An Incomplete Revenge

by Jacqueline Winspear

  TEN

  Maisie remained at Chelstone until Sunday morning, when she left early to be in Richmond by eleven o’clock. Morning visiting hours ended at noon at the convalescent hospital where Simon had been cared for since the war. She would have one hour to be with a man who could not respond to her conversation, who did not see her, and who was not aware of her presence.

  As was her habit when she visited, she parked the car close to an ancient oak tree at the far end of the graveled turning circle close to the former mansion that was now a place of retirement and care for those soldiers, sailors and airmen who had lost their minds to war. Most of the patients had been infantrymen, many of them officers, as the clinic was a private concern for those with families who could afford such attention.

  Maisie made her way along the gravel and, as always, walked across the lawns to a stone wall overlooking the Thames, from which the mansion, built on a hill, commanded a panoramic view. She rested her hands on the wall, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. Maisie had been well tutored in the stilling of the mind, in the practice of drawing strength of spirit in quiet contemplation. Now she sought to dampen the stirring of doubt, the sense that she could no longer face the young man she had loved at a time when life was slipping from him. She leaned forward and rested her head on her hands. But we are neither of us young anymore. Though she knew very well that the years were drawn on Simon’s face, when she thought of him, it was that boyish man she saw, the newly minted military doctor with whom she had fallen in love, and he with her. And when she slipped into the chair alongside his bed, closed her hand around his, and whispered the words, It’s me, Maisie, I’ve come to see you, she would lean over and kiss his forehead at the very place where fragments of shell had burrowed into his skull and he had been lost to her forever.

  A breeze blew up from the river, and Maisie moved away from the wall, took one more deep breath, then turned and made her way back to the main door of the clinic.

  “Good morning, Miss Dobbs. Not very nice out, is it? Sign here, please, and I’ll call staff nurse. The captain’s been moved; he’s in another ward now.” The receptionist enunciated every word in her singsong voice, framed by lips coated liberally with cherry-red lipstick, which, as always, matched the long nails that clicked on the telephone dial as Maisie completed the visitors’ book.

  Maisie signed her name and pushed the book back to the receptionist. “Thank you. I see I’m the only visitor today so far.”

  “Yes, though his mother does try to get in every other day.”

  Maisie nodded, then turned, as she was greeted by the staff nurse. “Good morning, Miss Dobbs. Follow me, and I’ll take you to Captain Lynch.”

  They walked along corridors with polished wood floors, bouquets of flowers set in white jardinieres, and a fragrance free of the usual hospital hallmarks—the odor of human wastes masked by disinfectant and bleach. Passing the entrance to the hospital conservatory, formerly the winter garden where the ladies of the house would take a turn when frozen weather forced them to remain indoors, Maisie thought back to other times and past visits, when she would sit with Simon close to the fountain, or perhaps alongside an open window. With his pale blue pajamas and navy dressing gown, and a rich tartan blanket across his knees, he was a silent partner to her conversation. She would speak of her cases, knowing the confidence would be kept, and tell him about her father, and perhaps even speak in lowered tones of a man she had dined with, or accompanied to the theater. And always she spoke of those years when she did not come, when her fears and reticence following her own convalescence caused her to stay away. At the heart of her angst had been the shell shock she suffered. Like a dragon, leashed and sleeping, it threatened to rear up at any time, to take her by the throat in its enflamed jaws and crush every part of her with memories of what had gone before.

  It was just one year ago, in the midst of a case, when the dragon began to emerge from the hibernation of her control, that she had sunk into the very depths of an abyss from which her emergence had been fragile for months afterward. But she now understood that to control the dragon, she had to look into his eyes and back at her past. Only then would she begin to be free.

  Simon lay in a bed in a private ward in which he was the only patient. His breathing was labored, sustenance delivered to his body via a single tube inserted into his arm. Such equipment was unknown in the hospital where Maisie had trained as a nurse, but wartime had brought new tools to medicine.

  The staff nurse took Simon’s limp right hand and counted his pulse, then felt his forehead. His breathing would be regular for some seconds, followed by several labored gasps before becoming even again. “I’ll be honest with you, Miss Dobbs, I don’t know what’s kept him going all these years. Amazing what the body can do, isn’t it?”

  Maisie nodded and, as the staff nurse moved aside, sat in the chair for visitors set by the bed. She reached for Simon’s hand.

  “Only fifteen minutes today, not your usual hour, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Yes. Of course.” As the nurse turned to leave, Maisie called after her. “Staff nurse, I wonder—can you tell me, how long do you . . .” Her words faltered.

  The nurse shrugged and blew out her cheeks. “To tell you the truth, if you had asked me last week, I would have said a day, perhaps two. Now he’s still here, I wouldn’t like to say, but—” She paused, pursing her lips for a second and shaking her head. “It won’t be long now. I would say he’ll be gone before the week’s out.”

  Maisie had become used to the honesty with which the nurses spoke to her, as if, by having been a nurse herself, she was admitted into a confidence of plain speaking, a forthright response where, with family, such opinions and observations were administered only by doctors.

  “Thank you, staff nurse, I appreciate your candor.”

  The nurse stepped back into the room for a moment and pressed Maisie’s shoulder with her fingers, a gesture Maisie returned by squeezing the woman’s hand before she left the ward.

  Maisie sighed and reached toward Simon once more. “I think I ought to say my farewell today, Simon, just in case. I might not be here when—” And she looked down at their joined hands.

  SHE LEFT THE clinic fifteen minutes later and walked directly to her motor car. She took her place in the driver’s seat and grasped the steering wheel, resting her head on her hands and closing her eyes. Several moments passed. Then there was a sharp rap at the window.

  “Priscilla! What are you doing here?” Maisie opened the door and stepped out of the MG to embrace her friend.

  Priscilla held Maisie to her, then pulled away to look into her eyes. “This must be wretched for you, darling. I mean, it’s bad for all of us who knew Simon—I’ve known him since I was a child—but you loved him.”

  Maisie shook her head, reaching for a handkerchief in the pocket of her mackintosh. “I’m alright, Pris. But what are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to see you, actually. I knew you’d be here, you usually come on a Sunday, so I caught a taxi-cab knowing I’d find you. And there you were, in your minuscule MG. Let’s go down into Richmond for a bite to eat.”

  “Aren’t you going to see Simon?”

  Priscilla shook her head. “No. I can’t. The Simon I knew died in 1917.” She walked around to the passenger door, opened it, sat down, and turned to Maisie. “Now, then, let’s get going, squashed as I’ll be in your little motor car.”

  PRISCILLA DIRECTED MAISIE to a hotel lower down the hill and closer to the river, where the grill room offered diners a calm vista across the water. A waiter showed them to a table for two set in a corner offering two outlooks.

  “I’ll have a gin and tonic—and please, don’t drown the gin.” Priscilla pulled off her gloves, fingertip by fingertip, as she ordered.

  “And a ginger ale for me, please,” added Maisie.

  The women consulted the menu and, having made their selections, sat back.

  “You should have had a drink.”
r />   Maisie shook her head. “No, not me. The last thing I want to do is drown my sorrow.”

  “It’ll take the edge off.”

  “I need that edge, Pris.” Maisie thanked the waiter, who had just set their drinks on the table. Priscilla waited for him to leave after taking their luncheon order, then reached into her handbag for her silver cigarette case and lighter.

  “Here we go. Let’s upset the matrons, shall we?”

  “I don’t know if anyone gets upset about a woman smoking anymore.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  “So, how are the boys?” Maisie inquired.

  Priscilla rolled her eyes. “I’m off to the school again tomorrow, on the verge of pulling them out.”

  “More bullying?”

  “Yes. And it’s made even worse by the fact that all three of them don’t want to be seen as cowards with Mummy and Daddy running to the rescue.”

  “How serious is it?”

  “Frankly, it sounds dreadful, according to the letters I’ve received. I know a lot of parents would probably say that it will pass, it builds character, and if we take them out now they will never learn how to weather life’s storms. But as I see it—and so does Douglas, only he’s still in France—there’s plenty of time to learn men’s lessons when they’re men.” She shook her head and sighed. “I don’t know, perhaps it’s me. In the war, I helped collect the bodies of boys only a few years older than Timothy Peter is now, so to see my sons fighting and hurt touches a rather raw nerve.” Priscilla blew a smoke ring and flicked ash from her cigarette into a crystal ashtray. “I mean, make no mistake, those three could quite cheerfully kill each other in their rooms at home; however, there’s something rather wicked about being set upon for being different, don’t you think?”

  Maisie nodded, then put a question to Priscilla. “May I come with you, to the school?”

  “Whatever do you want to do that for? Believe me, if you want to experience motherhood by proxy, this is not a route I would recommend.”

  “No, it’s to do with a case—and you know I can’t say too much about it, so please don’t press me. But I need to ask some questions about a former pupil of St. Anselm’s—and I’m going back a few years; you won’t know him—so an introduction to the headmaster by a parent might help oil the wheels of discovery.”

  Priscilla pressed her cigarette into the ashtray as a trolley with two plates topped with silver covers was wheeled to their table. “The trouble with that plan is that the parent in question might be persona non grata after five minutes with the headmaster.” She leaned back to allow the waiter to serve lunch. “However,” she added, “I could say that I want to see my sons before our meeting, to allow you time to have a chat. The headmaster’s name is Dr. Cottingham and he’s been at the school for at least twenty-five years. He came as a young teacher before the war, and he’s definitely the sort to remember every single old boy, especially the bad ones.”

  “Thank you, Pris.” Maisie paused to thank the waiter once more; then, when they were alone again, she lowered her voice. “Do you know if Mrs. Lynch will visit Simon today?”

  “I’m sure she will. She’s there as often as possible these days, and it’s troublesome for her, with her rheumatism. I told you she wants to see you. Would you like to go back up to the clinic after lunch, during afternoon visiting hours?”

  Maisie shook her head. “No, that’s alright, not today.”

  “There might not be too many more ’todays’ for Simon.”

  “I know.”

  Priscilla nodded. “Just don’t leave it too long, will you?” She smiled, reached out and squeezed Maisie’s hand, then picked up her knife and fork. “Well, better tuck in before it gets cold. By the way, I’d love a lift back into town, if you don’t mind—I’m looking at a house today, a base for us in London, in Mayfair.”

  Maisie began to eat, her mind on neither her case nor Priscilla’s house, but the prospect of seeing Margaret Lynch after so long.

  FOLLOWING LUNCH, MAISIE drove Priscilla first to an estate agency in Mayfair, the principal of which had agreed to see his new client on a day of rest, in anticipation of a lucrative outcome for his trouble. From there, Maisie returned her friend to the Dorchester before going to her office. There was some post to attend to, but otherwise there seemed little to do on a Sunday, except return to her flat in Pimlico. She attended to a few outstanding matters, finally unpinning the almost-blank case map that she and Billy had started before he left for Kent. She would work on it at home this evening.

  The flat was cool when she entered, and she found that she missed the company of Sandra, a former maid at the Comptons’ Ebury Place home who had lodged with Maisie for several months earlier in the year. She had chosen to leave the Comptons’ employ and remain in London when Lady Rowan decided that the mansion was not used enough to keep it running, so it was closed until such a time as James Compton made his home in England once more. Most of the staff left to work at Chelstone Manor, but Sandra was engaged to be married and was looking for suitable accommodation until then, so Maisie offered her the box room. Though the women were separated by age and education, Maisie enjoyed Sandra’s presence and found the companionship comforting. But Sandra was married now and living in a one-room cold-water flat above the garage where her new husband worked.

  She rested her bag on the dining table which, along with four chairs, had been found at a sale of secondhand furniture by Sandra, who knew a thing or two about driving down the asking price on anything from food to clothing. The case map, rolled and carried under her arm, was unfurled and set in place with books at each corner, and Maisie took out the colored pencils she had brought from the office. She went into the small kitchen, put on the kettle for a pot of tea, and returned to the case map. Only then did she remove her mackintosh and hat. She set to work.

  In truth, Maisie did not know what she was searching for and felt a shiver of excitement as she set about her business. This was the challenge she loved, the myriad paths ahead that might lead to an answer to her question—in this case, what exactly was happening in Heronsdene? What truths were being hidden from view? Who was at the heart of the crimes and the fires? She knew that, like a river with many tributaries, there was one source, one spring from which the flood came. Who or what was the spring? As she mapped out the information gathered thus far, she knew one path would come to the fore—but would it be the right one? Or would her feelings, her observations, and her own preconceived notions of right and wrong—her prejudices, perhaps—color and cloud her vision?

  Maisie went to bed early and, after leaning back and listening to the silence of her flat, she slept. The bell connected to the outside door began to ring just after midnight. Like a cat woken by a predator, Maisie was alert, running to the door while pulling on her dressing gown. She left the door on the latch and made her way with more caution toward the glass outer doors, standing behind a wall to view the visitor summoning her at such an hour. It was Priscilla.

  Maisie opened the door. “Whatever is wrong?” she asked of her friend, her stomach knotted for fear of the answer.

  “Get dressed, Maisie, there is no time to lose. There’s a taxi waiting to take us to Richmond.” Priscilla continued to talk while Maisie pulled on her walking skirt, a white blouse, warm tweed jacket, and a pair of brown walking shoes. “I received a telephone call from Margaret Lynch. Simon is not expected to last the night.”

  Maisie nodded, feeling the tears prick her eyes. There was nothing to be done except follow Priscilla. She would think later, in the morning, when it was over. When it was finally over.

  At the late hour traffic was light, ensuring an easy and swift drive to Richmond. Priscilla had linked her arm through Maisie’s as they sat, silent, in the back of the taxi. Maisie felt as if her journey were not through west London but instead through time, the veils of years past being drawn back, one by one, for her to look, to take some account of who she was, who she had been, and how she had
come to this place now, a woman approaching her middle years who had kept the light of love alive—a love ignited when she was just eighteen—even though others had come to claim her heart. Who would she be without Simon, without the scar on her soul? What would have happened had they both returned from war, unscathed except by experience? Would there have been a fairy-tale ending, the glass shoe fitting perfectly? Or would the disparity in their stations have come between them? She drew her hand across the window, clearing it of condensation, and caught her reflection in the glass. She was her own woman now, not a girl in love. With his passing, Simon was setting her free, in his way. How might she be changed by his death, an event that had not come and gone, taking its place in her history, but had lingered alongside her like a weary shadow?

  The taxi scrunched to a halt on the gravel, and Priscilla put her arm around Maisie as they entered the hospital. A night watchman, sitting at the reception desk, looked up from his newspaper.

  “Can I help—”

  “Mrs. Priscilla Partridge and Miss Maisie Dobbs, to see Captain Lynch. We’re expected.” Priscilla waved her free hand to indicate she knew the way, and together she and Maisie began to run down the corridor. They stopped outside Simon’s room.

  “Alright, deep breath. Now, go in.” Priscilla pulled out her cigarette case and pointed toward the door. “I’ll be outside.”

  Color from the exertion of running drained from Maisie’s face. She nodded, pulled at the hem of her jacket, ran her fingers across her hair, and opened the door.

  Margaret Lynch looked up from her place, sitting next to her son’s bed. The staff nurse acknowledged Maisie with a brief nod and a watered-down smile, then left the room without speaking. Maisie remembered meeting Margaret Lynch for the first time, when Priscilla had taken her to a party Simon’s parents had thrown for him, on the eve of his departure for France. She was a woman of bearing, of understated elegance, with her aubergine gown and her hair drawn back in a chignon. She had greeted Maisie with such grace, as a friend of Priscilla Evernden. It was as she stood with Priscilla to watch the dancing that Maisie had looked across at her hostess and saw her gazing at her only son, saw her raise her hand to her mouth, her face filled with dread. Now, years later, her hair, still styled in the chignon, was gray, and she wore a woolen dress of pale blue which seemed to reflect the prominent veins at her temples. Her eyes were red rimmed, and a handkerchief was crumpled in one hand.