Dedicated to
My Cheef Resurcher
(who knows who he is)
I am no longer an artist interested and anxious. I am a messenger who will bring back word from the men who are fighting to those who want the war to go on forever. Feeble, inarticulate, will be my message, but it will have a bitter truth, and may it burn in their lousy souls.
—Paul Nash, Artist
1899–1946
Paul Nash served with the Artists’ Rifles and the Royal Hampshire Regiment in the Great War.
JANUARY: You enter the London year—it is cold—it is wet—but there are gulls on the embankment.
—from When You Go to London, by H. V. Morton, published 1931
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Romney Marsh, Kent, Tuesday, December 30th, 1930
“Is this the place, madam?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The driver parked in front of the main entrance and, almost as an afterthought, the woman respectfully covered her head with a silk scarf before leaving the motor car.
“I shan’t be long.”
“Right you are, madam.”
He watched the woman enter by the main door, which slammed shut behind her.
“Rather you than me, love,” he said to himself as he picked up a newspaper to while away the minutes until the woman returned again.
THE SITTING ROOM was warm, with a fire in the grate, red carpet on the stone floor and heavy curtains at the windows to counter draughts that the ancient wooden frame could not keep at bay. The woman, now seated facing a grille, had been in conversation with the abbess for some forty-five minutes.
“Grief is not an event, my dear, but a passage, a pilgrimage along a path that allows us to reflect upon the past from points of remembrance held in the soul. At times the way is filled with stones underfoot and we feel pained by our memories, yet on other days the shadows reflect our longing and those happinesses shared.”
The woman nodded. “I just wish there were not this doubt.”
“Uncertainty is sure to follow in such circumstances.”
“But how do I put my mind at rest, Dame Constance?”
“Ah, you have not changed, have you?” observed the abbess. “Always seeking to do rather than to be. Do you really seek the counsel of the spirit?”
The woman began to press down her cuticles with the thumbnail of the opposite hand.
“I know I missed just about every one of your tutorials when I was at Girton, but I thought…”
“That I could help you find peace?” Dame Constance paused, took a pencil and small notebook from a pocket within the folds of her habit and scribbled on a piece of paper. “Sometimes help takes the form of directing. And peace is something we find when we have a companion on the journey. Here’s someone who will help you. Indeed, you have common ground, for she was at Girton too, though she came later, in 1914, if my memory serves me well.”
She passed the folded note through the grille.
Scotland Yard, London, Wednesday, December 31st, 1930
“So you see, madam, there’s very little more I can do in the circumstances, which are pretty cut and dried, as far as we’re concerned.”
“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear, Detective Inspector Stratton.” The woman sat bolt upright on her chair, brushing back her hair with an air of defiance. For a mere second she looked at her hands, rubbing an ink stain on calloused skin where her middle finger always pressed against the nib of her fountain pen. “However, I cannot stop searching because your investigations have drawn nothing. To that end I have decided to enlist the services of a private inquiry agent.”
The policeman, reading his notes, rolled his eyes, then looked up. “That is your prerogative, of course, though I am sure his findings will mirror our own.”
“It’s not a he, it’s a she.” The woman smiled.
“May I inquire as to the name of the ‘she’ in question?” asked Stratton, though he had already guessed the answer.
“A Miss Maisie Dobbs. She’s been highly recommended.”
Stratton nodded. “Indeed, I’m familiar with her work. She’s honest and knows her business. In fact, we have consulted with her here at Scotland Yard.”
The woman leaned forward, intrigued. “Really? Not like your boys to admit to needing help, is it?”
Stratton inclined his head, adding, “Miss Dobbs has certain skills, certain…methods, that seem to bear fruit.”
“Would it be overstepping the mark if I asked what you know of her, her background? I know she was at Girton College a few years after me, and I understand she was a nurse in the war, and was herself wounded in Flanders.”
Stratton looked at the woman, gauging the wisdom of sharing his knowledge of the private investigator. At this point it was in his interests to have the woman out of his hair, so he would do and say what was necessary to push her onto someone else’s patch. “She was born in Lambeth, went to work in service when she was thirteen.”
“In service?”
“Don’t let that put you off. Her intelligence was discovered by a friend of her employer, a brilliant man, an expert in legal medicine and himself a psychologist. When she came back from Flanders, as far as I know, she convalesced, then worked for a year in a secure institution, nursing profoundly shell-shocked men. She completed her education, spent some time studying at the Department of Legal Medicine in Edinburgh and went to work as assistant to her mentor. She learned her business from the best, if I am to be honest.”
“And she’s never married? How old is she, thirty-two, thirty-three?”
“Yes, something like that. And no, she’s never married, though I understand her wartime sweetheart was severely wounded.” He tapped the side of his head. “Up here.”
“I see.” The woman paused, then held out her hand. “I wish I could say thank you for all that you’ve done Inspector. Perhaps Miss Dobbs will be able to shed light where you have seen nothing.”
Stratton stood up, shook hands to bid the woman good-bye and called for a constable to escort her from the building. As soon as the door was closed, while reflecting that they had not even wished each other a cordial Happy New Year, he picked up the telephone receiver and placed a call.
“Yes!”
Stratton leaned back in his chair. “Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve got rid of that bloody woman.”
“Good. How did you manage that?”
“A fortuitous move on her part—she’s going to a private investigator.”