Journey to Munich (21 page)

M
aisie immersed herself in finding a new London flat, and spending time at Chelstone Manor. At first she found it troubling to stay for even one night at the Dower House—and even more difficult to be in the company of her in-laws, who were still mourning the loss of their only son. And when they learned of James' death, they had been forced to relive the grief endured when their daughter died in childhood.

It was Brenda, Maisie's stepmother, who galvanized her, making it clear that there was something she must do.

“My suggestion, if you don't mind my saying so . . .” said Brenda, pouring another cup of tea while they were seated at the kitchen table in the Dower House. “My suggestion is that it's high time you did your bit to help Lord Julian and Lady Rowan out of the pit of despair they're in. Look at them—they go about their lives in a terrible gray cloud, and who can blame them? We've all lost, Maisie—but we can all help each other, when it comes down to it.” She put her hand up as if to stem any comment. “I know this isn't easy for anyone—nothing worth doing is ever easy, and it's certainly not easy for you—but I worked for Mr. Blanche for a good number of years, and some of his understanding of life, God bless him, rubbed off on me. Don't just go and visit
them, Maisie. Every time you do that, it's like a painful duty, and you do nothing to help each other. No, you've got do something to take them out of themselves.”

Maisie placed her hand on Brenda's. “You're right, Brenda—I'll come up with an idea. But there are other things I want to do too, and I must get on with them.”

Maisie's stepmother nodded. “Good—you can't just wait, drifting along until something turns up. It's nice to see you having a plan or two.”

B
y July, Maisie was halfway through executing those plans, starting with the purchase of a new motor car, the one advertised in the brochure she had handed to MacFarlane—an Alvis 12/70 drophead coupe. It was, she knew, an indulgence, but she had fallen under the influence of Priscilla, who gave her the final nudge, almost tearing the checkbook from her handbag and writing the check herself as they stood in the showroom.

“It's not as if you'll be able to drive a motor like that when you're in your dotage, Maisie. Might as well enjoy it while you can—and at least you'll be able to fit me and the boys in there!”

As they were leaving the showroom where the transaction had taken place, the manager took pains to tell Maisie that although there was a new model coming out in just a few months, she would be assured of the very best in automobile engineering. He added, in a low voice, “We're very proud, you know. I probably shouldn't say anything, but our engineers are working on designs for the army even as we speak—armored cars, that sort of thing, and we're also designing aero engines. That should tell you something about the quality of your new motor!”

N
ow the shining Alvis was parked outside a flat comprising two bedrooms, a drawing room with French doors leading to a walled garden, a dining room, study, kitchen, and maid's scullery. Maisie had not purchased the flat, but had instructed her solicitor, Mr. Klein, to lease it with an option to buy after one year. She wanted to see how it felt to be in a flat just one hundred yards from the mansion where Priscilla and Douglas Partridge lived with their three sons. It might be a delightful choice, with the boys visiting to see Tante Maisie, and more time with Priscilla—but the latter could also prove to be somewhat overbearing. Maisie smiled when she pictured her friend tripping along the street toward her door, carrying a bottle of gin and two glasses.

O
ne of Maisie's first visitors was Sandra, who had telephoned her at Priscilla's house, asking if she could spare a moment or two to talk about something quite important. Although Maisie kept an open mind, she suspected she knew what Sandra might reveal in the conversation.

As they sat on a sofa situated to face the open doors and the garden in summer bloom, Sandra revealed her news.

“Lawrence has asked me to be his wife—and I've accepted him.”

“That's wonderful to hear—I am so happy for you, Sandra.” She took Sandra's hands in her own. “It was time. You loved your Eric and you have mourned him, and you've come through it all a new person—I take my hat off to you, really I do.”

Sandra bit her lip. “I used to worry, you know—that I was changing so much, we wouldn't recognize each other when my time came and I passed over. They say that, don't they—that you meet again on the other side, you and the love of your life.”

Maisie shook her head. “No one knows, Sandra, and best not to think about it. But you love Lawrence, and he loves you, so you must trust your instinct.”

“There is one fly in the ointment, though.”

“Is there?” Maisie reached for the teapot and poured for them both.

“Well, the company has grown now, and we have more people—not a huge number, but six all told.”

“Oh, I see. And as a married woman—to the owner, no less—they would have something to say about you being in the business. It could make things difficult.”

“Yes, that's about the measure of it. And being married, I can't get another job—and I'm like you, not the sitting-at-home type. Never have been. I've always worked, even before I left school at twelve. Now I've educated myself, and I don't want to languish in a house all day. Lawrence said I should talk to you, and I was going to anyway. He's suggested I could work at home for the company, part-time—but I don't know, it doesn't sound right.”

Maisie set down her cup. “Are you busy on Thursday?”

Sandra frowned. “Um, no—well, yes, but I mean, I don't have to be.”

Maisie nodded. “Good. I have a plan. I want you to meet me at this address.” She took a pad of paper from the table next to the sofa, and scribbled an address, handing the sheet to her former secretary.

Sandra's eyes widened. “I'll be there, miss.”

“It's Maisie—please, I've had enough of all this ‘miss.'”

“You'll never get Billy to change—he'll never call you anything but ‘miss.'”

“How is Billy? I haven't spoken to him lately.”

Sandra shrugged. “Doreen is doing very well, the boys are grow
ing, and little Margaret Rose is a gem of a child—you should see her, all blond curls and red lips. Everyone in the family dotes on her, you know.” She sighed. “But since . . . well, since things changed, after Edward Compton came in to take charge under Lord Julian, who came out of retirement, it hasn't been easy for anyone, apparently.”

“Yes, I have heard.” Maisie noticed how Sandra could not speak James' name. Edward Compton was a second cousin who had been earmarked to take James' place in the event of his no longer being at the helm of the Compton Corporation—it was a line of accession planned during the war, in case James died while serving in the Royal Flying Corps. No one imagined his death would come much later. The tragedy had also affected her former assistant, Billy Beale. When she left for India, closing her inquiry agency, Maisie had arranged for James to employ Billy to oversee security at the company's City headquarters. He was grateful for the steady work, but did not care for Edward Compton.

“Billy doesn't sound very happy to me,” said Sandra.

“No, I can imagine the change must be affecting everyone.”

H
ugo Watson paced up and down the pavement in front of a whitewashed former mansion. The fact that he was to meet a woman who had been more than displeased with him when he was with his previous employer was worrisome indeed, especially for an agent working on commission.

“Mr. Watson, what a surprise. Moved from residential to commercial properties, have you?” Maisie approached him, looking up at the familiar building.

“I think it suits me more than residential,” said Watson.

“As long as you don't say ‘Up we go' as if you're putting a child to bed when we ascend the stairs, I think we'll do well. Ah, here's my friend now.”

Sandra smiled and waved as she walked across the square toward Maisie. “I can't wait to see it,” she said as she approached.

“Shall we?” said Watson, holding out a hand to the now open door.

Maisie nodded, turned to Sandra, and raised her eyebrows. “Here we go.”

They made their way up one flight of stairs, whereupon Watson unlocked the door to the first-floor premises.

“Now, you will note that the office has changed quite a lot since you rented a few years ago. The new tenant tore back the plaster where doors were originally fitted, and opened it up again.”

“Oh, goodness me,” said Sandra, stepping into the room, looking between the tall windows that faced the square and the space where a wall had been last time she was in the office. “I never knew there had been doors there.”

Maisie stepped from what was once her office into the place where their neighbor had been, now part of a larger room, with white-painted folding doors drawn back like a concertina. “When it was a house, this would have been the dining room, I think—and this the drawing room.” She shrugged. “Not sure—but it's much bigger and lighter now, and see, there's a window at the back too, though the view is only into the yard.” She began to walk around the room, then to the window to look out across Fitzroy Square.

How many times had she taken up this position in the past? How many times had she watched while a new client approached the door, or left after a meeting? She had waited so many times by that window, hoping for the insight that might lead to the successful closure of a case. She turned to Sandra.

“What do you think?”

“They've made a good job of it, haven't they? I like that new gas fire, the paint is as fresh as a new pin, and now it's bigger, it won't be so cramped. Mind you, there will be only the two of us, and I'll only be part-time—until you need me for more hours.”

Maisie turned back to the window again and smiled. She beckoned to Sandra to join her as she pointed to a man walking in their direction, a slight catch to his step marking him as a soldier of the Great War. “Actually, there will be three of us, Sandra.”

The front door slammed and footsteps could be heard on the stairs before Billy opened the door and stepped into the room, his smile broad and his hair as unruly as it had ever been. “Sorry I'm a bit late, miss. Hallo, Sandra!” He stopped speaking and whistled as he looked around the room. “Blimey, miss, it don't look like the same place, does it? Changed as much as we have, I wouldn't wonder.”

Maisie looked at Watson. “I'll take it, Mr. Watson. Please send the leasing documents to Mr. Klein, my solicitor—I believe you have the details.”

She nodded to her two former employees, who would soon be working with her once again. But as she moved toward the door, Billy held out a brown-paper-wrapped package to her.

“Thought you might like this. I did a little bit of engraving, down in my shed.”

Maisie glanced at Billy, then Sandra, who both seemed to be on tenterhooks. She unwrapped the paper to reveal a brass plaque.

M. D
OBBS

Psychologist & Investigator

“I wondered if I should've put ‘Margaret,' seeing as it's your proper name, but then Sandra thought it would be best as just ‘M'—but I can start all over again, if you don't like it.”

“Oh, thank you, Billy, I think it will do very well—very well indeed.” Maisie wrapped the plaque in the brown paper once more. “Right, then—anyone for a cuppa around the corner? We've some plans to make.”

I
t was in September that Maisie received word that Edwina Donat had succumbed to the consumption she had fought for so long. Although Maisie had visited Leon Donat once after returning from Munich, she had not stayed long, as he was both tired and at the same time preoccupied with what was being asked of him. Now she decided to wait until the end of the month, when she would make the journey to his home outside the village of Shere in Surrey, to pay her respects and hopefully stay a little longer than before. This was, after all, the man she had once called “Papa.”

The drive to Shere allowed Maisie to put her new motor car through its paces, negotiating twisting country lanes and longer stretches where the road opened up and she could ease out the throttle. Donat's house, which had been built at the turn of the century, was set in manicured grounds, with a lawn mowed in stripes that made it seem as if it were being readied for a game of cricket. She parked the Alvis on a pad of gravel adjacent to the house, and was surprised to see Leon Donat at the side door, leaning on two canes, waiting for her to arrive.

“Mr. Donat—” She walked toward him, placing a hand on his arm as she reached his side. “I am so very sorry to hear of your loss.”

“Thank you, my dear. It's thoughtful of you to pay a visit.” He leaned forward and pressed his cheek to hers. “Please come in—my
housekeeper has laid out lunch in the dining room. Did you have a good journey?”

Maisie replied that it was a lovely day for driving, warm with the promise of an Indian summer. She followed Donat into the dining room, aware of his fragility, still. After the housekeeper had helped him into a chair, Maisie took her seat and poured water for them both. The housekeeper returned with a platter of steamed fish and serving bowls with small white potatoes, peas, and runner beans.

“I have a young man staying here now. He was sent to help me with drawings, but he's quite good company, so he's living in the room over the garage. It was built by the last owner for his chauffeur, and it's come in handy, as Andrew is very good with engines and keeps my motor running quite nicely too. He drives me anywhere I need to go.” Donat stopped speaking to press a hand to his chest and catch his breath. “In fact, I occasionally have another visitor, and they get on very well. I could even be accused of matchmaking.” He looked at Maisie as she took up the silver water jug to fill his glass. “Elaine comes every other week or so—she brings her boy. That's indeed nice at my age, to have a young person around me. She was quite the surprise, Miss Otterburn.”