"Right you are. Now, tell me. What's happening? James is due to leave for The Retreat in ten days. And heaven knows he won't be spoken to about anything. Not even to his father. I swear he hasn't been the same since that girl--"
"Yes, Lady Rowan. I know."
"And if it weren't for you, I would be absolutely frantic."
"Lady Rowan, may I speak to Lord Julian please?"
"Yes, yes . . . I know, I am just about to become tedious. He's in his study. I'll just nip next door to get him. Won't wait for Carter, it would take all day."
Maisie smiled. It would probably take a while for Lady Rowan to walk next door to the study to get Lord Julian. She hadn't been able to "nip" anywhere for some time.
Eventually, she heard Lord Julian Compton's voice. "Maisie, what can I do for you?"
"Lord Julian. In confidence."
"Of course."
"I wonder if you could help me with some information that I believe you may be able to obtain for me from your former contacts at the War Office."
"I'll do what I can--what do you need, Maisie?"
"Jenkins. Major Adam Jenkins. I need to see his service record, if at all possible."
"I've already obtained it, m'dear. Didn't like the sound of this Retreat business when I heard about it from James. Got the service record in my office now. Didn't know he called himself Major, though. I only heard him called Jenkins by James."
"The men at The Retreat call him Major."
"That's interesting. Jenkins was just a lieutenant."
"Is there anything else there, Lord Julian? Any other anomalies?"
"Of course a service record is limited. He was discharged though, medical discharge."
"Where to?"
"Craiglockhart."
"Oh."
"Yes. Right up your alley I'd say, Maisie. Mind you, he was a mild case, apparently. Of course I don't have a record of his treatment. Just the notes of his commanding officer. Says that he went gaga after a couple of chaps in his command deserted. Seems to have been an innocuous fellow, quite frankly. Got a commission based on need rather than any military talent, I would say, from the record. Officers were dropping like flies, if you remember. Well, of course you remember. Mind you, the chap's obviously got a business head on him, setting up this Retreat."
"The men seem to adore him for what he's done there. Providing a place for them to go," said Maisie.
"Yes, I've got to hand it to him. Now he's opened the doors to those who sustained other injuries. Like James. Bit like a monastery though, if you ask me, wanting people to sign over their assets. Mind you, if the idea is a place of refuge forever . . . ."
"Yes."
"Shame, isn't it? That we only like our heroes out in the street when they are looking their best and their uniforms are 'spit and polished,' and not when they're showing us the wounds they suffered on our behalf. Well, anything else, m'dear?"
"No. I think that's all. Is there any chance that I might see--?"
"I'll have it sent down to Chelstone in the morning."
"Thank you, Lord Julian. You've been most helpful."
Maisie had spent most of that day at the dower house with Maurice, taking only a short break to visit Frankie Dobbs. She declined to sleep in the small bedroom that had always been hers at the groom's cottage, instead electing to remain by Maurice's telephone, just in case Billy needed her.Time and again she ran through the details of events and research information she had accumulated.
Adam Jenkins had lied about his status. But was it a lie, or had a man simply called him "major" and it stuck? She remembered her grandfather, working on the Thames boats. People called him The Commander, but he had never been in the navy, never commanded anything. It was just a nickname, the source of which had been lost over the years. But how did Jenkins,"an innocuous little man," assume such power? Billy had become a believer, and the men seemed to adore him. Was fear a factor? Was there a deeper connection between Vincent and Jenkins? And what about Armstrong Jenkins? Family member, or coincidence?
She had missed something. Something very significant. And as she reexamined, in her mind's eye, each piece of collected evidence that had led her to this place, she considered Maurice's words, and felt as if each day, all day, she was living in the moment before dawn broke. Maisie thought back, to that earlier dawn, more than ten years earlier. The beginning of the end, that was what it had been.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The time is drawing closer, is it not my dear?" Maurice asked her now. He looked at the grandfather clock, patiently tick-tocking the seconds away.
"Yes it is. Maurice, I want to take Billy out of The Retreat."
"Indeed. Yes. Away from Jenkins. It is interesting, Maisie, how a time of war can give a human being purpose. Especially when that purpose, that power, so to speak, is derived from something so essentially evil."
Maurice reached forward from his chair towards the wooden pipe stand that hung on the chimney breast. He selected a pipe, took tobacco and matches from the same place, and leaned back, glancing again at the clock. He watched Maisie as he took a finger-and-thumb's worth of tobacco from the pouch, and pressed it into the bowl of the pipe.
"Your thoughts, Maisie?"
Maurice struck a match on the raw brick of the fireplace, and drawing on the pipe, held the flame to the tobacco. Maisie found the sweet aroma pungent, yet this ritual of lighting and smoking a pipe soothed her. She knew Maurice to indulge in a pipe only when the crux of a matter was at hand. And having the truth revealed, no matter how harsh, was always a relief.
"I was thinking of evil. Of war. Of the loss of innocence, really. And innocents."
"Yes. Indeed. Yes. The loss of that which is innocent. One could argue, that if it were not for war, then Jenkins--"
The clock struck the half hour. It was time for Maisie to leave to meet Billy Beale. Maurice stood, reaching out to the mantelpiece to steady himself with his right hand.
"You will be back at what time?"
"By half past eight."
"I will see you then."
Maisie left the cottage quickly, and Maurice moved to the window to watch her leave. They needed to say little to each other. He had been her mentor since she was a young girl, and she had learned well. Yes, he had been right to retire. And right to be ready to support her as she took on the practice in her own name.
"Billy. Good timing. How are you?"
"Doin' awright, Miss. Yourself?"
Without responding to his question, Maisie continued with her own.
"Any news?"
"Well, I've been thinking a bit and keeping my eyes open."
"Yes."
"And I've noticed that the fella who wanted to leave ain't around."
"Perhaps he's left, gone home."
"No, no. Not in the book."
"What book?"
"I found out there's a book. By the gatehouse. Records the ins and outs, if you know what I mean. Took a walk over to 'ave a word with old Archie the other day, and it looks like the bread delivery is all that's gone on in a week."
"And Jenkins?"
"Chummy as ever."
"Billy, I think it's time for you to leave."
"No--no, Miss. I'm safe as 'houses. Sort of like it 'ere, really. And no one's looking twice at me."
"You don't know that, Billy."
"One more night, then, anyway. I want to find out where this fella's gone. I tell you, I keep my eyes peeled, like I said, and one minute 'e's there and the next 'e's not. Mind you, there is someone in the sick bay."
"And who tends the sick bay?"
"Well, there's a fella who was a medic in the war, 'e does all your basic stuff, like. Then this other fella came up today. In a car, doctor's bag and all. I was working in the front garden at the time. Dead ringer for Jenkins actually. Bit bigger, mind. But you could see it round 'ere." Billy rubbed his chin and jaw. "'round the chops."