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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Maisie Dobbs
- Sprache: Englisch
1945. In London, it feels as if the peace is harder than the war. Years of devastating Luftwaffe bombing has obliterated stretches of the city and left others abandoned. Against this backdrop, psychologist-investigator Maisie Dobbs is drawn into the plight of a group of adolescent orphans, along with a gravely ill demobbed soldier who are squatting in a Belgravia mansion. Maisie's attempt to help brings to light a decades-old mystery concerning her first husband, James Compton, who was killed while flying an experimental fighter aircraft. The deeply personal investigation leads her to a ghostly figure who is grappling with the weight of his own conscience and the outcome of the part he played during the war. This final instalment in the internationally bestselling series will challenge so much of what Maisie understands about her life and forces her to question what she has always accepted to be true.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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THE COMFORTOF GHOSTS
A Maisie Dobbs novel
JACQUELINE WINSPEAR
45
To the memory of my first editor, Laura Hruska (1935-2010).
Laura was a true publishing pro, having co-founded Soho Press in 1986. In her manner and with her insightful editing, together with our conversations regarding my very first novel, Laura educated this neophyte fiction writer in what to expect from the very best editor-author relationship.
With this final novel in the Maisie Dobbs series, and to honour Laura’s memory, it was time to come home to Soho Press.6
7
‘Shame, isn’t it? That we only like our heroes out in the street when they are looking their best and their uniforms are “spit and polished,” and not when they’re showing us the wounds they suffered on our behalf.’ Jacqueline Winspear, Maisie Dobbs, 2003
Jacqueline Winspear, Maisie Dobbs, 2003
That’s one more thing that I detest about war. It’s not over when it ends. Of course, it seems as if everyone’s pally again, what with agreements, the international accords, and contracts and so on. But it still lives inside the living, doesn’t it?
Jacqueline Winspear, Birds of a Feather, 20048
CONTENTS
MY LETTER TO YOU, THE READER …
This is the final novel in the series featuring Maisie Dobbs and her companion characters, some of whom have stood alongside Maisie since the first book was published in 2003, and others who were friends and associates collected along the way. Life is like that – there are those we have known for many a year and others who are just as cherished, but arrived in our lives at a later point – and of course those who stay for just a while and depart, yet we remember them with hand on heart.
Some of you may be dismayed to learn that there will be no more additions to the series (though I suppose I should quote James Bond and add ‘never say never again’), but I have come to the end of the story, having taken a young woman called Maisie Dobbs from girlhood to middle age, and through two world wars with another conflict in between. Along the way I’ve endeavoured to create a body of work that is in equal measure a family saga and mystery series. 10Now I must heed Maisie’s counsel: ‘That’s enough. You’ve told my story – it’s time for us both to move on.’
Whether you have been a follower of the series from the beginning, coming back every year through eighteen published novels, including this one, and the nonfiction What Would Maisie Do? or whether you have binge-read every book through the pandemic, I thank you all. Thank you for your enthusiasm, your loyalty and the wonderful letters and emails you’ve sent to me over the years. Often I have been so busy with research and writing, I’ve not had a moment to reply, but I am ever grateful to you for taking the time to share your family stories of wartime and heroes, and letting me know how much Maisie Dobbs has meant to you.
With much gratitude,
Jacqueline
PROLOGUE
London
October 1945
The man caught a glimpse of his reflection in a shop window as he walked away from Victoria railway station. At first he did not recognise the face, nor the body below it. The shoulders were too narrow for the suit hanging about him like a shroud. ‘Demob suit,’ they called it. They had handed him some cash too – he remembered shoving it in a pocket. One of the pockets. He couldn’t remember which one. Lingering for another second or two, he thought perhaps a shroud would have been a more appropriate fit. Might have hung a bit better on his body. He had avoided mirrors during the long journey home, not that he was home, not really. He couldn’t face home. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. Couldn’t face the wanting in the eyes of others, the wanting for him to be himself again, the man they had known so long ago. But that old self had perished, and now he was looking at the reflection of a wraith that turned out to be him. Alive. Against all odds.
Blimey, he was tired. Bone tired. Getting up from the seat, walking 12through the carriage to the door, stepping off the train and then the effort of making his way along the platform to the street – it had demanded too much of his legs, his wounded body. Perambulation had taken it out of him. He had to find somewhere to lie down, to rest his head because his bones couldn’t bear the weight of it any more. Heads were heavy old things, sitting there on top of your shoulders. He thought of his mates – they’d laughed, once, when he said they could all save themselves a lot of bother if they just lay down in a grave together like spoons in a cutlery drawer – all big heads and nothing much in the way of a body each, no more than very long spoon handles. Then the laughing hurt their caved-in chests and distended stomachs, so they stopped. He wanted to gentle the pictures in his mind, let the memories settle into the past, banish them, make them go away and the ghosts disappear.
Passing a street of four-storey mansions – grand residences that should have been white, but London’s soot, smog and war had rendered them grey and lifeless, though in truth it was a miracle they were still standing – he made his way to the narrow mews flanking the semicircular sweep behind those too-big houses where gentry lived. He remembered the number of the house he was looking for. Number fifteen, a house that, cross fingers, was still empty; mothballed for the duration and not yet opened up. He was sure he could gain entry via the mews. There was a means to do it, a way to get in.
He wasn’t sure how he managed – perhaps luck had remained with him, because it was a blimmin’ miracle he was alive at all – but soon he was at the top of steps leading down to the kitchen door. The servants’ and tradesman’s entrance. He remembered coming to the house with his dad when he was a boy, to see his dad’s employer. This was the door his dad had knocked on. 13
No one was about today – lucky for him, it was a quiet area. Quiet for London, anyway. Taking a penknife from the pocket of his overcoat, he slipped the smaller of two blades into the lock and jiggled it around. He knew how to work a lock – he had mastered the craft as a nipper, until his dad caught him and gave him a clip round the ear for his trouble, telling him he wasn’t having a criminal in his house, and if he found out his boy was carrying on like that again, he would take him to the police station himself. ‘See how being put away suits you, son.’ He never fiddled a lock again – until today.
Easy. The door could have done with some oil on the hinges, squealing as he closed it behind him, but who was around to hear? They were all away, safe in the country, settling back into being normal. He wouldn’t ever be normal again – he knew that. He’d seen what war could do even when he was a child. He only had to look at his dad.
Back stairs. He knew there were back stairs. There were always back stairs in a gaff like this, for the servants to move silently in and out of rooms in those days before two wars, when the sort of people who lived upstairs had lots of servants. Bloody servants were likely all dead. Hitler bombed the workers first. That’s what his mum had told him in a letter. It was a note received a long time ago, before his own terror began. She told him they had bombed the docks and all them back-to-back houses in the East End at the same time. Their old house had gone – lucky his mum and dad moved out of there when they had the chance, when he and his brother were still boys. Moved up in the world, his mum and dad. Out of the East End and into the suburbs.
He staggered up three flights, into a corridor of old servants’ quarters. Cast-iron bed frames with the mattresses rolled up and 14blankets stacked with pillows on top. All blue ticking and no covers. It was a wonder the mice hadn’t had them, or the moths. Mind you, too cold for moths. He stared at the bedding. Soon sort that out, soon lay my bones down. He rolled out a mattress and pillow, all but fell onto the bed and pulled a blanket across his body. The sleep of the dead beckoned like a soft hand taking his, while a voice whispered in his now half-conscious mind, ‘Rest now. Put your head on the pillow. Sleep, my dear big brother, sleep.’
She had always come to him, his sister. Every day when he buried another mate, another bag of bones to be laid to rest, or not, because he was sure even the dead didn’t rest in that place. There was something coming for all of them. If it wasn’t a bayonet in the gut, it was malaria. Dysentery. Beriberi. Cholera. But now he could settle. He was away from all that.
‘Tenko! Tenko! Tenko!’
The man opened his eyes wide and screamed as the machete pressed into his back.
‘Hold on, mister. Hold on. You alright?’
He turned and stared at the girl before him as he shimmied away, his back to the wall.
‘Don’t be scared, mister. I only poked you with my finger – thought it was time you woke up. You’ve been spark out for hours and hours. I’ve brought you a cuppa. Bit weak. We don’t have much here.’
‘Who are you?’ The man struggled to move again, to even breathe, the weight of blankets almost too much for his frame.
‘Might ask you the same question.’ The girl held the cup of tea. ‘You was shivering, so we put more blankets on you. Looked like you were all in.’ She reached forward to lift his head, but stopped 15when he flinched. ‘Alright, just try to sit up on your own.’ Still the man struggled, so with care, making sure he could see her hand as she moved towards him and slipped it under his head, she put the cup to his lips. ‘Here, get this down you. We’ve made a fire downstairs, in the kitchen. Blimmin’ big house, this, so we’re keeping to the kitchen and a couple of other rooms; bedding down there to keep warm when it’s really cold.’
The man sipped the weak tea. ‘I asked you once – who are you?’
‘Me and my mates, we found out the place was empty and we moved in – why not? The people what own it don’t need it, do they? If they did, they’d be here, living in the house. A lot of the toffs left these big houses and got out of London, you know, when the bombs came. And if the place isn’t in use and you can find your way in, there’s laws to protect you. Squatter’s rights and all that. If you can get through the door or a window what someone’s left ajar, you might as well stay. Looks like you thought the same. It’s cold in this place though, but not as nippy as some of them barracks the Yanks left behind – homeless people have moved into them too.’ She looked at him as if he didn’t quite grasp the situation. ‘There’s tons of homeless now, everywhere. They reckon there’s a couple hundred thousand without a roof over their heads. Not just people like us, but whole families and children, and men and women with nowhere to go, on account of all the houses bombed.’
He sipped more tea. ‘Don’t you and your mates have family to take you in? You’re a bit young to be dossing down here.’
The girl shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, we sort of had people. Anyway, we were called up and now it’s, you know, hard to go back.’
‘You were too young for the services – stop telling me porky pies.’
The girl shook her head. ‘No I’m not, mister. It’s not a lie. We 16was all called up, and it was for special work in case of the invasion. Besides, I’ve told you too much now. I can’t talk about it any more. There’s four of us, altogether – me, I’m Mary, then there’s the others.’
‘All living here?’
She shrugged. ‘And now there’s you. Five.’
He took a deep breath and sat up. ‘I can manage.’ With shaking hands, he took the cup from the girl and sipped more tea.
‘What’s a tenko? You were shouting it out in your sleep.’
The man flinched again. ‘A word I picked up in the army.’
‘Funny word, that. Where did you hear it?’
‘A long way away, love. A very long way away.’
She stared at him. ‘There’s something else, mister whatever-your-name-is. We can’t let you go now. You’ve got to stay in this house, because you know we’re living here, and you know my name.’
‘Look, Mary, there’s going to be plenty of people knowing you’re here soon enough, and I’m not one for telling tales.’ He drained the cup. ‘Anyway, what’ve you been up to? You in trouble?’
‘It’s not what we’ve been up to, mister. It’s what some people think we’ve been up to.’
The man shook his head and lay back on the pillow, his eyes closing once again, as if he could fight sleep no longer. The girl caught the cup before it crashed to the floor. As she came to her feet, a boy, about the same age, no more than sixteen years old, opened the door.
‘Do you know who he is?’
She shrugged. ‘He didn’t say. Poor old sod looks like death though – I mean, none of us is carrying weight, but let’s face it, none of us has seen anyone as thin as him. He’s like a bag of bones wrapped in brown paper. He’s a soldier though.’
‘Got a wallet on him? Identification card?’ 17
‘If he has, it’s inside his jacket and it’s wrapped tight under that overcoat. You can see he’s wearing one of them cheap demob suits they hand out to soldiers when they get out of the army. We’ll have to wait until he’s slept a bit more, then I’ll find out.’
‘Archie’s gone out again to get some nosh.’
‘Hope he’s careful.’
The boy rolled his eyes. ‘Archie could get in and out of the market and no one would know he’s been in there.’
The girl named Mary laughed. ‘And lucky for us them posh people what own this place left a lot of tinned stuff in the pantry.’
‘It was probably the servants’ food. The gentry eat well, don’t they? But tinned is alright by me. Food is food.’
‘Come on, Jim, let’s go back downstairs,’ said Mary. ‘And don’t forget to turn off them lights again. We don’t want the coppers coming.’
‘Never mind looking for us – they could be after him.’
‘Tenko! Tenko! Tenko!’
The boy named Jim jumped backwards. ‘Blimey, what’s he screaming now?’
‘He did that when I tried to wake him up. It’s something from the army, he said. Not the British army and that’s a fact. Come on, let’s leave him to it. I reckon he’ll have gone to meet his maker by the time we come back in here again, and then we’ll have to work out what to do with his body – not that there’s much of it to do anything with.’
Another man, not fifteen miles away, worked in the large suburban garden of his new house at the edge of a well-to-do town in the county of Kent. Shrubs had been trimmed for the winter, and rose bushes were covered with cotton gauze to protect their fragile forms from the 18nighttime frosts that would surely come. A new black motor car was parked in what the estate agents had referred to as a ‘driveway.’ He suspected the neighbours would think him absurd if they witnessed his vain attempts to break cold, hard earth with a spade time and again. They might wonder why he had not left such a task to the gardener, for surely a man in his position would not soil his very clever hands on a job better suited to a labourer. In the new year he would be taking up the position of senior lecturer in the physics department of University College. He was too young for the role of esteemed professor, but with research credentials that would far outshine a number of his geriatric fellow academics. Yet he had no pride in his stellar curriculum vitae.
This man was digging for absolution. Yes, it was absolution he craved, having decided that backbreaking physical exertion was the antidote to what ailed him. He wanted to exhaust himself, to push every muscle, bone, nerve and fibre in his body to its limit. Physical struggle was the only means by which he might begin to pour oil on the troubled waters of his soul. He had to wear himself to the bone, perhaps halt the torment in his mind and stop himself asking how an opportunity – a very golden opportunity that brought him an enviable status with remuneration to match – had betrayed him. No, it had not been pure ambition or a desire for laurels, though he thought in years to come some might brand it so. Indeed, there were those who were doubtless already coming to such a conclusion, not that they knew what he had done, because his part of the crime – and yes, it was a crime, no two ways about it – had been committed behind very heavy closed doors. He had not done it for the money or the opportunity to cross an ocean and work alongside others just like him, scientists who were the best in their field. In truth, 19it was pure curiosity, the same sense of wonder he had displayed since boyhood, conducting experiments with test tubes and Bunsen burners, pressing forward while asking those very big questions: Why does that added to this make steam? What will happen if I shake the two together? And what will be the outcome when I add more flame, or more sulphur? Will it work as I think it might? He knew even in childhood that an ability to take a simple scientific enquiry then dig and dig and dig until he found the answer would become his lifelong quest – and he would do it time and time again. He often wondered why his calculating mind would spin in expanding and contracting circles until he came to the point where a new truth was revealed. What was it his mother called him, years ago? ‘You’re my little “why” boy. Always why this and why that.’ She had ruffled his hair, smiling, as if she were reading the title of a children’s book. ‘My Little Why Boy.’
The role for which only the finest minds were recruited promised a depth of human enquiry that would push against the laws of the universe, and he could not resist joining the quest to see if it could be done, to answer so many what-ifs and whys. He had stood alongside the most accomplished men – and women – scientists of the same stripe, ‘why’ people who wanted to break through the boundaries of exploration, pressing on to find out if they might achieve the impossible. And they had done it. They had taken the tiniest, most minuscule element, an almost invisible measure of energy, a mere speck – and created hell on earth with it. They had blended elements to create a power the planet had never known before, and with it rent a chasm in the soul of mankind. Man. Kind. He shook his head. He was a man with not a bone of kindness in him, perhaps not even a soul – he understood that now. And he knew he would never 20forgive himself for the small part he had played in a very serious game. ‘Why?’ had become the dangerous question, rewarding him with nothing but despair.
Each time he looked at his wife – the woman would bear their first child in a matter of months – he understood that he might as well have signed their death warrants. The lid on Pandora’s box had been pried open, was hanging on shattered hinges and could never be shut tight again. The devils he had conspired to release would one day slaughter everyone he loved. Of that he had no doubt.
He was thirty-six years of age, born five years before an Austrian archduke named Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie, were assassinated in a country most Britons might never have found on a map. Now, in the silence of his English-wintered garden, as he struggled with all that had come to pass through his childhood and this second terrible world war, he remembered a poem written by a man named Wilfred Owen, a soldier of the Great War. The words had come to him time and again over the past several months: Oh what made fatuous sunbeams toil to break earth’s sleep at all?
The man lifted his spade high and bounced it against the cold solid earth as he fell to his knees and wept. His clever, curious mind and limitless imagination had swept him into the future, and it terrified him. No god worth his salt would ever forgive him for what he had done.
CHAPTER ONE
Maisie Dobbs glanced around, taking account of the congregation gathered in Chelstone’s ancient parish church. She was sure not one more person could be squeezed into the edifice. Every single pew was packed with villagers and visitors who had travelled from far and wide to pay their respects to the deceased. She sighed, drawing her gaze beyond those gathered to the rounded entrance, a hallmark of the church’s early Norman architecture, and then up towards the wooden buttresses holding the roof fast, as if to catch the prayers of those below. She had met a woman, once, who told her she could see the prayers from distressed souls littering the ceiling of every church she had ever entered, as if those heartfelt messages had been inscribed on fine tissue paper and cast up so God could reach down to collect each one.
Maisie had always been intrigued by the names bestowed upon the different parts of a church: the nave, the chancel, the transept, altar 22and apse. The sanctuary. Sanctuary. The word echoed in her soul. The church’s vintage attested to the hundreds of years local folk had come to mark baptisms, marriages and the burials of loved ones; to celebrate Christmas, Easter and her favourite, the Harvest Festival. Today marked the laying to rest of Lord Julian Compton.
For a moment Maisie stared at plaques dedicated to ‘The Glorious Dead’ of two world wars, then cast her eyes towards the carpenter’s tools left on a bench set against the cold stone walls. She was wondering how many more names would be added, when she felt a light squeeze against her fingers as Lady Rowan Compton took her hand. She pressed the liver-marked hand in return, and Lady Rowan leant into her, a gesture revealing the older woman’s need to be grounded in her presence, for though Maisie had remarried, she was still the widow of Rowan’s only son. In her much shorter life, Maisie had worn the black of mourning twice to mark the loss of a man she adored, and during that time, Rowan had come to appreciate her daughter-in-law’s strength even more, grateful for her fortitude at the worst of times. Maisie knew all this, not least because the motherly love bestowed upon her was returned.
Seated in the square, panelled section of the church designated for generations of the Compton family, who had once owned the entire village and still presided over some four thousand acres of the surrounding land, Maisie whispered to the matriarch.
‘Rowan—’
‘Don’t worry – I’m bearing up, Maisie.’ She squeezed Maisie’s hand again. ‘I won’t let down my wonderful Julian with tears.’
‘I’m here, Rowan.’
‘I know.’
The vicar gave an almost imperceptible nod in their direction, 23and as Rowan released her grasp, Maisie came to her feet, walked towards the grand brass lectern and stepped up to the Bible, already open to the page from which she would read. It was a tome so heavy, only the pages were ever moved. She felt the urge to cough mounting, and cleared her throat.
‘Our first lesson is from Matthew Five …’ She began to read, her eyes meeting those of Lady Rowan as she reached the words ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted’.
Maisie felt her voice catch. There has been too much mourning. Too great a need for comfort. Stepping down from the lectern after speaking the words ‘Here endeth the lesson,’ she saw her husband of almost four years give a half-smile and nod. Mark Scott was seated on the other side of Lady Rowan, holding her right hand as the funeral service for Lord Julian continued. Maisie knew that if asked later, she might not be able to remember anything but approaching and leaving the lectern. Her heart was filled with missing the man who had assisted her so many times in her work, who had once been her father-in-law and, as age had softened his demeanour, had become a much-loved friend.
Later, the service over, Maisie stood alongside Lady Rowan, who insisted upon acknowledging each parishioner as they left the church.
‘So kind of you to come …’
‘Yes, he will indeed be missed.’
‘Do join us at the manor for a cup of tea …’
‘You were so kind – His Lordship would have been delighted.’
‘Ah, Mr Jones, every year he maintained your hot cross buns were the very best!’
And so it went on; the mourners, wrapped in heavy coats and woollen scarves, were now waiting to pay their respects in the low 24sunlight of a chilly autumn morning. As the crowd thinned, Maisie noticed one man who had waited until all had left the church, and stepped away towards him.
‘Edwin, I take it you’ve come in place of your father today, and are here to read the will.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid he’s not been at all well, Miss Dobbs – oh dear, sorry, I should have said ‘Mrs Scott’.
‘Please, do not apologise – I still use my maiden name for any assignments I choose to undertake. It makes things easier, though perhaps more difficult for some.’ She smiled to put the young man at ease. ‘Your father has been our trusted solicitor for many a year, and I am sure as his son you are more than up to the task.’
Edwin Klein, who was some six feet and four inches tall, appeared to have become used to leaning down to speak sotto voce in situations where he had no desire to reveal his words to anyone but the person with whom he was in conversation. His shoulders became rounded as he bent forward, his voice low.
‘Indeed, we should of course gather to discuss the last will and testament and aspects of the Trust, but I have been observing Lady Rowan and I would suggest we wait – after all, as an executor, you know the details, as does Lady Rowan, so no surprises there. However, there are a couple of somewhat urgent issues of some concern.’
‘Oh dear – I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘We have discovered that there are squatters at the Ebury Place mansion. As you know, last week I sent a clerk over to take a complete inventory of everything in the house, yet he was unable to gain entry due to interior bolts being drawn across. There were no signs of forced ingress, so the interlopers must have found a window open – and I’m afraid due to laws protecting squatters in such circumstances, 25there’s nothing much that can be done. Of course, the police have been alerted, but their hands are full. If it’s any consolation, I’ve spoken to one of our land lawyers, and he predicts the problem will only escalate across the country, and that by next year, given the sheer numbers of homeless left by six years of bombing, the Ebury Place mansion will be regarded as just the first of many vacant properties to be inhabited by goodness-knows-who!’
Maisie nodded. ‘Perhaps there’s something I can do, but I really don’t want to concern Lady Rowan with the problem, not at the moment – you’re right, she’s very tired.’
‘Granted, but Mrs Scott, she has to be informed soonest. Our firm will take your instructions, though at the moment our hands are rather tied.’
‘Was your clerk able to see inside? Is there damage?’
Klein shook his head. ‘All appears to be in order inside, though there’s a broken window or two on the second floor – likely caused by land vibration from a bombing at some point. Minor issue. I would imagine the squatters are using only the smaller upper rooms and the kitchen – it’s easier to heat, and of course there was a goodly amount of fuel left in the coal bunker adjacent to the scullery.’
‘Well, at least they won’t go cold.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Edwin Klein registered alarm. ‘Mrs Scott, squatting is an offence, albeit a protected one in certain circumstances. Lord Julian gave instructions for the property to be made available for sale, and we would like to proceed as we understand there are interested parties, with at least one enquiry from an overseas government seeking suitable accommodation in London for a consular official of high standing. As you know, we were able to construct robust plans to limit death duties, but certain 26monies will remain due to the government, and a sale of the Ebury Place mansion could well solve the problem.’
Maisie reached forward and touched the younger Klein’s arm. ‘Mr Klein – Edwin – Lord Julian was very particular about the order of service for his funeral, and he personally chose Matthew Twenty-Two for one of the readings. “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself”.’ She held his gaze. ‘We have all had rather a lot of the opposite, haven’t we? Let me see if I can solve this problem without much ado, while at the same time respecting poorer souls who have been made homeless during this terrible war.’
The solicitor tilted his head and stood to his full height. ‘Right you are. I’ll let my father know where we stand, and I will wait to hear the outcome of your efforts, along with your instructions.’ He paused. ‘In the meantime, are arrangements in hand for Lady Rowan’s removal from Chelstone Manor, or has she decided to remain in the older garden wing while the rest of the property is made ready for transfer?’
Maisie sighed, brushed lint from the sleeve of her black velvet coat and shook her head. ‘Edwin, the war has barely ended. We have recently offered rooms to young refugees from a German concentration camp, and they are expected to join us within weeks, plus everyone in that church is mourning the loss of a much-loved, deeply respected man, a hero held in high esteem within the village and – indeed – across an ocean. Let us rest for a little while – as you kindly suggested. I will deal with the squatters and I will let you know the situation regarding Lady Rowan’s choice of residence.’ She placed a hand on his arm. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Klein, my place is with her, at her side, but know we are most grateful for your assistance and will be in touch.’
She turned away just as Mark Scott approached.
‘Everything okay, honey? From a distance that seemed a bit tense.’ 27
‘Well, all I can say is, he’s not his father!’
‘Poor Rowan is all in, so George has taken her home – where there’s a whole mass of people waiting to talk to her,’ said Mark. ‘I think you should take over as soon as we get there so she can go upstairs to rest. She’s a determined lady, but this has been a long haul for her. Your dad and Brenda are helping out, and as always, Priscilla is doing her bit – as you might say. She can hold a conversation with ten people at once and still have room for more.’
‘You’re right, we should be on our way now. I hope Anna and Margaret Rose have minded their Ps and Qs at home.’
Maisie’s adopted daughter, Anna, was now ten years of age and had become close to Margaret Rose, the daughter of her business partner, Billy Beale, and his wife, Doreen, after the family moved into the bungalow owned by Maisie’s father and stepmother. It had been a temporary tenancy engineered by Maisie after the area around Billy and Doreen’s home in the London suburb of Eltham was bombed. For their part, Maisie’s father and stepmother came to live with her at the Dower House, a large property situated just within the boundary of the Chelstone Manor estate.
‘Don’t worry, hon,’ said Mark. ‘I predict those girls have their heads in books while snuggled up to Little Em. Our daughter is way more sensible than I was at that age. Anyway, Billy told me that they’ll go straight over to the house and wait until we’re back before they head on home with Margaret Rose.’
Maisie rested her hand on his arm as they walked towards a waiting motor car. ‘Mark, I’ll be coming into London with you on Monday after all. I’ll stay for a couple of nights at the flat – I know you’ll be busy at the embassy preparing to leave for Washington, but we’ll have some time together until you leave. I daresay Lady Rowan will be resting for 28most of my absence anyway. It appears there are squatters at the Ebury Place house, so I’m going to try to sort it all out.’
‘Squatters? Can’t you just send in a few hefty young men – Priscilla’s three boys look like they would be up for the job.’
‘Mark, over here squatter’s rights go back to the Middle Ages, so it’s not quite that straightforward.’
‘I would rather have your problem than the one I’ve got on my hands.’
‘I can’t believe you’re flying off again so soon,’ said Maisie. ‘I wish you could stay.’
‘I wish I could too, but there’s work to be done and I’m one of the poor diplomatic souls lined up to do it. Ambassador Winant thinks that because I’m married to a lovely English woman, I know more about your people than the rest of the department, so my title “political attaché” now encompasses getting my fingers in more pies than I would like.’ He smiled. ‘Anyway, I shouldn’t be more than a week or so this time, and at least we don’t have to worry about the Luftwaffe any more. Just all those stops in a shaky Douglas DC-4 – Bournemouth to Shannon, Shannon to Lisbon, Lisbon to Gander, then Gander to Washington.’
Maisie nudged her husband. ‘And at the end of it all, Britain will be in even more debt to you lot.’
‘My lot? If it all works out, at least America will be giving you guys a big old wad of money in the new year, a loan to get you over the hump.’
‘Ah, but think of how that wad will help us – we’ll be able to put a roof over the head of every homeless family.’ 29
Maisie looked up at the grand Belgravia mansion she had first entered as a thirteen-year-old girl in 1910, when she reported for work at the kitchen entrance of the Compton family’s London home, where she was to take up the post of under parlour maid. Some nineteen years later, having set up her own business, Maisie was asked by Lady Rowan to accept the offer of rooms at the mansion, as she and Lord Julian were spending more time at Chelstone Manor, the family seat in Kent. Though the request was put to Maisie as the necessary task of keeping an eye on the property and its London staff during the Comptons’ absence, Maisie knew very well that Rowan wanted her to live in more comfortable surroundings than the rented bedsit situated next to her office in a less than salubrious area.
Later still, following Maisie’s marriage to James Compton, the couple lived at the Belgravia property together, becoming master and mistress of the home where on hands and knees she had once scrubbed floors; where she had fluffed cushions, washed skirting boards, dusted even the tops of door frames and where, in time, she enjoyed one half-day off every fortnight. In girlhood Maisie’s working day had started at five in the morning and did not end until after eleven at night. And it was the house where she had been discovered studying in the library at two in the morning by Lady Rowan, an event destined to change the trajectory of her future, though at the time she believed she had forfeited her job in a secret quest to further her education. Rowan enlisted the help of her friend Dr Maurice Blanche – a forensic scientist, psychologist and something of a philosopher – to advise on how best to help a young working-class girl who showed such intellectual promise. Maurice became Maisie’s mentor, and in time she would learn the craft of forensic investigation when she accepted the offer to become his assistant, joining him in his work as an investigator. 30
Maisie thought of all these things as she stared at the house, wondering how she could find a way to gain entry, a means to talk to whoever had claimed shelter in one of the finest mansions in the most elite part of London. She set off across the street and made her way up the steps to the front entrance. Taking hold of the heavy door knocker, she rapped it against the small protruding brass plate a jaunty seven times, as if she were beating out a tune. It wasn’t a rhythm the police would have used.
There was no answer.
She bent forward, lifted the letter box flap and called inside. ‘Hello! Anyone at home? I know you’re there, so may I have a quick word?’ She paused. ‘You’re not in trouble – I believe I can help you. Hello!’
Leaving the flap open, she listened. There was no sound, so she tried again.
‘You won’t be reported. Come to the door – you don’t have to open it. Just come here and talk to me.’
Maisie moved the side of her head to the open letter box and strained to hear. Yes, there was whispering – she was sure she could hear voices. She called out again.
‘Look, I know you’re there. I’m not with the police. I’m not with any government authority. And I’m not trying to kick you out – I know you need a roof over your head, and I know you’re probably frightened.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I promise I can help you.’ She waited another second. ‘You can trust me. I know … I know this is your … your sanctuary, the only place you could find. Trust me.’
A few seconds passed, and as Maisie leant forward to have one final try, she heard someone walking towards the door, light of step as if on tiptoe. She held the letter box flap open. 31
‘Who are you?’ It was the voice of a girl. From her tone, Maisie estimated her to be fifteen or sixteen years of age, but it was difficult to tell. Even younger children sounded older having endured a war.
‘My name is Mrs Scott. I used to live here – upstairs, where I think you must be bedding down. It’s a cold house, isn’t it? But the servants’ quarters are smaller, so you can keep the rooms warm. Did you find the coal cellar?’
‘We’re alright. And warm enough.’
‘Are you getting enough to eat?’
‘None of us is going hungry.’
‘How many of you are there? I just need to know, for … for insurance purposes. Are you with your family?’
The girl seemed to falter.
‘Hello – did you hear me?’ Maisie paused, then added, ‘I promise it’s alright to tell me.’
‘There was four. But now … but now there’s five. And we’re not related, but I suppose the four of us are sort of family.’
‘You don’t sound quite sure, my dear. Do you need help?’
No answer.
‘Are you there?’
Maisie heard the girl sniff.
‘Oh, sweetheart, are you sure you’re alright? Do let me help you.’
‘Yes, we’re managing, but … but there’s a man here and he’s very ill. Every day I think he’ll be dead by morning. He’s everso poorly.’
‘What man? Do you know him?’
At once a pair of eyes appeared on the other side of the letter box, as the girl bent down to look at Maisie.
‘What’s your name, my dear?’
‘Mary. Just Mary.’ 32
‘Mary, tell me about the man. Has he given you reason to fear him?’
Mary shook her head. ‘No. Poor sod can hardly stand, let alone hurt anyone. I reckon he’s the one who’s in pain and I’m not much of a nurse. He turned up about six days ago, and us lot had already been here a couple of weeks. Never seen him before. He came in the back way.’
The girl sniffed again. Maisie reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a fresh linen handkerchief.
‘There you are.’ She pushed the handkerchief through the letter box. ‘Take this, wipe your eyes and have a good blow. You’ll feel better.’
Mary took the handkerchief, turned away to blow her nose, then came back to peer at Maisie.
‘Thank you.’
‘Now tell me about the man – it sounds as if he’s suffering.’
‘Every day I wonder whether he’ll be dead when we go in there, and what we’ll do with him when he’s gone. And he’s wearing one of them demob suits – he said he’d been in the army. He scares me – he screams when he sleeps, and he sleeps a lot. We’ve brought him some soup every day, but we’ve almost run out of the tins in the pantry.’
‘How are you all feeling? Do you think he’s had something that’s catching? An illness?’
‘No, but we’re … we’re all scared, and … and we’ve got to stay here so we can work out what to do next.’ She turned away.
‘Mary! Mary – are you still there?’
There was a hiatus, as if the girl were indeed wondering what to do next.
‘I’m here.’ 33
‘Mary, is there something else you’re afraid of?’
‘No. No, but … Nothing.’
Maisie was silent, concentrating on the young person on the other side of the door. Please don’t close down, stay with me.
‘Mary, listen to me. I’m going to leave now – and don’t worry, as I said, I’m not with the police or the council or the bailiffs. But I will come back with some supplies for you and your friends, and I’ll make some nice broth for the man. I’ve some tinned food at home, so I’ll bring it in for you. I’ll leave a box by the back door, the one leading into the kitchen.’
‘That’s how the man got in.’
‘Through the kitchen?’
‘Yes. He knew how to unlock the door, you know, without a key.’
‘And you found him upstairs?’
‘Like Goldilocks, he was, falling asleep in someone else’s bed. But I suppose that’s what we’ve all done, though none of us can sleep properly, in case they come for us.’
‘In case who comes for you?’
Another pause.
‘Mary? In case who comes for you?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’ll look out for the things you said you’d leave for us. But don’t try to trick us.’
‘No, no tricks.’
The girl began to move, but Maisie called after her.
‘Has he said anything, this man?’
‘Mumbles most of the time.’
‘Has he made any sense?’
‘Doesn’t say much. But like I said, he screams in his sleep. Tenko – tenko – tenko. Like that, only louder.’ 34
‘Tenko?’
‘He doesn’t make sense.’
‘Hmmm, no, he doesn’t.’
‘And I reckon he’s got a wife somewhere, or a girl, because he calls out for her.’
‘That could be a start.’
‘I doubt it – there’s a lot of women called Lily, aren’t there?’
‘Lily?’
‘Well, it could be something else, though it’s definitely an L name – you know, Letty, or Lizzie. We can hardly understand him. He gets all white and frothy around his mouth when he’s asleep and mumbling. Rotten sad, it is. Anyway, thank you for trying to help. When do you think you can fetch some food for us? One of my mates here is bound to get caught if he keeps going out trying to get more.’
‘Tell him to stay here. And … and keep yourselves occupied. If you go into the library, the big room with the books next to the drawing room, you’ll see a cupboard in there with all sorts of games and puzzles. And you can read the books. Don’t let yourselves get bored.’
‘Oh that’s alright. We practise what we was taught.’
‘Practise? What do you mean?’
‘Mary! Don’t say any more.’ The voice came from behind the girl.
‘Nothing. Sorry. Got to go. Bye. Thank you, Mrs Scott.’
Maisie continued to watch as the girl named Mary walked away, stopping once to reach down and pull up long grey socks that had slipped down to her ankles. A boy of about the same age stepped into her line of vision. Now she could see that Mary was tall for her age and slender, with long legs that reminded Maisie of a young racehorse. She wore a pleated schoolgirl skirt, two cardigans and a 35blue blouse, and her shoes were ill-fitting.
‘You couldn’t keep your mouth buttoned, could you?’ said the boy, who was the same height as the girl, though his clothing would have been better suited to a shorter lad, and it appeared the most recent cutting of his ragged brown hair had not been executed by a barber.
‘She was trying to help us – I could see that.’
‘See it could you?’ said the boy. ‘Just with them eyes of yours.’
‘Give it a rest, Jim.’
‘I’ll give you this.’
The boy raised his hand, yet as Maisie continued to watch, in an instant the girl had swept him off his feet with a swift move, her leg shoved forward to hook around his right ankle as she pushed up his chin with the heel of her right hand, then brought her other hand down on his neck.
‘Don’t ever do that again, Jim. What’s the matter with you? You losing whatever’s left in that brain on top of your shoulders? We’ve got to stick together, us lot, so just you get a grip of yourself. And if it crosses your mind to swing for me ever again, remember, I was always faster than you. I’ll kill you, truly I will.’
Maisie let the letterbox flap close without a sound, as the girl who called herself Mary approached the staircase. Turning away towards the square, Maisie lifted her collar against a sharp breeze and looked up at cobalt clouds merging overhead as if to reflect her quandary. She walked on, determined to busy herself gathering a collection of foodstuffs, a task made more difficult by the limitations of her ration book. Mark would help – courtesy of the American embassy, he was able to obtain foods that were otherwise unavailable to the British people. The youngsters would be very grateful for a bar or two of American chocolate tucked inside a box of comestibles. And 36she needed to think, needed to consider her next move, because she had to cradle the information revealed by Mary with a light hand. For if she were not mistaken, the unknown man was calling out for a girl named Lizzie – and Lizzie died a long time ago. Then there was the other matter – it was clear a girl in her teens had been trained in unarmed combat. Therefore it would be fair to assume her friends were equally adept at taking care of themselves.
CHAPTER TWO
As a rule, whether Maisie was expected at the Fitzroy Square office or not, if she were in London, she would take the opportunity to drop in to see Billy Beale, but following the visit to Ebury Place, she decided against the stop. Billy, once her long-time assistant and now a partner in the business, was responsible for his own cases, for the most part involving security appraisals for property owners. He had surprised Maisie, forging valuable alliances with insurance agents and building firms – and if there was one element of life predicted to boom as Britain found its feet in the post-war years, it was in the construction of new homes. Indeed, whole new towns at strategic locations across the United Kingdom were in the midst of being planned. Rows and rows of houses with indoor bathrooms and flushing toilets, accommodation for a bombed-out and distressed population of homeless, from Crawley and Harlow in the south of England, to East Kilbride and Livingston in Scotland. Now, however, 38given Billy’s excitement about the revenue he was bringing in and his enjoyment in his work, Maisie knew she had to protect him – she understood only too well that those lingering wounds from the Great War could rise to the surface in an instant.
Stopping at Victoria Station, she approached a telephone kiosk, stepped in and drew the concertina doors. Lifting the receiver, she placed the requisite coins in the slot and dialled a number she knew by heart, one that would have never been listed in a London telephone directory.
‘MacFarlane!’
Maisie pressed button A to release the coins, and the call connected. ‘Robbie – it’s Maisie.’
‘Might have guessed. And I do hope this isn’t trouble – you know I’ve only a couple of months to go before my desk is cleared and my life will be free of Scotland Yard, the Special Operations Executive, the Secret bloody Service and any other department standing between me, a fishing rod and a flask of single malt by my side. All I’ve got to do is give a bit of evidence at Nuremberg, and I’m off to find a quiet loch as far north in my bonnie Scotland as I can venture and still land a fish for my supper.’
‘In the freezing cold of a Scottish winter? Even on my most grey days, Robbie, you never fail to amuse me.’
‘Glad to be of service, hen. Now then, spill the beans while I still have a few brain cells left. Is this about Beale the younger again?’
‘Yes, it is, and—’
‘Before you go on, the news is exactly the same as it was a week ago. He’s back on home soil and has been for some time. He turned up for his army pay and his demob suit. Then he left the face of the earth.’
Maisie heard paper rustle and an expletive from the man she had 39first crossed paths with when he was a senior detective with Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. Later, even before the war, Robert MacFarlane was assigned to an elite role, becoming the vital linchpin between the Yard and the Secret Service. He was yet another high-ranking official with a ‘finger in a lot of pies.’ And though there was often banter amid the odd row between Maisie and MacFarlane when they worked together, there was also a deep respect and affection.
‘I assigned someone to search for him, Maisie, but to all intents and purposes, Will Beale has vanished into thin air – and remember, it was a few years ago that one of his mates attested to the fact he wanted to be known as ‘Will’ and not ‘Billy’ because he was fed up with being seen as a chip off the old block.’ MacFarlane paused, and Maisie heard more rustling of paper. ‘Now, the medics who examined him upon his release from Japanese captivity and again when he landed here wrote in their reports that he was suffering from extreme malnutrition and would need a slow introduction of solid foods. Apparently, a good number of those lads got stuck into the first big nosh that was put in front of them and lost the whole lot in short order. The poor buggers working on that bloody Burma railway were given only half a cupful of rice per day, and little water. Will’s kidneys were all but packing up due to dehydration, and he’s had every bloody Asian illness in the book. It’s a miracle he survived and – hate to say this, Maisie – he might not be now. He wouldn’t be the first returning soldier who has gone through hell and decided to throw in the towel on life in the hope of finding something akin to heaven.’
The line was silent.
‘Maisie?’
‘Robbie – Robbie, I know where he is. At least I think I do. And I’m not sure quite what to do next, because I … I must protect Billy 40and Doreen. They are aching to see him, just beside themselves, but I don’t think he wants to go home.’
‘Just as well I’m talking to a lady, because the air would be blue if I wasn’t. Those stinking, bloody … I’d better stop now. But you should have seen the state those boys have come home in. Some of them went out and got themselves drunk at every port of call on the return to Southampton, and the strain was more than they could manage – you can’t pour beer into a bag of bones and expect a shrunken, ulcerated gut to absorb it. And the stories, Maisie – I mean, there’s war and there’s the sort of brutality we’ve never seen before, as if we’ve not enough on our hands with the bloody Nazi camps and the poor bastards we found inside. And right now that’s another problem – we expected thousands of displaced persons, but we didn’t expect genocide. New word on me, that, but I was sent over to Germany and Poland to bring back a report after V-E Day. I’ve seen what that word means, and on a sickening scale … It’s … it’s …’
As MacFarlane issued a deep sigh, Maisie felt as if a cold breeze had found its way along the telephone line.
‘Maisie.’ MacFarlane was calmer, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he had galvanised himself and by force dragged his mind into the present. ‘There are a few different choices here. First, you can see if he’ll speak to you. I think you’re better at all that business of getting people to talk when they don’t want to. Second, we can go together – he knows me, but not well. I remember him as a nipper when he came with his dad to your office and we had a bit of a laugh together. Good lad, he was. I was a soldier in the last war, so I’ve an idea how it’s been for him – though look where he’s seen a fair few horrors: Dunkirk, Singapore, Changi and then Burma. He’s no one’s “boy” any more. Third, you can either send his dad round, or you can both go, or—’ 41
‘Or what, Robbie?’
‘Or you can send his mum.’
Maisie was silent.
‘Yes, his mum. If the man wants to cry – and I would bet he wants to weep for every mate lost and for the life he’s frightened to live – my best guess is he’ll hold it back with his dad.’
‘But he knows his father loves him beyond measure – you should have seen Billy when his son came off that boat from Dunkirk.’
‘Yes, I understand all that, Maisie, but the lad also knows that his dad’s shell-shock – and let’s call it what it is – has never been far from the surface. I am not in your league when it comes to knowing what goes on in the human mind, Maisie, but after all these years, I’ve cottoned on to a little bit of knowledge about the spirit. I reckon that lad saw some things when he was growing up – and what with his mother being in an asylum for a while, then everything that happened when they lost their little girl, well, say no more.’
Maisie was thoughtful for a moment. ‘You’re right, Robbie. But here’s another spanner in the works. He’s among company. There’s about four others, all about fifteen or sixteen years of age I would imagine, and they’re trying to look after him. Every day they’re scared he’ll be dead when they go in with a cup of tea.’ She sighed. ‘But I can say this for them – because I witnessed it – those youngsters can take care of themselves.’ She described watching Mary dispatch the lad named Jim to the ground.
MacFarlane did not respond, though Maisie thought she could hear a pencil being tap-tap-tapped on the desk. Another second or two passed.
‘Robbie? Are you still there?’
‘Oh just distracted by some papers. Anyway, more bloody 42squatters – it’s not getting any better, is it? In that case, why don’t you have a word with his mum and see what you both think might be best.’
‘Thank you, Robbie. I just had to talk to you about this one.’
‘One more thing – over the past three weeks, your Billy has telephoned me almost every day or so to ask if I can pull strings to find out anything about his son. I’ve conveniently been “out of the office” a lot lately – usually just down the corridor – because I don’t know what to say to the poor man any more. But I want to remind you about something you probably don’t need reminding about.’
‘Yes?’
‘There should be no secrets between man and wife.’
‘I know, Robbie. Billy will be in the office today. I’ll telephone Doreen to talk about it. She’s been remarkably strong, you know – you’d never believe she’d had that horrible time after Lizzie died.’
