"In my estimation, the risk to your parents is minimal, but at the same time, it would be foolhardy to discontinue guarding them."
"Why?"
"I believe the man who attacked your parents is himself dead. But in my line of work, Mr. Clifton, one soon realizes that the true killer is sometimes not the person who takes the life of the victim."
"What do you mean?"
"While there are similarities between the murder of your brother and the attack on your parents, I have a feeling that your brother died following one single blow. Your parents' attack seemed more frenzied, one borne of fear. I think the perpetrator was disturbed while searching for something he wanted-or that someone else wanted-and picked up the first thing that came to hand when he was disturbed by your parents' return to their room. He might not have wanted to kill anyone."
Teddy Clifton nodded. He was about to ask another question, when Charles Hayden interjected.
"Maisie." He leaned forward and touched her cheek. "How the heck did you get this?"
"I thought I'd managed to cover it up."
"Come on, I'm a doctor. It's my job to see these things. How did that happen?"
"A man pushed me onto the ground. He had just stolen my document case."
"Did they catch him?"
"His body was discovered later, in the rooms he rented."
"Was he important to the case?" asked Clifton.
"Yes, I believe he was. Of course, I could be wrong, but I think he was the man who almost killed your parents. And I don't think he intended to do anything of the sort."
James, I think I ought to confess to you that I know precious little about motor racing. Nothing, in fact." Maisie smiled as she spoke, relaxed in James Compton's company as he drove them out of London towards Surrey.
"Well, first of all, Brooklands is famous for being the first motor racing track in the world. Absolutely purpose-built for the business in 1907." He grinned, ready to tease. "And I must say, I'm glad to have found something that you don't know and I do, Maisie Dobbs!"
"You're right. The only racing I have any familiarity with is horse racing."
James changed gear to negotiate a bend, then increased speed as the road straightened. "Then you're more than halfway there. Almost everything about racing motor cars has been based on horse racing, so the language will be familiar-the grandstand, the track, the paddock where the drivers assemble. It's all a bit like a day at Newmarket-but faster."
"How fast?" Maisie realized that James was increasing speed as he spoke. "As fast as you?"
"Oh, dear-point taken." He slowed down. "But to be perfectly honest, I couldn't drive anywhere near as fast as the racers at Brooklands, even though I might dream about it. At the end of March, Tim Birkin-rather famous driver, was in the Flying Corps in the war; his real name is Henry, but he's been known as Tim since he was a boy-anyway, he was putting his Bentley through its paces, doing practice laps, and was clocked at 137.9 miles per hour. That's a new record over the distance. Mind you, one of the other chaps-Malcolm Campbell-recently secured a new land speed record in the USA, at Daytona. He was just three seconds shy of 254 miles per hour. Beggars belief, doesn't it?"
"It's terrifying." Maisie held on to her seat.
"At the very least you'd put your neck out trying to follow him." He looked out at the countryside as he spoke. "Actually, I learned to fly at Brooklands."
"At the speeds you've just mentioned, I would have thought staying on the ground presented quite a problem."
"Oh, very funny!" said James, and they both laughed again. Then James explained. "There was already a flying school at Brooklands, and then before the war, Tommy Sopwith came in with his own flying school and aircraft manufacturing concern. So it came as no surprise when the owner, Hugh Locke-King, offered Brooklands to the War Office for whatever purpose they saw fit-and the Royal Flying Corps moved in on August 5, 1914. They took it over lock, stock, and barrel." He sighed. "And from the time I arrived, I had six weeks to become a qualified Royal Flying Corps pilot."
"Six weeks?" Maisie was thoughtful. "And if I remember correctly, the average life of an aviator after arriving in France was three weeks-it wasn't exactly a secret statistic. So you knew that from the time you arrived at Brooklands to begin training, you had nine weeks of life, unless you were one of the lucky ones."
"But you've forgotten something." James slowed as they approached the entrance to Brooklands. "We were all no more than boys-eighteen, nineteen, twenty, for the most part-and we only thought of this big game in the sky and getting back at the Hun. It was a very serious game, though. You don't have any real conception of the possibility of your own death, not at that age. If I look at myself, all I cared about was flying. Bit like Priscilla's boys, only older. Then of course, you come down to earth with a bump if you're hit." He paused. "No, that bump comes when you fly over your own chaps in the trenches, and you see them going over the top straight into the machine guns. Not a scrap of innocence remains after that."
They were silent as James negotiated his way to park the motor car. He switched off the engine and turned to Maisie.
"Do you know what's so comfortable, talking about the war with you? I mean, it's not as if one wants to talk about it much, but when I mention it to you, I know that you know. We had very different wars, Maisie, but I-I don't have to explain anything."
Maisie nodded. Yes, she had experienced the same feeling, a sense of comfort that someone else understood. And as an image of Ella Casterman came into her mind's eye, she realized she'd had almost the same conversation earlier in the week.
It's so refreshing to speak to someone who knows.
James cleared his throat. "We should get going."
"What are we going to see today? Is there a special race-something like the motoring equivalent of the Derby, or the Grand National? You haven't told me."
"Maisie Dobbs, on this, your inaugural visit to a motor racing track-and I promise, there will be more-you'll be seeing some of the very best drivers in the world competing for the British Empire Trophy. There are fifty-mile heats for each engine capacity, and of course, for my money the big motor heat is the one to watch. John Cobb will be driving the Delage, then there's Birkin of course, and Jack Dunfee, and George Eyston in his Packard. Very exciting stuff!"
James stepped out of the motor car, then came around to open the passenger door for Maisie. He held her hand as she alighted from the vehicle and did not let go. As they walked towards the bank where they would stand to watch the races, he crooked his elbow so that she could put her arm through his. They wove their way past parked vehicles, some surrounded by friends having a picnic, their collars drawn up against a chill breeze while they helped themselves to treats from a hamper set in an open boot. There seemed to be plenty of flasks of hot tea to hand, possibly laced with brandy to bolster their stamina for watching the day's events.
"I'm glad you wore those stout shoes, Maisie. It can get a bit muddy up on the bank there, but it really is the best place from which to watch a race. Oh, I should have asked-do you want to place a bet? It's all part of the fun, if you want to."
"I have no idea what-or who-I would bet upon. I'm just happy to watch, James."
"But we should go down to the enclosure for a while, just to soak up the atmosphere; we can come back to the bank before the races. You'll find it's just like a horse race down there."
The day was lifting her spirits. James seemed to be having a good time, and though they had exchanged affections, neither had referred in conversation to the increasing closeness between them. For her part, Maisie realized that she had no immediate wish to embark upon a dialogue about yesterday, tomorrow, or the future. She simply wanted to enjoy today. But she could not avoid thinking about what he had said earlier-"and I promise, there will be more." She blushed when she thought of more todays with James Compton.