She discovered that Henry Sandermere had been killed by a sniper in the Somme valley shortly after his return from leave, in early July 1916. The report from his superiors was complimentary, and he would soon have received a promotion to captain had he lived. Nothing about the death was unusual. Officers were, for the most part, drawn from the families of the landed gentry, the aristocracy, families of wealth and privilege. Centuries of advantage, of—at the very least—better nutrition, had resulted in such men being, on average, taller than the rank and file. It was no surprise, then, that the sniper found an officer an easy target. And the regular soldiers were canny, learning quickly to keep their heads away from the parapet.
Corporal Willem van Maarten’s file was somewhat fuller, given that notes had followed him from the reformatory. Maisie had known that many boys and men incarcerated at His Majesty’s Pleasure were enlisted with the promise that their service would render sentencing void, unless they committed criminal acts while in the army. Youth did not spare one the opportunity to serve, though van Maarten’s record contained two letters of complaint from the boy’s father, who was concerned at his son’s age upon enlistment. An official note had been attached to the letter, to the effect that the boy wished to remain in the army and to serve in France. She shuddered to see a letter from the reformatory with the words RELEASED TO THE ARMY stamped across it.
There were also notes pertaining to the issue of whether Corporal van Maarten had been taken prisoner and then confirmation, in September 1916, that he was presumed dead. The telegram to his parents had been sent just one day after the Zeppelin raid. The final comment by his commanding officer had described his service record as exemplary
Maisie did not need to make notes on an index card, for she had already garnered the information required, and those details she wished to retain were lodged firmly in her mind. She replaced all notes in the manner in which they had been given to her, collected the folders and her belongings, and walked back to the counter.
“Got everything you want?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Well, if you need anything else, you just come back and we’ll help you out.”
Maisie looked around the room, at the solitary woman holding her hands to her forehead, leaning forward as she read, shaking her head. She would prefer never to have the need to come to the war records repository again, but she knew that, given her work, it was a faint hope.
It was half-past four when she left London. If she had a good run down to Chelstone, she would arrive by six o’clock. Time to see her father and walk across to the Dower House to visit Maurice. She planned to be in Heronsdene again by nine o’clock. Then she would lay down her head and rest, for morning would herald a formidable day.
SIXTEEN
Following supper with her father, Maisie walked across to the Dower House to see Maurice Blanche. She guessed he had seen her motor car pull in through the gates of Chelstone Manor, and she knew in her heart that he hoped she would come to see him again. She made her way though the gate that divided the properties, up the path past the conservatory, and around to the front entrance. The housekeeper, a short woman who always wore a black skirt and a white blouse with a cameo at her throat, was waiting with the door open to greet her.
“You’ll find the doctor in his study. He asked for port to be brought for you, and there’s some nice Stilton with biscuits on the trolley—I always think port’s too harsh on its own.”
“That’s lovely. I’ll go straight through.”
Maurice was sitting at his desk as Maisie entered the room, and he looked up, smiling, as she closed the door behind her. She tried not to notice how he had aged of late. There seemed to be a strain in his standing and locomotion, and he reached for his cane more than he might once have done. Had sadness wrought such changes? One year ago they traveled to France together, and though there was no doubt about his age—he was in his seventies—there had been more of a spring to his step. Had his work begun to take its toll? The events of last September, when she was brought in secret to the house in Paris to be told that her investigations had crossed the path of the intelligence services, proved his knowledge was still in demand and that he played a role of some significance in matters of international importance.
“Maurice, are you feeling unwell?”
He shook his head. “Do not concern yourself with my health, I am simply demonstrating the effects of age. Those falls and scrapes one has in earlier years come home to roost. Take that as a caution, Maisie.”
Maurice kissed Maisie on the cheek and then held out his hand toward her usual seat by the fire, opposite his well-used armchair. A trolley was positioned between the two chairs, and Maurice poured a glass of port for Maisie and a single malt for himself before easing himself into his customary place. He reached to the side of the fireplace, selected a pipe and his tobacco pouch, and began to speak as he went through the motions of filling and lighting the pipe.
“You wish to talk about the case in Heronsdene?”
“Yes, I do. But first—”
Maurice looked at Maisie, inclining his head as he drew upon his pipe.
She continued. “Simon was cremated and—oh, dear.” She rested her head in her hands. “I can’t believe it was just this morning. So much has happened.”
“I take it you fell to your work soon after the ritual of that final farewell? No doubt you busied yourself with appointments germane to your investigation.”
Maisie nodded. “I allowed only a day in London; I have to return to Heronsdene tonight. I’ll drive back to the inn when I leave here.”
“Was that necessary, the rush?”
“It was best. There is a momentum, and I am under some pressure to secure an end to my work there within the next day or so.”
“I see.” Maurice shook the match and threw it into the fireplace. “Tell me about the cremation.”
“At first I was taken aback, but I realized that Margaret—Simon’s mother—had made the best decision. Simon had remained alive for so long, yet it was not Simon, not like we all remembered him. But I had never been to a cremation before. I was”—Maisie pressed her lips together as she searched for the word to describe her feelings—“unsettled. Yes, I was unsettled, knowing his body was being consigned to an inferno.”
There was a silence as Maurice looked into the fire, considering her words before speaking again. “He was wounded in the fire of shelling, and he has been laid to rest in fire. There is a rhythm to the decision, as well as a practicality for an aging woman alone.”
Maisie remained silent, holding the glass of port in both hands, turning it around in her fingers and watching the alcohol’s film run along the rim of the glass.
Maurice began to speak again. “The concept of such an end brings to mind the phoenix, the sacred firebird, who at the end of life builds a nest of cinnamon twigs, which he ignites, and goes to his death amid flames that will bear new life.” He took one sip of the rich amber malt whisky. “Of course, a new young Simon will not walk through that door to greet us, but I sense that seeing him go in this way, knowing there will only be ashes to sprinkle on the breeze, is a gift that has been given you, if you choose to take it.” He smiled. “This is one of those times, Maisie, when you must not think, must not dwell and search for meaning. You have done those things, you have held Simon in your heart, and you have taken steps into a future that you might never have imagined in 1917. He is gone now. Think of the newborn phoenix and embrace it.”
She said nothing. In her mind’s eye a bird with gold and red plumage struggled amid flames of its own combustion.
“It is also worth knowing that tears from the phoenix were said to heal all wounds.”