Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle . . .
But before she did anything, before she bathed, took nourishment, or slept, she must go to Maurice. Maisie leaned sideways toward the passenger seat and, keeping her eyes on the road, reached inside the document case to feel the linen handkerchief into which she had carefully placed the tiny items she had taken from the homes of Lydia Fisher and Philippa Sedgewick. She wanted to share her delicate clues with Maurice. She wanted his counsel.
Maisie slowed as she drove along the gravel carriage sweep leading to Chelstone Manor. As grit began to spit and crackle under the tires, she rubbed her eyes against the onslaught of spring sunshine rising at a low angle into a clearing sky. It would be a bright but cold day. Frost-dusted daffodil heads bobbed in columns along the driveway, inter- spersed with bluebells and primroses. Yes, it would be a good day. Frankie Dobbs was out of the woods.
The upstairs curtains at the Dower House were still closed; Maurice was not yet up and about. Maisie felt a tinge of frustration, but she checked herself. Perhaps it was fortunate that she would have more time alone to marshal her thoughts and to anticipate questions. She missed working with Maurice, though awareness of the chasm left by his retirement was fading as she grew in skill and confidence. She maneuvered the car into the courtyard behind the manor house, the domain of George, the Comptons’ chauffeur.
“Mornin’, Miss.” George wiped his hands on a clean white cloth and walked across the flagstones toward Maisie. “Blimey O’Reilly, what’ve you been doin’ with that little motor of yours? Racin’ ’er at Brooklands? I’d better get the full kit out this mornin’.You’ll need oil, a good cleaning under the bonnet, to say nothing of ’er paintwork. And look at them tires!”
“You’re the man for the job, George!”
“Actually, Miss, it’ll be nice to ’ave something to get me teeth into.” George lifted the bonnet, then turned to Maisie again. “How’s Mr. Dobbs this mornin’? Better?”
“Much better, thank you. He’s awake, though it might be a while before he’s up on his feet.”
“Fair gave us all a shock, did that. Everyone’s waitin’ for news.”
“I’ll see that the household is kept posted. Can I leave Lily with you then? I’ll need her by three this afternoon—to be at Pembury by visiting time.”
“Lily? You give a car like this the name ‘Lily’?”
Maisie smiled, then laughed. “By three, thank you, George.”
“Right you are, Miss. By the way, I saw ’er Ladyship walking over to the stables a little while ago.”
“Oh, good. I’d better give her the latest news.”
Lady Rowan was leaning on a fence surrounding the paddock adjacent to the stable where Frankie Dobbs had fallen. She seemed thoughtful as Maisie approached. The older woman’s three canine companions, investigating bushes alongside, lifted their heads and greeted her with tails wagging.
“My dear girl, how is your father? I have been beside myself with worry.”
“He is better, Lady Rowan, much better, though I will know more this afternoon when I see his doctor.”
“Your father, Maisie, may well surprise us all. I think he’ll live until he’s one hundred years old!” Lady Rowan looked at Maisie with more gravity as she, too, leaned on the fence to watch mare and foal together. “You will not have to worry about convalescence, Maisie. Your father’s recovery is in my interests, and the costs of any necessary procedures or care—”
“Thank you, Lady Rowan.”
“Good.” Lady Rowan turned to the paddock. “So what do you think of him?”
Maisie watched the foal standing under the protective custody of his mother’s head and neck. His chestnut coat shone with newborn softness, the tufted promise of a rich, thick mane standing up like a shoe-brush on his long and delicate neck. The foal’s legs were surprisingly straight, and as the two women watched him, Maisie could swear she detected a certain defiance in his manner.
“He’s quite . . . quite the little man, isn’t he?”
“Oh yes, he certainly is, and only a day old, mind you.” Lady Rowan continued to regard her new project closely. “Thought I’d call him ‘Francis Dobbs’ Dilemma. But no, he’ll be named Chelstone Dream. Apt, don’t you think? I’ll call him ‘Dreamer’ for short.”
The foal stared at them intently in return.
“You see that look, Maisie? The way he’s standing?”
Maisie nodded. “Yes.”
“They call that ‘the look of champions,’ Maisie. He’s the one; he’ll do it for me. In four or five years he’ll bring home The Derby for me— I know it! Can’t you just see Gordon Richards atop Chelstone Dream, flying past the post at Epsom?” Lady Rowan became pensive again. “But in the meantime, what will I do without your father?”
“Ah,” said Maisie. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”
Lady Rowan laughed, her voice cutting through the morning quiet in such a way that the mare started, and moved her foal to the back of the paddock. “I would have put money on your having a plan, Maisie. What is it?”
“I’ll tell you this evening, Lady Rowan, when I’ve sorted out a few details.” She looked at her watch. “But I have to telephone my assistant, then I must see Maurice. May I use the telephone at the manor?”
“Of course. I shall expect to see you for supper this evening, when you can give me news of your father’s progress. And I cannot wait to hear your plan!”
Maisie looked back at the foal as she made her way toward the manor house. And she could have sworn that Dreamer, the foal with the look of champions, had watched her every move.
“Billy, I’m glad I’ve caught you!”
“ ’Oldin’ the fort, Miss. ’Oldin’ the fort. How’s Mr. Dobbs?”
“Much better, thank you. Out of the woods. What happened when you canceled our appointment with Waite?”
“Well, at the beginnin’, I ’ad to give a message to ’is secretary, who then ’ad to speak to ’im. Poor woman, you’d ’ve thought I’d asked ’er to tell ’im that ’is shops’d all burned down. Scared of ’im, she is, scared silly.”
“Billy—”
“Anyway, she went off; then Waite ’imself comes on the blower, boomin’ down the pipe ’e was, boomin’ about how ’e was Joseph Waite and that no one does this to ’im.”
“Oh dear.”
“Then I told ’im what the reason for you not bein’ available was, and I must say, ’e wound ’is neck in a bit sharpish. Funny that, innit? Says somethin’ about family comin’ first, and that it was nice to know that a daughter ’onored ’er father, and all that.”
“Can he see me soon?”
“Made an appointment for Friday, sayin’ that I just ’ad to let ’im know if there were any difficulties, and that you was to let ’im know if ’e could be of service. Very strange man, Miss. Very odd, that about-turn.”
“He’s certainly odd where family are concerned, I’ll give you that.” Maisie paused as she noted the details. “With a bit of luck I’ll have good news for Waite. I’m going to Camden Abbey tomorrow, to speak with Charlotte.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve got your plate full.”
“My father’s not allowed any visitors until late this afternoon, and probably only once a day until the doctor says anything to the contrary, so I’ll be able to work on the case while I’m here.”
“Right then. Dr. Dene telephoned again.”
“Really?”
“Yep. And it’s interestin’ because ’e wanted to leave a message for you about your visit to see—let me look ’ere. I tell you, Miss, I can’t even read me own writin’ sometimes—Mrs. Thorpe’s housekeeper.”
“What was the message?”
“Didn’t say, except ’e wanted to pass on a message from ’er, that she’d like to see you again. She remembered something that might be useful.”