Pardonable Lie (25 page)

“Wait, wait! Wait a minute. Look, what will you say? To my father?”

Maisie inclined her head. “I am not sure yet. My clients place enormous trust in me, Mr. Roberts. I must respect that trust with the truth of my findings. So I do not yet know what I will say. But I also follow the maxim of a dear friend of mine, a doctor, who says, ‘First, do no harm.’ Hence, I will respect your wishes and your life here.”

After shaking Roberts by the hand, Maisie departed the house and walked away quickly into the dusky late afternoon. The sky was clear, the air chilly, so she pulled her new cashmere wrap around her shoulders as she made her way back to the Partridge villa. And as she walked, she knew her work was far from over, for now she bore the weight of truth regarding the true identity of Daniel Roberts.

D
INNER THAT EVENING
was a sparkling event, with friends invited from around the town, most of them expatriates, many artists or writers, one a photographer of landscapes. Maisie enjoyed a healthy appetite, realizing that lately she had eaten little, barely picking at each meal. There was first a course of terrines and pâtés served with crusty baguettes, followed by salad, then roast duck with a medley of vegetables that were so fresh and crisp that Maisie had seconds. Then a sweet chocolate mousse with candied cherries delighted the guests, and finally the cheese course. In Britain, at such a dinner, the ladies would have retired to the hostess’s salon as the cigars and port were brought out, leaving the men to speak of politics and sport. But here in Biarritz, the women remained at table, with one particularly tall woman, an actress, helping herself to a Havana cigar, which she clipped expertly, like a true aficionado.

Back and forth, the conversation crackled with opinions, a raised voice here, a laugh there, perhaps one voice holding court, then another in reply. Maisie found that, although burdened, she laughed with her companions and took part in the debate regarding the future of Europe, for the guests had all served in the war and were fearful of another. It was in the early hours that the company finally departed and Maisie made her way to her room, where she realized that Dene had been at the back of her mind for much of the evening. She had not written, as promised, nor had she sent a telegram. She must do so before leaving Biarritz tomorrow.

For the second night Maisie slept soundly, without visitation from the demons and dragons of her past. The following morning, after a noisy breakfast in the company of the Partridge boys and their father, Priscilla claimed Maisie for herself once more before driving her to the station. They walked down the rustic steps into the grounds below and then among the olive trees.

“I cannot believe you are leaving already, Maisie. You are only just beginning to seem at all rested.”

Maisie smiled. “I am feeling much better. But now I have to continue with my work, which is almost over in France. I will be in Sainte-Marie for only a short time—I anticipate only long enough to ensure that all goes well with Chantal Clement—then back to Paris.”

Priscilla looked at Maisie, halting for a moment. “And you’ve other plans before you leave France.” It was a statement, not a question.

Maisie patted the grass below, which had dried in the morning sun, then sat down. Priscilla joined her, and at the same moment each woman pulled her legs toward her chest, clasping her hands together in front of her knees.

“Yes, probably before Paris. I was going to go to Arras, but not now. Though I will go back to Bailleul.”

“Slaying your dragons?”

“Yes, Pris. If they can be slain, that’s what I’m trying to do.”

Priscilla stretched out her legs, one ankle crossed over the other, and reached into her cardigan pocket for her cigarettes and lighter. Maisie shook her head as Priscilla went through her ritual of tapping one end of the cigarette on the silver case, pressing it into the holder, placing the holder between her lips and then leaning her head to one side as she lit up. She inhaled deeply and blew a smoke ring into the air. It reminded Maisie of the younger Priscilla, the girl who broke all the rules at Girton.

“You are very acute, Maisie, I knew that when I first laid eyes on you. But I’m not beyond making the odd deep observation myself, you know.”

“And?”

Another smoke ring. “Sometimes you can’t slay those dragons; they can’t be done away with, just like that.” She snapped the fingers of her free hand. “You have to know how not to disturb them, how to mollify them if they become roused, and, above all, you have to come to respect them.”

“Go on. I’m listening.”

Priscilla turned to Maisie. “I’m not used to this sort of talk, but here’s what I think: I think that the dragon is part of us. What happened, happened. We saw into the jaws of a terrible creature as he feasted upon us all. That is war. You have to find a way to acknowledge and live with it.”

“I thought I’d done that.”

“We all think that, don’t we? Until the dragon breathes down our necks again. Look at my husband, the controversial poet and writer; the dragon lives deep inside him, Maisie, and inside me. If you acknowledge it, you can tame it. That’s why yours has come alive again, Maisie. You thought that if you just worked hard enough, the past would be kept at bay.”

Maisie stood up and brushed her hands against her woolen trousers. Priscilla had touched a nerve. But then Priscilla always touched a nerve. “Well, I’m going back, Pris. It’s what I have to do.”

Priscilla extinguished the cigarette and placed the stub in her cigarette case. “Yes, I know. Just be careful, Maisie. Be careful.” She looked at her watch. “Now then, we’d better get you to the station. Your train leaves Biarritz–La Negresse at twelve.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Maisie slept for much of the journey, letting down her guard as the locomotive’s rhythm lulled her. Again, there would be only a short time in Paris while she changed trains for Reims, a route necessitated by the inadequacy of the subsidiary lines that might have taken her to Biarritz from Reims without first going north. When booking her original ticket she had queried the reason for going via Paris, and the clerk had simply looked at her over half-moon glasses and informed her that any other route was “only for the train enthusiast.”

Maurice was still in Paris, though Maisie had no plans to see him until they met for their return journey to England. She had sent a telegram to inform him that her business would require more time spent in Reims and she would see him at the weekend. She knew that, at home in Biarritz, Priscilla was already packed and waiting for her summons to meet Chantal Clement—and Pascale.

With her head full of plans, of thoughts that vied for her sole attention, though Maisie slept, it was a fitful slumber, for in each dream it seemed as if a simple action became a conduit for blood to flow. As she reached out for luscious blackberries in the kitchen garden at Chelstone, her wrist suddenly caught on the briar, tearing her skin to reveal a vein that opened too easily, the vermilion trickle becoming a stream and then a river. She forced herself to shake off the terrible image, only to find herself back in France in 1917, back in a casualty clearing station where doctors wielded not the tools of the surgeon’s trade but those of the butcher, amputating one limb after another. And as she passed instruments back and forth, her heavy woolen uniform skirt began to soak up blood from the floor, a flood that seemed never-ending. Then she awoke, immediately conscious, as the train slowed for arrival in Paris. Looking out of the windows at the rainy day, Maisie shuddered, for the last dream was not fantasy, not an image of the past gone mad. Instead it was a memory, the butcher’s apron being the very uniform that doctors had worn while locked in combat with death, the ghoul who had marched alongside every man brought from the battlefield into the casualty clearing station.

She stood up, shook her head, pressed back her hair, and checked her appearance in the mirror above her seat. Maisie was pleased to see that she looked quite well, her face having caught the last of summer’s sun in Biarritz. Though she did not care for the new fashionably tanned complexion, she was glad that the skin beneath her eyes was somewhat camouflaged. She collected her bags, ran her hands down the front and back of her wide corduroy trousers and the arms of her brown tweed jacket, and collected her luggage.

As she left the carriage, declining the help of a porter, she heard a door clang behind her. Anxious to be on her way, she had seen no reason to turn, for passengers were disembarking, gathering portmanteaux and cases before being caught in a sea of people moving toward the exit. Now, however, as she walked, Maisie was filled with an urge to look around, to see who had stepped from the train. She was quite certain that she had been the last passenger to leave her particular carriage, so the person who closed the door must have been waiting in an adjacent one. Her hands felt cold and clammy; her fingers slipped on the handle of her suitcase. She increased her pace, her eyes on the exit and the point at which she would hail a taxi-cab.

She was close to the exit now, walking as fast as she could without running. She repositioned the luggage handle as she went, knowing the act of doing so rendered her body unbalanced as she struggled to keep ahead of whomever it was she could feel at her heel.

A hand caught Maisie’s elbow, and she gasped.

“Miss Dobbs?”

She turned, her mouth open ready to scream. The man she faced was the man she had last seen—was it only three days ago?—stealing across the field and into the wood where she had just removed the tin containing Peter Evernden’s identification tags. The Englishman.

“What do you want?” Maisie covered fear with indignation.

The man retained his firm hold on her elbow. “Remain calm, Miss Dobbs. Please act as if delighted to unexpectedly see an old friend.” The man smiled broadly, his lips closed, his gray eyes cold. He kissed her cheek. “Do not scream or otherwise draw attention to us. Give me your luggage and come with me now.”

Maisie pulled back her arm sharply and turned toward the gendarme she had seen pacing back and forth by the ticket counter.

“That won’t do you any good at all. Come with me, Miss Dobbs. It would be in your interests.”

She stood her ground. “Where do you intend to take me?”

The Englishman was firm and confident. “To someone who can give you the answers you seek.”

In that moment, Maisie suspected she knew to whom she was being taken and the reason for such subterfuge. She held out her suitcase for the man, retaining a tighter hold on her document case. She would trust him, but only so far. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

He did not smile again but simply reached for her case with his left hand, still retaining his grip on her elbow with his right, and steered her through the crowded station until they reached a motor car waiting outside. The driver opened the door, saluting the Englishman as he climbed aboard behind Maisie and reached above each window, pulling down a series of small blinds that obscured any vision of their route. She knew better than to ask where they were going.

T
HE MOTOR CAR
came finally to a halt with an unexpected slowness, as if royalty were being delivered to a palace rather than a captor’s prey to his lair. The Englishman alighted first and reached for Maisie’s hand, a gesture she accepted to steady her step as she emerged from the back seat. The building before her was on a narrow street of grand homes. It could have been one of thousands in Paris. The stone was gray, the windows long and narrow, with ornate scrollwork in the rendering around the frames. She looked up and saw a face, slightly obscured, watching from the first floor. She nodded and received an acknowledgment with a mere lifting of the hand.

A sweeping curved staircase spilled down into the marble entrance hall. A woman came from an adjoining room to take Maisie’s hat and gloves. She was dressed in a black costume of expensive woolen fabric, her hair pulled back fiercely. She moved to take Maisie’s document case, but Maisie held on to it with two hands and shook her head. Instead, the woman reached for the Englishman’s hat and black coat, but there was no greeting between the two. The man swept back his oiled hair with a hand on either side of his head and indicated to Maisie that they must go upstairs. Once on the upper landing, the man again cupped Maisie’s elbow and steered her along a corridor until they reached a pair of tall double doors rich with ornate gold-leaf carving. He inclined his head as he knocked and then walked Maisie into the room. A man sat with his back to them in a leather wing chair alongside the fireplace. A second chair had been placed opposite, with a small table set for tea between the two. A third chair had been positioned by the window. A wisp of smoke from sweet tobacco peppered with nutmeg wafted toward her, but on this occasion she did not smile at the recognition.

“Thank you for coming, Maisie.” Maurice Blanche stood to greet her, placing his pipe in an ashtray on the side table.

Maisie moved toward him. “I had no choice, Maurice.” She glanced at the Englishman. “Your henchman over there was rather persuasive.”

Maurice smiled. It was a smile that was both wise and sad and, Maisie thought, revealed a certain regret. “I am sorry it has come to this.” He moved as if to introduce the Englishman, but Maisie interrupted quickly.

“So am I, Maurice. And I want to know the truth!”

Maurice paused for a second and then continued. “Maisie, I would like you to meet my colleague, Mr. Brian Huntley.” He held out his hand to the Englishman, who approached Maisie, this time with his hand outstretched.

Maisie grudgingly accepted his greeting. “I suppose you’re with the secret service as well.”

The man said nothing but took his place by the window. Maurice indicated the second wing chair in front of the fire and did not sit down again until Maisie was seated. She said nothing at first, instead ensuring that she established absolute balance in her posture and kept her eyes fixed on Maurice.

“Was the cloak-and-dagger approach necessary, Maurice? Surely you could have arranged to meet me in a less formal and authoritarian manner.”

“Not this time. My official capacity here is not one that you are familiar with. There are certain formalities, ways of doing things we must all follow, thus you had to be escorted here upon your return to Paris.”

“I had to be escorted so I would know my place!”

Maurice ignored Maisie’s comment and moved on. “In case you are concerned about your train, I should tell you that there will be no need for you to return to Sainte-Marie.”

“I see.”

“No, not yet. You do not
see
yet, Maisie.”

“Then please enlighten me, Maurice.”

Maurice stared into the fire for a moment, reaching for his pipe. He seemed burdened, though Maisie was determined that she would do nothing to make the conversation easier for him. She was aware that her own thoughts were becoming less than gracious.
I am so upset with him. So disappointed.

“Let me first speak to you about my work, though I request that you respect the fact that there are details that cannot be shared.” Maurice looked at Maisie and half smiled. “My work began even before the war, when it was clear that certain alliances could lead to an unstable political situation in Europe. Despite what we thought was a world impervious to such conflict—such was the extent of trade between countries, along with economies dependent upon one another for survival and growth—already the fabric woven of goodwill and mutual financial interest was showing wear.” He paused as if to consider his choice of words carefully. Maisie could see the extent to which her mentor had been troubled by the need for this conversation, a conversation her actions had made more urgent and more difficult. She leaned forward and poured tea, passing a cup to Maurice. He accepted the refreshment, smiled gratefully, and continued.

“I was asked to assist in certain matters of national importance, especially concerning the manner in which we obtained information. Suffice it to say that, when war was declared, my role took on a quite different complexion. Maisie, as you know, and to speak frankly, my work has always been about people, essentially about the truth of human beings, of their experience, their life, and, indeed, their death. I work with body, mind, and soul, and I have made it my life’s work to understand the relationship of each to the others. I was asked to bring that knowledge, if you will, to the development of our intelligence service. On a basic level, though my work had many facets, I studied possible recruits and assessed their suitability for the most dangerous, most important work. Following a string of intelligence disasters, where vital information regarding the movement of German troops and armaments was woefully inadequate and spread between different departments, we had to regroup and look again at our strategy.”

Maisie felt anger rise again, only this time it was directed at herself, as much as to Maurice. “And you recruited Peter! I made an innocent comment at an innocent age, and you took advantage—” She reached into her pocket for a handkerchief. “Priscilla was my friend. She was my friend!”

“And she is
still
your friend, Maisie. Let me continue.” Maurice moved as if to reach toward Maisie, but, sensing her withdrawal, he simply set his cup and saucer on the table and rested his hands on the arms of his chair. “Maisie, we will never know how long Peter might have lived had he not been recruited to work in intelligence. Indeed, it is worth knowing that his entire original battalion was all but wiped out. Yet you are right: When we spoke upon your return from the first term at Girton, I noted your comment about Peter Evernden’s gift for languages. Such a skill is rare and was acutely needed in our work.”

“You could have told me!”

“You were just seventeen, Maisie!”

“I was old enough to go to war.”

“I should remind you that you were
not
old enough. You lied.”

Maisie became silent, aware that she was losing her self-control. She was also aware that she was hurt, that Maurice’s secrecy had pained her.
We were so close.

Maurice was anxious to complete his account of Peter’s work. “Initially he took on the most dangerous of battlefield tasks, that of moving across no-man’s-land under cover of darkness in order to listen to the enemy in their trenches. The work meant advancing beyond the point where help could be given if he were in trouble, so speed, stealth, and quick thinking were essential to avoid death, injury, or capture.” He paused only briefly. “One of our aims was to glean as much information as possible regarding the enemy’s Order of Battle. We needed to know what plans were in progress, details of troop movements, deployment of artillery—and it was of paramount importance that we gauge the stamina of the enemy.”

Maurice rubbed his chin, as if considering how best to frame the rest of his story. Maisie watched him, wondering when she had ever known him so melancholy.

“You know, Maisie, before the war our notion of intelligence was antiquated at best. The generals had little knowledge of the implications of modern warfare, so we looked back to the South African war, when instead we would have done well to examine the lessons of trench warfare in the American Civil War.” He shook his head. “Mind you, one thing we did was to take a leaf from Napoleon’s book by sending agents deep into the enemy’s field of operation—so we are back to Peter Evernden. Having proved his mettle and ability, he was promoted to the work of a field agent, though not before a return to England for more training in Southampton and London.”

“Then he was sent into enemy territory.”

“Yes. Once there, his role became even more crucial, even more dangerous. Order of Battle remained at the heart of his assignment; however, he also worked with our local contact to recruit civilians to support intelligence efforts. The selfless contribution of the local people made the difference between a war won and a war lost. His job involved assessing sympathy and enlisting support. He did not know who was above him in the chain of communication, nor would he have known the true identity of the man who transported him. Peter was known only by his French name and personage to most of those in Sainte-Marie.”