Maisie Dobbs

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “What do you mean, Billy?”

  Maisie shielded her eyes from the morning sun as she looked up at him.

  Billy sighed deeply, took a breath, opened the car door, and sat down on the passenger seat. The claret leather of the hardly used seat creaked as Billy moved to make himself comfortable.

  “Just can’t sleep, Miss. Not for long anyway. ’s’bin like that since I got ’ome from France. That many years ago. Soon as I close my eyes, it all comes back.”

  He looked into the distance as if into the past.

  “Blimey, I can almost smell the gas, can ’ardly breathe at times. If I fall asleep straight away, I only wake up fighting for breath. And the pounding in my ’ead. You never forget that pounding, the shells. Mind you, you know that, don’t you, Miss?”

  And as he spoke, Maisie remembered her homecoming, remembered Maurice taking her again to see Khan, who seemed never to age. In her mind’s eye she saw herself sitting with Khan and telling her story, and Maurice sitting with her.

  Khan spoke of bearing witness to the pain of another’s memories, a ritual as old as time itself, then asked her to tell her story again. And again. And again. She told her story until, exhausted, she had no more story to tell. And Maisie remembered Khan’s words, that this nightmare was a dragon that would remain alive, but dormant, waiting insidiously to wake and breathe its fire, until she squarely faced the truth of what had happened to Simon.

  “You all right, Miss?”

  Billy Beale placed a hand on Maisie’s shoulder for just a second.

  “Yes, yes, I was just thinking about what you said, Billy. So what do you do when you cannot sleep?”

  Billy looked down at his hands and began pulling at the lining of his cap, running the seam between the forefinger and thumb of each hand.

  “I get up, so’s not to wake the missus. Then I go out. Walking the streets. For hours sometimes. And you know what, Miss? It’s not only me, Miss. There’s a lot of men I see, ’bout my age, walking the streets. And we all know, Miss, we all know who we are. Old soldiers what keep seeing the battle. That’s what we are, Miss. I tell you, sometimes I think we’re like the waking dead. Livin’ our lives during the day, normal like, then trying to forget something what ’appened years ago. It’s like going to the picture ’ouse, only the picture’s all in me ’ead.”

  Maisie inclined her head to show understanding, her silence respectful of Billy’s terrible memories, and of this confidence shared. And once again she was drawn back, to that year in the wards after her return from France, working to comfort the men whose minds were ravaged by war. Small comfort indeed. Yet for every one who could not bring his mind back from the last vision of a smoke-filled hell, there were probably dozens like Billy, living now as good father, good husband, good son, good man, but who feared the curtains drawn against darkness, and the light extinguished at the end of the day.

  “Ready, Billy?” Maisie asked when Billy put the cap firmly back on his head.

  “Reckon I am, Miss. Yes, I reckon I am. Do me the world of good will this, Miss. Bein’ useful like.”

  They spoke little on the journey to Kent. Occasionally Maisie asked Billy questions as they drove along the winding country roads. She wanted to make doubly sure that he understood everything that was required of him. Information. She needed more information. A feel for the place. How did it work when you were on the inside? Was anything amiss?

  She spoke to him of intuition, abbreviating the teaching she had received from Maurice and Khan many years before.

  “You must listen to the voice inside, Billy,” said Maisie, placing her hand to her middle. “Remember even the smallest sensation of unease, for it could well be significant.”

  Billy had been quick to learn, quick to understand that his impressions were important, just as relevant as facts on a page. As Maisie knew from their first meeting, Billy Beale was sharp, an acute observer of circumstances and people. He was just what she needed. And he was willing.

  But was it fair to draw Billy into her work? If she thought that Vincent’s death was questionable, was it right to involve Billy? Then again, he would not be at The Retreat for long. And they would be in daily contact. She had promised Maurice that as soon as she had gathered enough information, she would refer her findings to the authorities—if what she found required it.

  Maisie knew that her curiosity was drawing both Billy and herself deeper into the mystery of Vincent. And even as she drove she closed her eyes briefly and prayed for the confidence and courage to face whatever was hidden in the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Maisie parked the motorcar outside the dower house and led Billy into Maurice Blanche’s home, to introduce her old teacher to her new assistant, and to have lunch together before she and Billy proceeded to The Retreat.

  They talked about The Retreat, and Billy added weight to Maisie’s earlier deliberations about the naming of this place where the wounded of a war over ten years past still sought refuge.

  “O’ course, it might not be just The Retreat, you know, as in gettin’ away from it all into shelter. There’s ‘The Retreat,’ in’t there? You know, the bugle call at sunset. S’pose you’d ’ave to be an army man to know that, eh? Like ‘retreating from a position’ as well. That’s what we should’ve done many a time—would’ve saved a few lives, and that’s a fact.”

  Maisie set down her knife and fork and nodded thoughtfully.

  The Retreat, the ultimate play on words to describe a place for the wounded. But what happened if someone wanted to retreat, as it were, from The Retreat?

  “Maisie, while you are visiting your father, before you and Mr. Beale—or perhaps I should say ‘Dobbs’ to get him used to the name—anyway, before you depart for The Retreat, I will walk with Mr. Beale in the meadow, just beyond the orchard.”

  Maisie knew that this was not a chance suggestion, and watched the two men walk toward the meadow, heads together in conversation, the younger man ever so slightly ready to steady the older man lest he falter. If only he knew, she thought, how much the old man feared the faltering of the younger.

  As soon as they returned, Maisie took Billy to The Retreat, but before entering, she drove around the perimeter of the estate and parked under the shade of a beech tree.

  “It’s a retreat all right, innit, Miss? Pity they don’t allow visitors for the first month. Wonder what they’ll say when I tell them I’m out after two weeks? Prob’ly be a bit upset with me, eh, Miss?”

  Billy surveyed the landscape, the fencing, the road, and the distances between landmarks.

  “Look, ‘ere’s what I think. No point trying to get all fancy here, rigging up lines to, y’know, communicate. Why don’t I just meet you at the same time every evening, by that bit of fence there, and tell you what I know.”

  “Well, Billy, it seemed as if we had a good plan, for your safety, that is.”

  “Don’t you worry about me. From what you’ve said, I don’t think I’m that important to the likes of them. I’m just your average bread and butter, aren’t I? No big legacies being signed over or anything.”

  Billy smiled at Maisie and pointed toward the fields between the large house in the distance, and the road.

  “Tell you the truth, looking at this landscape now, it’s best if we don’t mess around with telephone lines coming too near the ’ouse. Draw more attention. No one’s goin’ to question an old soldier what wants to go off by ’imself for a jaunt of an evenin’. But they might question an old sapper fiddling around with a telephone line in the dark. And you know, Miss, I might be good at that sort of thing, but I never did say I was invisible. And I can’t run like I used to, not with the leg ’ere.” Billy slapped the side of his leg for emphasis. “But ’ere’s what I can do now. I can rig up a line to that telephone box we just passed back there, on the corner as you leave the ’amlet back there. I ’ad a quick look as we drove by—not that I ’ad much time, what with the speed and all—”

 
Maisie grimaced at Billy, who continued. “It’s one of them new ones, a Kiosk Number Four, I think. They ’ave em in places where there ain’t no post office—did y’see? It’s got a stamp machine on the back, and a pillar-box for letters. Sort of all purpose—mind you, me mate what works on the things says that the stamps get soggy when it rains, and then they all stick together and make a right old mess. So, anyway, getting’ back to me and the old lines ’ere, if I need to get ’old of you urgent, like, or if I’m in an ’urry to get out of ’ere, I can always jump through this fence—well, sort of jump, what wiv the leg and all—and use the box and line what I rig up to connect with the outside line at that box up the road. D’you see what I mean, Miss? Then I’ll run like a nutter, bad leg an’ all!”

  Maisie laughed nervously. “Right you are, Billy, I think I follow you. It sounds like a good idea.”

  Billy opened the car door, pulled himself out of the low seat, and walked around to the luggage compartment. He carefully took out two large old canvas kit bags and placed them on the ground. Taking out spools of cable, “small, so’s I can work with them on me own,” Billy walked over to the ditch at the base of the perimeter fence.

  Moving aside grasses and wildflowers growing innocently at the side of the road, Billy began to unwind the cable into the ditch, moving away from Maisie, who remained in the car. It was a quiet thoroughfare, so they had little to fear from passing traffic, but nevertheless, country folk were apt to be inquisitive about two strangers lingering on the road. Especially if one were seen unraveling cable.

  Maisie got out of the car and walked over to the fence, looking out over the land belonging to The Retreat. The perimeter fence, six feet tall and topped with barbed wire, would merge into a stone wall just half a mile along in the opposite direction to the line being laid out by Billy. The main gate was situated another half mile away from the beginning of the wall. Eventually Billy returned.

  “Nicely done, and quick too. Managed to save meself some work by using the bottom wire of this ’ere fence.” Billy pulled back the grass to point to the wire in question. “I hear that’s what they’ve done over there in America, y’know—used the fences on farms to make connections between places, like.” Billy pushed back his cap, and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead.“Stroke of luck it bein’ there—the telephone—see more of them in the towns, don’t you? S’pose it’s used by them what live in the terraced cottages in the ’amlet. I tell you, no one will see that line, mark my words.”

  Billy caught his breath, and for the first time Maisie heard the wheezing that revealed gas-damaged lungs. “You shouldn’t be running like that, Billy.”

  “I’m awright, Miss. Now to this end.” Billy held up a telephone receiver.“The old ‘dog and bone,’ Miss. We used to say in the trenches that them as is on the end of the line only bloomin’ ’ear ’alf of what’s said—and then only what they want to ’ear anyway. Personally, meself, I reckon it’s a poor old situation when you ’ave to make out a person’s intentions from their voice in a tin cup.”

  Billy worked on as he spoke, wiring the receiver to a metal box he placed in the ditch before leaning in and connecting lines. He picked up the receiver, turned the dial, and listened. The operator responded at his request for a connection, charges to go to the recipient of the call, and put him through to Maurice’s telephone number. They spoke briefly before Billy replaced the receiver on its cradle.

  “I know it’s not perfect, and it takes a bit o’ time, but it might come in ’andy, you never know.”

  After ensuring that their makeshift telephone was hidden and secure, Billy then cut into the wire of the perimeter fence, forming a “door” through which he could escape, should escape become necessary. He secured the door with spare wire to camouflage the fact that the fence had been tampered with.

  The first part of their task finished, Maisie and Billy loaded up the motor car again and drove slowly toward the main entrance to The Retreat. They said little, only speaking to confirm the time at which they would meet each evening.

  Billy would take a solitary stroll at seven o’clock, which would bring him to the fence by the large beech tree at half past seven. Maisie would be waiting to meet with him for just a few moments, then he would make his way back to the main house. In all other dealings with the residents of The Retreat, there was to be nothing about him that could be remarked upon. He was to be invisible but for the bed he slept in and the food he consumed. But he was to watch, and listen and report back to Maisie.

  “Welcome back to The Retreat, Miss Dobbs,” said Archie as he opened the gate.

  He walked toward the car, leaned down so that his face was alongside the passenger window, and addressed Billy.

  “William, isn’t it? The major is waiting to welcome you personally to The Retreat.”

  Billy Beale took the proffered hand and seemed not to see the terrible scars that had changed Archie’s countenance forever. Maisie nodded to Archie, and moved the car slowly along the driveway.

  “Poor bleedin’ bugger—oh, I am sorry, Miss—I forget meself at times. Least I can get about and no one worries about a bit of a limp. Blimey, that poor fella, with that face. Not that I ’aven’t seen worse. Just not seen it for a long time, not close up. That’s all.”

  Maisie slowed the car even more.“Billy, if you have any doubts—”

  “Not likely,” said Billy, straightening his shoulders. “If there’s any funny business going on here that can cause any more damage to these blighters, then I want to do my bit to stop it.”He paused to look at Maisie.“Can’t blame them for wanting to get away, can you?”

  “No, you can’t. But there’s a lot that can be done for them now.”

  “Not when you’ve been through what they’ve been through. Just want to be left alone ’alf the time, I should think, never mind being messed around with by newfangled ideas of skin medicine and what ’ave you.”

  The car drew alongside the main building as Adam Jenkins, the major, came through the front door and down the steps toward them.

  “Ah, William. Welcome to The Retreat. I am sure you will be comfortable here. Come into my study for tea, then we can get you settled later.”

  Adam Jenkins led the way, his white shirt once again crisply laundered, leather riding boots polished to a blinding shine, and not a hair out of place. He invited Maisie and Billy to take a seat, standing behind Maisie’s chair to hold it for her, then indicating, with a nonchalant sweep of his hand, the seat by the window for Billy.

  How strange, thought Maisie, that he should direct Billy to a seat that took the full strength of the late-afternoon sun, rays that would cause Billy to become hot and uncomfortable, and to have to shield his eyes with the hand that he would need to reach out for the teacup as it was offered to him. Strange to unsettle a person so.

  Billy met Maisie’s look and raised an eyebrow. He knows, thought Maisie. He knows that Jenkins has placed him by the window on purpose.

  Ten minutes of seemingly purposeless conversation had been exchanged between Jenkins and Maisie. As befitting his character— the tired veteran of a war over ten years past—Billy was silent. And hot. Maisie looked at Billy again. She saw the perspiration on his brow, his discomfort as he ran the forefinger of his right hand along the edge of his shirt collar.

  Jenkins suddenly directed his attention away from Maisie, toward Billy. “My dear man. How remiss of me. How utterly stupid. Move over to this other chair and into the cool of the room immediately.”

  Jenkins put down his cup and used one hand to beckon Billy away from the window seat, and the other to indicate another seat.

  Interesting, thought Maisie. A small gesture, but a subtle and significant one. Was it a ploy to begin to inspire Billy’s trust? Placing himself immediately in the role of savior, and of one prepared to acknowledge a mistake. Or was Adam Jenkins genuinely admitting an error of judgment? Was this opening of his outstretched arms a move to render Billy more comfortable in another
seat, an act of genuine concern? Or was it perhaps a deliberate action to draw Billy into his circle of admirers? Arms spread wide to bring him within the force of his influence.

  Maisie watched Jenkins carefully, while attending to the business of afternoon tea. In her work with Maurice, Maisie had learned much about the charm and charisma of the natural leader, which, taken to an extreme, can become dictatorial and vindictive. Was Adam Jenkins such a man? Or an enlightened and concerned soul?

  “Well, it’s time to get some pawprints on the page, don’t you think?” said Jenkins. He glanced at his watch, stood up, and walked over to a large heavily carved desk. The top was covered in rich brown leather, and only one plain manila file sat waiting for attention on top of a wooden board. He opened the file, checked the papers within, took a fountain pen from the inside pocket of his light linen jacket, and returned to the chair next to Maisie.

  “We have received the necessary documents—thank you, Miss Dobbs—pertaining to the financial arrangements.” He turned to Billy. “And I know you completely understand the commitment we request upon taking up residency at The Retreat, William. Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to sign here.”

  He placed the papers on the wooden board to provide a stable writing surface, and passed them to Billy, tapping the place for signature with his forefinger.

  After Billy carefully wrote “William Dobbs” in the space indicated, Jenkins rang the bell for an assistant to escort Billy to his quarters, and as he did so, Billy winked at Maisie. Yet when Jenkins turned back to the two supposed siblings, he saw only the blank resignation of the man, and the worry etched in the face of his sister. But Maisie’s concern was no act. She was worried for Billy. She had to ensure that he was at The Retreat not a moment longer than necessary.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

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