A Dangerous Place (2 page)

Finally, to answer your question—please continue to keep our news under your hat. The doctor advised me to take care, so I don't want to tempt fate.

With love to you all,

Maisie

The
Times
, London, September 1935

James Compton, son of Lord Julian and Lady Rowan Compton, was killed in a flying accident in northern Ontario, Canada, on Sunday. Details of the tragedy have not been revealed, but according to early reports the Viscount Compton, chairman of the Compton Corporation, was a keen aviator and enjoyed the hobby whilst working for his company in Toronto. Viscount Compton's wife, the former Miss Margaret Dobbs, has been admitted to hospital in Toronto, though she was not involved in the immediate accident. It is understood that Viscount Compton's parents have
sailed for Canada, along with his wife's father and stepmother. Viscount Compton was with the Royal Flying Corps during the war and received commendations for gallantry following an attack during which he sustained wounds. Details of a memorial service in London will be released by the family in due course.

Toronto, November 1935

Dear Priscilla,

This will be a short letter. Everyone has gone home now. I did not want to return to England, but I do not want to remain here. There are too many memories for me to encounter every single day, not least James' study—which looks as if he might be home at any moment—and a beautiful nursery that haunts me each time I pass the door. I had never expected marriage to James to make me so content, but it did.

I will be in touch again, in good time. You know and understand me, Pris—I have to be alone, and I need to go away, perhaps even back to India. I think traveling might be the best idea. If I am on the move and not in one place, then I can perhaps outrun myself. If I linger, then like dark flies on a dead deer, the memories and thoughts land and terror seems to fester and pull me in. I cannot bear to be at Chelstone or even in London, where too many people will be watching me, waiting for something to happen, waiting for me to sink or swim, when all I want to do is float, as I did in hospital when the present was held at bay by ether and morphia and whatever else they put into me. The thought of return bears down upon me and renders even my home unsafe.

Please keep in touch with my father and Brenda. I know they will
worry—it was all I could do to get my father to leave, but Brenda understood. She once lost a baby too.

Love, as always,

Maisie

January 1936

Lady Rowan Compton to Priscilla Partridge

My dear Priscilla,

I find it so strange, yet heartwarming, that I have come to know you since my beloved son died, and our Maisie has been all but lost to us. Though I feared for them when a romance seemed to be in the offing, it seemed that they had so much going for them as a couple, and had settled into a very happy marriage—I think it surprised them as much as it did me! But now I grieve, for I have lost them both. You may not know that James' older sister died in an accident when she was a child, and though the years softened the hard edges of my anger—for I was angry at my loss, there is no other way to describe the utter pain—Maisie became like a daughter to me. There was talk about her station, yes, but to be honest, when you have grieved as a mother, such things matter not. Once you've decided not to sink into the dark caverns of your aching heart and die yourself, only life matters—and as I am sure you know, you feel more able to tell the world what to do with itself if it doesn't “approve” of you or your family. And Maisie was such a light. Of course, she had her days of sad reflection—the war did that to so many of our young, as you know yourself—but she was always so spirited. Stubborn at times, yes, but she gave her all to her work. And once she was married, she gave her all to James. That's the sort of person she is. And now we don't know where to find her.

James' father still has contacts where contacts count. I never ask him about it, because to be frank, I don't want to know. When she had her business, Maisie would telephone him on occasion, you know, to squirrel some information from on high when she was working on a case. I think he rather liked it, being of service to someone in that line of work. In any case, he has not been himself since James' death—none of us have—but I think it's time for him to call upon his old chums in Whitehall. They always seem to be able to find someone who appears to have vanished into thin air. I'll tell him the last letter you received came from Boston, though she did not mention where she was staying, or give a return address. I vaguely remember that Simon Lynch had a wartime doctor friend there who Maisie kept in touch with—she might have gone to him and his wife to seek solace. Or she might be alone, which always worries me, and I know it does you, too. I don't like the idea of her without company, not after all she's lost. And I am sure her health is not what it should be, especially after everything she's gone through.

I will be in touch as soon as I hear something.

With affection,

Rowan

Boston, February 1936

Dr. Charles Hayden to Priscilla Partridge

Dear Mrs. Partridge,

We met briefly when I was over in London a few years ago, and then again at the wedding. If you remember, I knew Simon Lynch during the war, and he introduced me to Maisie. When I first met you, you'd assisted her with some information on a case concerning the son
of family friends, the Cliftons. She helped them discover a few things about their son, who was killed in 1916. Considering the horrors that happened during their stay in London, it is a miracle that Mr. and Mrs. Clifton are still alive and enjoy fair health. However, this letter is not about them. I wanted to let you know that Maisie has been staying with my wife and me at our home here in Boston. I believe she has not let anyone in England know her whereabouts—not an unusual response from someone who has experienced such a tragedy. I am a neurosurgeon by profession, and though I have an understanding of psychological trauma, my field is brain disease and injury—but I know deep shock when I see it, and I believe Maisie is in a very vulnerable position.

The purpose of this letter is to inform you that Maisie has now left us. Pauline begged her to stay on, to no avail. My wife is very good with people, and she managed to bring Maisie out of herself, but in the end Maisie said she felt she had to go back to India, that she had found peace there, and she believed it was the best place for her to stay for a while. She said she had to “unpick the knitting” and start all over again. I guess you might know what that means—and I suppose in my heart of hearts, I do too. She needs to go back in order to go forward in life. God knows, she's done it before, and if anyone can do it again and rise from the flames like a phoenix, then it's the Maisie we both know and love.

I hope this letter finds you and your family very well. Your boys were an impressive trio, I must say. I have a daughter about the same age as your eldest—if Patty ever comes over there, I'll have to warn her about those darn good-looking Partridges!

We will let you know if Maisie gives us a forwarding address.

With best regards,

Sincerely,

Charles D. Hayden, MD

October 1936

Mrs. Brenda Dobbs to Maisie Dobbs

Dear Maisie,

First of all, per your instructions, we have not told anyone that you're in India, even though Lady Rowan sends a message to the house at least once a week. I think she's even been to see your tenants to find out if they know where you are, but of course Mr. Klein deals with them directly, and I know he would not tell a soul of your whereabouts—he's your solicitor, after all.

Maisie, I'm not one for writing long letters, but there are things that need to be said, and if you know this already, then consider it a reminder. Your father and I both understand what you've gone through—your dad watched your mother die of that terrible disease, and I lost my first husband and child. Between us women, we all know that the death of a child, even one not born, is a terrible thing to bear—and you were so late on, really. Then on top of seeing your dear James lose his life, well, that's just beyond my imagination. My heart aches for you, Maisie, really it does. But that doesn't stop me saying what needs to be said now. Your father wouldn't want me to write this letter, so this is between you and me. Frankie isn't getting any younger. He'll be eighty years old next year, and though his only complaint is that limp from the accident a few years ago, time is written across his face, and he misses you. We all miss you.

It's time to come home, Maisie. I know you must be scared, imagining how difficult it will be seeing the places where you and James courted, and having to face the grief all over again. Not that I think grief is something you put behind you in the snap of a finger. But come home, Maisie. If for nothing else, come for your dad. You'll
be safe at home, dear love—we're family. We'll look after each other. I promise you that.

Yours most truly,

Brenda

Bombay, January 1937

Maisie Dobbs to Mr. and Mrs. Francis Dobbs

COMING HOME STOP LEAVING END OF WEEK STOP DO NOT TELL ANYONE STOP PLEASE STOP

On board the SS
Isabella
, off Gibraltar, March 1937

“But, Lady Compton, I—”

“Miss Dobbs, if you don't mind, Captain Johnstone. I've had to correct you once already. If you would just let me go about my business without argument, I would be most grateful. I have decided to disembark and remain in Gibraltar. I can join another ship bound for Southampton at any point.”

“My good woman, you are clearly unable to grasp the situation. I doubt you will find adequate accommodation, and even if you do, this is not a safe place. People are swarming across the border from Spain—all sorts of people, and not all savory. Any location in close proximity to war presents an element of risk, especially for a woman.”

“Yes, I am most abundantly aware of that particular fact, Captain—I was a nurse in the war, and closer to battle than you might imagine. Now, if you will just follow my instructions—the leather case, the carpetbag and my satchel will disembark with me, and I would be
obliged if you would be so kind as to have the remainder of my luggage delivered to this address once the ship has arrived in Southampton.” Maisie handed him a page of ship's stationery. “The details are on that slip of paper. Send care of Mr. Francis Dobbs. And it must go to exactly that address in Chelstone, and no other.”

The captain sighed. “Very well.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I have a note for you, too. I suspected you would not relent, so here's a list of hotels and the like where I believe you might secure accommodation. I would suggest the Ridge Hotel for someone of your station—I have already made inquiries, and they have informed me that a room is available. It will be held until further notice.”

Maisie reached out her hand and grasped the small sheet of paper. “Thank you, Captain Johnstone. I am most grateful.”

The ship's captain raised an eyebrow. “Please take care, Miss Dobbs. I wish I could urge you to remain with the ship—I repeat, this is not a safe place for a woman on her own.”

“It's safe enough for me.”

Maisie held out her hand to Johnstone, who took it in his own.

“I will ensure a taxi is waiting to take you to the hotel,” said the captain, who held on to her hand a second longer than necessary, as if he might be able to keep her aboard ship after all. “And please, be very careful. There is a war not very far away, and battle can wound people. Not all injuries are visible to the naked eye, and they can render the most human of beings volatile. That is what you are facing here; an element of instability.”

“I understand very well, Captain Johnstone. And I know very well that not all wars are between countries—are they?”

She turned and left the cabin.

A
fter Maisie had disembarked, Captain Richard Johnstone made his way to the ship's telegraph room—he had not asked a cabin boy to run this errand—and ordered a message sent to a man named Brian Huntley. He did not know exactly what office Huntley might hold in Whitehall, but he knew the man worked in a department cloaked in some secrecy. The message was that Margaret, Lady Compton, widow of the late Viscount James Compton, was disembarking the ship and would soon be en route to the Ridge Hotel. There was something Johnstone did not add, though: his doubt that the woman would remain even one night in the hotel. If she did, he suspected, she would be gone by the following morning. He had no solid evidence for such a supposition, but as his crew knew only too well, he was a man who trusted his gut. He'd been known to temper the rate of his vessel on no more evidence than the swell of the waves, or a certain texture to the air. In any case, the fate of this particular passenger was out of his hands now. Whatever these people wanted with the woman who preferred not to use her title by marriage—and in his experience, most women would love a title other than Miss or Mrs.—well, they would have to find her themselves.

F
or her part, though she had sent word that she was returning to England, with every mile closer to her destination, and at every port along the route, Maisie's sense of dread had grown. It was akin to sickness, a fear that she could not bear to step onto home soil. When only two ports remained on the journey—Gibraltar and Cherbourg—the urge not to return to the ship but instead seek refuge where she knew no one, where she might be invisible, unknown, had strengthened like
a fast-approaching storm. Cherbourg was too close to England. When she imagined leaving that port of call with only Southampton awaiting her, she knew she would have little choice. No, she would remain ashore in Gibraltar. She was not ready to face a familiar world in which something so precious was missing. The very thought of returning to Chelstone without James made her feel as if she were looking over the edge of a precipice into the void.