Huntley?’
‘Yes, the very man.’
MacFarlane nodded to Harry, who stepped back as MacFarlane held the door for Maisie. She took a seat next to the man who waited inside. MacFarlane climbed in, folded down the extra seat in front of them, and closed the door. He rapped on the glass partition, and the motor car eased away into Warren Street in the direction of Tottenham Court Road.
The man next to Maisie turned to face her. His dark grey pinstripe suit seemed brand new, the creases in his trousers sharp. He wore a white shirt, and his tie, bearing the insignia of a Guards regiment, seemed to stand out even in the dim light. He removed his Homburg and smiled.
‘You’re looking well, your ladyship.’
‘I do not care to use the title, if you don’t mind, Mr Huntley.’
‘As you wish. If you don’t mind, we’ll take a little diversion on the way to … Bond Street, was it? I am sure Mrs Partridge will still be shopping. In fact—’ He leant towards the window to consult his watch. ‘About fifteen minutes ago, she was still in Selfridges.’
Maisie sighed and closed her eyes, opening them again a few seconds later. ‘How long have you been watching me?’
‘Oh, come now, Maisie – may I call you Maisie? We know each other quite well by now, don’t we?’ Huntley didn’t wait for an answer. ‘There’s something that you can help us with, Maisie. I understand very well what you have endured in recent years, but you are the very person we need for a particular job.’ He looked down at his hands and pushed the signet ring on his little finger back and forth towards the knuckle. ‘Maurice held you in high esteem, Maisie, and he knew our work inside out. He was my mentor as well as yours – and you’ve done good work for us in the past.’
‘I don’t know that I’m up to my old work.’
‘I believe you are. And this is an important task for a woman. It involves a little travel, however.’
Maisie did not respond. She wiped a gloved hand across the window and looked out at people walking along the pavement, heads bent, scarves pulled up, hats tugged down. At tram stops they stamped their feet, and others ran into shops as if to gain respite from the cold. She turned and looked at MacFarlane, who had said nothing.
She met Huntley’s eyes. ‘Where to?’
‘Munich. Of course it is a little cooler there at this time of year.’
She was quiet again. Huntley and MacFarlane allowed her the silence.
Perhaps it was time. Perhaps one small job wouldn’t cause any harm. What would she do otherwise? Sit in the Dower House nursing her broken heart? Allow the past to simmer up to a rolling boil again? Perhaps it was the right thing to do.
‘All right, Mr Huntley – tell me why my country needs me.’ She looked at MacFarlane. He was smiling.
CHAPTER TWO
Maisie spent a sleepless night in Priscilla’s guest room. The deep, soft mattress that usually made her feel as if she were a cygnet nestled under its mother’s wing now seemed hard and lumpy, as if horse hair had been stitched into pillow ticking and laid across concrete. She turned one way and the other, unable to find any semblance of the comfort that would lead to sleep.
Without doubt, part of her felt a sense of excitement and worth – though when she considered what was being asked of her, she wondered if she were not biting off more than she wanted to chew. In truth she had become used to being part of the family, staying at Priscilla’s home. The boys delighted her, and Priscilla’s ebullience energised her. As friends they knew each other’s history, knew the twists and turns that had brought them to this place in the world. And they understood each other’s fears and frailties; nothing had to be explained. Now, in the space of a day – a day that seemed to be whirring around in her mind as if it were a film running back and forth on itself in an endless loop – another landscape had been spread before her.
And Maisie knew, as thoughts contradicted each other, conspiring to exhaust her into sleep, that with one short assignment she could test the water. She could find out how it felt to be working again.
During the circuitous journey to Bond Street, the two men had revealed the bare bones of an assignment the Secret Service had in mind for Maisie. The more detailed briefing took place the following day. Arriving at an address in Whitehall, she was escorted along a labyrinthine web of corridors until she reached the department presided over by Brian Huntley. She had first met Huntley some years before, when he was a field intelligence agent sent to follow her and bring her to the Paris headquarters of his department. She’d felt shock, and no small amount of betrayal, when she realised that his superior was none other than Maurice Blanche, her longtime mentor. Following Maurice’s death the house in Paris became part of her inheritance, and though it was leased to the British government, an apartment on the upper floors originally kept for Maurice’s personal use was now where she stayed in Paris.
In the meantime, here she was, about to meet Priscilla for a shopping expedition, feeling as if she were straddling two different worlds. In a final letter to Maisie, Maurice had written, ‘You will be called to service as I was prior to and during the last war. I believe you are ready and suited to any challenges that come your way.’ He had closed his note with the words, ‘And I predict that they will be the making of you.’
As she walked along Bond Street, she sensed tears welling. A few years earlier, as a new bride in Canada, she had thought that motherhood would be the making of her. Now she felt quite alone.
‘Ah Maisie – let’s take a more comfortable seat.’ Huntley extended his hand towards a table set alongside the far wall of the spacious room. The chairs were of solid dark wood, with padded leather seats. An envelope marked with her name indicated her place. She picked up the envelope and moved to another seat, this one facing across the room to the window, which looked out across Whitehall. From this position she could just see the top of the Cenotaph, Sir Edwin Lutyens’ memorial to the dead of the Great War.
‘Interesting move, Maisie,’ said MacFarlane. He’d taken a second look at Maisie as she entered, his eyes glancing from the magenta two-piece costume Priscilla had persuaded her into buying, to her short hair, which was partially covered by a neat black narrow-brimmed hat in the fashionable Robin Hood style, embellished by a single grey feather.
‘I’d like to be reminded of the reason I’m doing this,’ she replied as she pulled out her chair.
Huntley cleared his throat. ‘Right. Let’s start by going over a few points from our little chat yesterday.’
MacFarlane looked at Maisie and raised an eyebrow. The ‘little chat’ had taken them down to Covent Garden, along the Strand, around Buckingham Palace, up towards Piccadilly, along Regent Street, to Oxford Circus, and finally to Bond Street. The most crooked taxi-cab driver could not have taken a more rambling route. But that was the informal conversation. This was the formal briefing.
Huntley opened his manila folder, removed the green tags securing one document to another, and pushed a photograph of an older man towards Maisie. She estimated him to be in his mid-sixties.
‘Leon Donat. Engineer and man of commerce. Age at the time of the photograph – taken by his daughter – sixty-five. He’s now almost seventy years of age. Mother was French; father British, by way of Italy. Donat took over his father’s machine-tool factory in Birmingham at age twenty-five. No wartime service. On paper he was obviously too old for service in 1914, but he was very useful to us anyway because his factories – he’d expanded the business considerably – were requisitioned for the manufacture of essential parts required for the production of munitions. He expanded into France following the war, as well as Germany, plus he diversified. In France he went into production of foodstuffs from imported raw materials. His wife, incidentally, passed away four years ago. Donat is known for inspiring great respect among his employees, which has led him to achieve quite enviable production records. He provides educational grants for children of staff, and he will never see an employee sick without paying for medical attention. It has paid off. He has channeled a good deal of money towards worthy causes and is a respectable and respected man – a man in the mould of a Victorian paterfamilias. His foray into publishing academic texts in the areas of engineering, mathematics, and physics seems to have been born of a desire to diversify – and of course the business was not profitable, so it became advantageous with regard to taxation.’
He paused, passing another sheet of paper to Maisie. ‘Well, as we know, it seems parties are the places to meet people. Lawrence Pickering was invited to a reception at an engineering conference, where he was asked to speak about the role of academic publishing in the education of young technically minded students, and there he met Leon Donat. Donat, as ever, was on the lookout for investment opportunities, and he realised that Pickering’s fledgling company could do with some help. He took an interest, which in turn led to a partnership. Donat was just the person Pickering needed, at just the right time. Initially Donat was the silent partner behind the Pickering Publishing Company, but his involvement increased, though it appears he took care not to tread on young Pickering’s toes. Donat did not run his businesses like a dictatorship, but preferred to nurture talent. By way of information, as you know, Lawrence Pickering met Douglas Partridge at a party, and that’s how he also met your former secretary, Mrs Sandra Tapley, who subsequently became an employee of the company.’
Huntley paused and flicked over a page. ‘During the years of your absence, Leon Donat became increasingly involved in the company, enthusiastically supporting Pickering’s plans for expansion. From a commercial standpoint he was right to do so; there were ideal opportunities to secure publication and translation rights in Europe, given the number of academic institutions. Donat is fluent in German, so he took over the task of making connections with German publishers – and until a few years ago, there was more publishing in Germany than in any other country in the world.’
‘And now Donat is in prison in Germany.’
‘Specifically, just outside Munich.’ Huntley nodded at MacFarlane, who handed Maisie a bound sheaf of papers.
‘This is a full report on the circumstances of his arrest and incarceration at a camp in a place called Dachau. I’d call it Hitler’s torture chamber for Communists, free thinkers, journalists, those of Jewish extraction, and anyone else who dares to have an opinion that isn’t held by the man they call the Führer.’ MacFarlane paused. ‘It was opened for business in 1933 on the site of an old wartime munitions factory, and has built itself a fine reputation for brutality.’
Maisie nodded as she opened the report.
‘While in Munich,’ MacFarlane continued, ‘Leon Donat decided to pay a visit to the son of an old friend, formerly of Berlin, who is now living in Geneva, and with whom he wanted to discuss the representation of his list of books. The son, name of Ulli Bader, is a writer, and the friend had expressed to Donat a fear that the young man would never make a mark – in monetary terms or by reputation – so he put in a good word for his boy. On the face of it, it appeared to be a match – Bader seemed the right candidate to take on locally as a representative. But our little writer just happened to be involved in an underground rag. He also wrote for other magazines and newspapers on the fairly dull topics that young reporters starting out are usually given – obituaries, meetings, falls on the pavement, that sort of thing – and we believe he ploughed every penny he earned into this paper. As you will see from our report’ – MacFarlane handed Maisie another clutch of papers – ‘the Nazi Party have clamped down on any newspapers, any artists or writers, or any individual who does not reflect and support their manifesto.’
Having turned to the concluding paragraph, Maisie sat forward, her hands clasped on the table. ‘So, while in Munich, Donat gave his friend’s son – a young man who cannot at present be accounted for – a financial contribution to keep this underground journal running, and he did this out of the goodness of his heart after the young man explained his situation. Donat was observed making the payment, and he was arrested at a location believed to be the home of the illegal press, just one day before he was due to board a train for Paris. Now he is in this Dachau place – a British citizen incarcerated against his will. And for how many years?’
‘Two.’ Huntley did not flinch from Maisie’s gaze.
‘And all Foreign Office attempts to broker his release have failed.’
‘You would not believe the paperwork, Maisie,’ said MacFarlane.
‘I think I would.’ She sighed, and resumed reading through Huntley’s notes before looking up. ‘The situation has not been helped by Donat’s competitors here at home who’ve been rubbing their hands with glee, believing that with him out of the way, they could move in on his business. I can see here that thus far it hasn’t happened, given that his staff is working doubly hard in his absence.’ She placed the papers back on the table. ‘But according to what you said yesterday, an agreement has been reached with the Nazi authorities.’
‘Herr Hitler feels like being friends with us, and we’re taking advantage of the situation. Though we realise it is the preamble to more aggressive action on his part – buttering us up before the fray with this and other measures – we cannot allow this opportunity to slip through our fingers.’
‘Gentlemen.’ Maisie looked from Huntley to MacFarlane. ‘You gave me a brief summation of the role you envisage for me yesterday, so perhaps you would be so kind as to fill in a few gaps.’
Huntley nodded towards the envelope with her name on it. ‘There, Maisie, are your marching orders. It appears the German authorities have gone soft on us, and instead of a member of our diplomatic staff, Mr Donat must be released into the care of a family member. We’re not sure what has brought on this little element of cosy-cosy, but it stands. We suspect they believe a family member is not available. And to some extent, they would be correct. Donat’s wife is dead – as you know – but he has a daughter. A daughter whom he adores, not least because she was strikingly like her mother, and—’
‘Was?’ Maisie met Huntley’s eyes.
‘Sadly, she no longer bears a resemblance to her former self. She suffers from consumption contracted overseas, and is ensconced in a fever hospital in Kent. Fortunately, because she rather lived in the shadows – Edwina was not an outgoing person and had not married – it is not widely known. She had been in a convalescent home in Bexhill-on-Sea before being brought to the hospital. I think it is fair to say she is failing; the illness seems to have taken her in a very aggressive manner, and it’s likely her days are numbered. She was never a social butterfly, and suffered from melancholia following the death of her fiancé in the war. Her lack of exposure, so to speak, serves us well.’
Maisie nodded, staring out the window towards the Cenotaph. She turned her attention back to Huntley and MacFarlane. ‘And now you want me to assume the identity of Miss Donat, so that a family member might receive the prisoner when he is released.’
‘A new passport bearing the name Edwina Donat has been prepared for you, and the necessary documents are in the envelope. We understand you would not wish to travel via aeroplane, so all transportation will be by train – though if you could change your mind and return by air, we would all breathe a sigh of relief.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ said Maisie.
‘Yes – Robbie predicted your response with some accuracy.’ Huntley referred to his papers once again. ‘A representative from the diplomatic service will meet you at your hotel – he is a member of the consul general’s staff. I should add that the consulate is not privy to the exact reason for this prisoner’s importance.’
‘Hmmph!’ MacFarlane folded his arms. ‘Never mind Smallbones – should be Small Brains!’
Maisie looked from MacFarlane to Huntley.
‘Our dear friend here,’ said Huntley, ‘is referring to our consul general, Robert Townsend Smallbones. Smallbones believes the German people to be very honourable, and has stated that they are kind to animals, children, and the aged and infirm. Thus he concludes that they have no cruelty in their make-up.’
‘Well, as far as the bloody Führer is concerned, he concludes wrong,’ added MacFarlane.
‘A fairly accurate response, I will concede, though we are fortunate in that you are not the only one holding that opinion; others see good reason to doubt the integrity of the chancellor.’
‘So there will be no brass to meet me, no one of importance, just a diplomatic services junior? That’s good.’
‘But he’s one of ours, Maisie.’ Huntley handed Maisie another sheet of paper. ‘Gilbert Leslie. Formerly of Military Intelligence – not at a high level, but he’s nobody’s fool. On the face of it, he’s now pushing paper and dealing with tourists who’ve lost their passports, or who want to make a complaint against Germany because they have been required to perform a Nazi salute whenever they see a member of Hitler’s army. He will not be briefed any more than he needs to be – as far as he knows, you are Edwina Donat.’
‘All right, let’s imagine I am with Mr Leslie, and we go to take possession of Leon Donat. What if Donat says, “Who in God’s name are you?”’
‘Act, Maisie – you must act. This entire operation is dependent upon it. You must approach him with speed and assure him of your identity. Our guess is that, no matter who you appear to be, he will be only too glad to remove himself from the prison in Dachau.’
‘And then? Assuming I have Donat under my wing.’
‘Leslie will accompany you directly to the railway station, where you will travel via express to Paris. Once you cross the German border, we will consider you in fairly safe territory.’
There was silence in the room until Maisie spoke again.
‘Two questions, neither of which you have answered. One: Why me? And two: Who is Donat really?’
‘I’ll answer the second question first. Leon Donat is exactly the man I have described – a man of commerce, an engineer, a dabbler in the world of publishing. He is a man of great curiosity who uses his money to support the endeavours of others and to promote education – we thought you would like that about him. But Donat is also what we call a boffin.’
‘A what?’
‘Boffin, Maisie,’ MacFarlane interjected. ‘Bit of a tinkerer.’
‘Maisie, he is rather more than that,’ said Huntley. ‘Calling him a boffin is a slight in good heart, if you will: an affectionate insult, mainly because people like me do not really understand people like Leon Donat. We know only one thing: they are very valuable because they do not think like others of their ilk. Donat is not just an engineer but an inventor. It’s his pastime, and it has served him well: his company has developed many interesting bits and pieces over the years. Such men – and women, let it be said – will become more important to us in the coming months.’ He sighed, and for the first time Maisie was aware of his hesitation. He looked up at her, then at MacFarlane. ‘I can tell you no more than this, for this information might lead to your death if you fall into the wrong hands. But we have come to understand that Donat has developed plans for a very specific type of seaworthy landing craft. The trouble is, the plans are all up here.’ He tapped the side of his head.
‘A boat?’ asked Maisie.
‘No, not a boat. A vessel. A very advanced vessel of its type.’
‘What would this vessel be used for?’ asked Maisie.
‘There’s only one thing a landing craft might be used for, Maisie – and that is an invasion to meet an enemy,’ said MacFarlane.
Maisie was silent, looking once again past the men to the Cenotaph beyond, the grand memorial to the war’s dead, still surrounded with brown-edged red poppy wreaths from November’s Armistice ceremony.
She sighed and turned to Huntley. ‘And what about my first question? Why me?’
MacFarlane answered. ‘We considered several possibilities, Maisie, and we kept coming back to you. We need someone with a calm head on her, someone we can work on to make her resemble Edwina Donat. For a start, she has your height.’
Maisie nodded slowly. ‘And I suppose, in your estimation, I have something else going for me. I have nothing to lose.’ Silence enveloped the room.
‘One more thing, Maisie. You should know that the meeting you attend at Nazi headquarters will be conducted by a member of the SS – the Schutzstaffel. It is a powerful paramilitary organisation formed by the Nazi Party, and now under the jurisdiction of a man named Himmler, whom we believe to be a most dangerous individual. The SS encompasses quite a few investigative, military, and administrative departments, including the Gestapo, a secret police force; the Waffen SS, an elite fighting force; and the security service. It also controls the prisons and other disciplinary camps, which seem to be sprouting up like mushrooms.’
‘So if I put a foot wrong, a trapdoor opens and I’m lost forever – is that it?’
‘Not quite, but it’s important for you to know the lie of the land.’ MacFarlane pushed a document towards Maisie. ‘You’ve already signed one of these in the past, but just to make sure, we’d like another signed copy for our files.’
‘Is this the “Cross my heart and hope to die, I won’t tell anyone” promise to king and country? Official secrets and all that?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you think I am still going to say yes, even given the risks you’ve described?’
MacFarlane grinned. ‘We know you are.’
‘How?’
‘Because after everything you’ve been told in this little meeting, if you say no, I’ll have to kill you. Now then, lass, sign the bloody form and let’s get on with it. You’ve got some training to do.’
‘Training?’ said Maisie as she picked up the navy-blue fountain pen Huntley had passed to her.
‘Give me a few days, and you’ll be shooting like a sniper, Maisie. And you’ll know how to kill a man – so he doesn’t kill you first.’
‘Did you see any flats you liked, Maisie?’ Priscilla handed Maisie a gin and tonic. ‘Don’t worry, I only waved the bottle over your glass so the tonic absorbed a few fumes.’
Maisie took the glass. ‘I think, after this afternoon, I could do with a real one!’ She moved the glass as Priscilla reached to take it from her. ‘No, not really – it’s still a bit early for me. Perhaps a little later I’ll have a normal gin and tonic, though.’
‘No luck with the flat-hunting, then?’ Priscilla slipped off her shoes and made herself comfortable against the opposite arm of the sofa.
Maisie shook her head. ‘I’m looking for something light and airy, overlooking a square or with a garden, perhaps, and close to the Underground.’
‘What about Fitzroy Square? It’s still not the best area, but you like it there.’
‘Fitzroy Square means work.’
‘Not any more – you’re a woman of leisure now.’ Priscilla sipped from her glass and regarded Maisie. She began to tap one manicured red nail against the crystal. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going back to work in Fitzroy Square. Oh, Maisie, give yourself some breathing room, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Don’t worry, Pris, I’m not – as yet – returning to work. Mind you, I am leaving your clutches soon, but probably only for a week or two.’
Priscilla leant towards the low table in front of them, picked up her silver cigarette case, and began to press a cigarette into the long holder she favoured. ‘Where are you off to? Pray tell.’
‘Paris. It’s to do with Maurice’s estate – the property there, and—’
‘Excellent! I shall come too – we can trip along to see a wonderful dressmaker I know near Montmartre. She can copy that costume—’
‘Oh dear, Pris, I’m so sorry … but Mr Klein is accompanying me. I won’t have a moment to myself.’ Maisie felt herself panic: Priscilla was not easily fobbed off. ‘But how about closer to the end of my visit? We can stay in a hotel – you choose.’
Priscilla tapped the glass again and lifted the cigarette holder to her lips. Only after she’d exhaled a single smoke ring into the air did she speak again. ‘You’re up to something, Maisie. I can tell.’
‘Pris, I promise you I am up to nothing more than looking after Maurice’s estate and ensuring that his wishes for his medical clinics for the poor are followed to the letter. I have things to do in Paris, and when they’re done, then you can take me to your little dressmaker.’
‘She’s five foot ten.’
‘Your big dressmaker, then.’
Priscilla sighed. ‘Well, if you say you’re not up to something, I’ll take your word for it.’ She rattled the ice cubes in her almost empty glass. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you – well, it might have been a deliberate omission. You probably don’t want to hear it. Lorraine Otterburn telephoned today, wanting to know if you were in town. She said she and John would love to see you, and could they come here soonest?’
Maisie held out her glass to Priscilla. ‘You can make me a proper one this time.’
Priscilla took the glass. ‘Well?’
‘No, the Otterburns can’t come anywhere to see me.’
CHAPTER THREE
The estate agent, Hugo Watson, fumbled with a set of keys until he found one that fit the door of the house overlooking Primrose Hill. Maisie had known from the moment she met Watson on the pavement alongside the Georgian building that the property wasn’t quite for her. She was about to tell him that she did not want to waste his time when she realised how crestfallen he would be if she didn’t at least view the first-floor flat – a recent conversion, and therefore in good order. According to the description she’d received via post, the flat comprised two large bedrooms and a bathroom, plus drawing room, dining room, and kitchen, with a maid’s scullery beyond. A further small bedroom would be suitable for a live-in housekeeper. At the time of reading, Maisie had smiled. ‘I’ll be my own maid – fully trained and experienced!’
‘This way, Miss Dobbs.’ Watson ushered her into the entrance hall, its red tiles polished to a shine, with a matching red runner of carpet leading towards the wide staircase giving access to the upper floors. ‘Up the stairs we go.’
Maisie glanced at Watson and smiled. Up the stairs we go? She assumed he must be quite new to the work, and thus was endeavouring to be seen as more adult by speaking to her as if she were a child. She could not wait to leave.
‘This is it, Miss Dobbs. I am sure you will agree that it is a beautifully appointed residence. Fresh decoration and a new kitchen – the owner has made a significant investment to attract the right tenant.’
‘I was really thinking of making a purchase, Mr Watson.’
‘Keep an open mind until you’ve seen this property, Miss Dobbs.’ Watson inserted a second key, turned the handle, and pushed open the door into a small entrance hall flooded with light. The drawing room windows stood before her, looking out onto the street. The smell of fresh paint and new carpet was strong, and for a second Maisie held her hand to her nose.
‘Note the small but airy entrance, leading straight into the drawing room. A warm welcome for guests – and the view is a pleasing one.’
Maisie felt a chill in the air around her, and wondered why estate agents didn’t ensure a property was at least warm when a potential resident entered. She felt unsettled. What might have come to pass in this flat; what past sadnesses lingered in the fabric of the building? The sensation that she and Hugo Watson were not alone rendered the very air around them heavy. Her chest tightened, and she coughed.
She turned to Watson. ‘Is there someone else here?’
‘I – I – beg your pardon?’
‘I had a feeling that we were not alone, Mr Watson. Is someone else in the flat?’
Watson looked at his feet as the sound of a door opening caused Maisie to turn around.
‘I’m sorry, Maisie – it was the only way to see you face-to-face.’ The voice was deep, its mid-Atlantic rhythm giving away the identity of the man who stepped into the drawing room through a doorway to the right. ‘How sharp of you to know that someone else was here.’
Maisie felt colour rush to her cheeks, and she struggled to keep her voice calm. ‘Mr Otterburn. I might have known you would find a way to see me.’ She turned to Watson. ‘And to think I put your manner down to first-day-on-the-job nerves. You’ll have to answer for this breach of my privacy, Mr Watson.’
‘I – I – but …’ Watson could not even stutter his words.
Maisie turned to leave. ‘Oh, just leave me alone – both of you.’
‘Maisie – stop! I need your help. Lorraine and I – we’re desperate.’ Otterburn’s voice was strained.
Maisie turned to face the man she held responsible for her husband’s death. The shock of witnessing the small experimental fighter aircraft James was testing fall to earth over farmland in Canada had led Maisie to lose the child she was expecting; her daughter had been delivered stillborn, and Maisie bore physical scars of the fight to save the babe’s life and her own. James should not even have been flying. Otterburn’s two children – both adults – were accomplished aviators, and his indulged daughter, Elaine, was rostered to be in the cockpit that day. Instead she was nursing a hangover, so James had stepped up in her place.
And now John Otterburn had used his contacts to corner Maisie.
Watson slipped out of the flat as she faced her nemesis. She noted the grey pallor, the drawn look to his face, the bluish pockets under his eyes.
‘I wish I could have met you in a different place, Maisie. Somewhere we could sit in comfort.’
‘There is no comfort for me in your presence, Mr Otterburn.’ She walked to the window. Outside, trees bare of leaves were picking up a cold wind, blowing back and forth. It seemed to Maisie as if they were fingering the sky, scratching bulbous grey clouds to bring rain. She turned back to Otterburn and sighed. ‘You might as well tell me what this is all about. Then we can be done with it.’
‘My daughter has vanished. We don’t know where she is.’
‘That’s not news. I understand from Mrs Partridge – who is far more au fait with these matters – that the whole of a certain strata of London society knows about Elaine abandoning her husband and child.’ Maisie pressed her lips together. She wished she could sound less bitter. It was an unwelcome feeling, as if she could sense her heart becoming harder with every word.
‘No, it’s not news. But I do need your help.’
‘Oh, spare me the intrigue. You have people everywhere who can find anyone and – as I know only too well, you can even have them murdered.’ She could not help but refer to Eddie Petit, whom she’d known since childhood, an innocent man who had become an unwitting victim of Otterburn’s undercover machinations to strengthen Britain’s security.
‘I cannot seem to find my own daughter, and I understand you will soon be in the place where I believe she is now residing.’
‘As I said, you have people everywhere,’ countered Maisie.
‘She appears to be very good at either avoiding discovery, or when approached, refusing to come home. We understand she is in Germany, most likely Munich. Her child needs her, Maisie.’
There was silence in the room. Maisie bit her lip and felt her jaw tighten. She turned away towards the street again, towards a windowpane spattered with raindrops racing down to the sill.
‘I suppose I should not be surprised that you have knowledge of my travel outside England.’
Otterburn was silent.
Maisie raised a gloved hand and wiped away the condensation where her breath had caught the window. ‘I don’t know what I could do anyway. Elaine has no reason to listen to me, even if I found her. She has her own plans and her own life. If she has abandoned her child, that is her loss.’ Her voice caught at the last word.
‘Please, Maisie. I was never a good father to my daughter – an indulgent father, but never a good father.’
‘That makes no difference. She’s a grown woman.’
‘I believe you can bring her home to her child. I beg of you, please—’
‘Stop!’ Maisie rubbed her forehead and once more turned to face John Otterburn. ‘Stop.’ She walked towards the door, but halted. Without turning her head, she spoke again. ‘I have no sympathy for you, your wife, or your dilettante daughter. But I ache for her baby.’ She felt pressure on her chest. ‘If I discover her whereabouts – oh, and that is a huge “if” – then I will endeavour to see her. But only once. No more. And I will not beg. I will not force her. I will make one request, and that’s it. I have more important work to do – as you probably know.’ She took a deep breath, as if to garner strength. ‘Send any information you have regarding her whereabouts to me, care of Mrs Partridge. And that will be it.’
‘Thank you. On behalf of my wife and myself – thank you.’ Maisie turned the door handle and left the flat without looking back.
Where should she go now? She had no home in London, no place that was hers. There was no anchor. Her father and stepmother lived in their own bungalow on the edge of the village of Chelstone, and although Priscilla was always saying, ‘Our home is your home, Maisie,’ she felt at sea, adrift. She continued to use her maiden name because it held her tight, whereas her title by marriage, and James’
