Birds of a Feather (27 page)

“Follow me, Miss Dobbs,” instructed the Staff Nurse, who checked the watch pinned to her uniform in the same way that Maisie still consulted her own watch every day. “He’s comfortable, though not yet recognizing anyone.”

“You mean he’s in a coma?”

“Doctor expects him to be much better tomorrow. The other gentleman hasn’t left his side. Allowed to stay on doctor’s orders.” The nurse whispered as they moved along the ward, to a bed set apart from the others, with screens pulled around to ensure privacy so that other patients would not see the man who lay unconscious.

“What other gentleman?”

“The older gentleman. The doctor.”

“Ah, I see,” replied Maisie, relieved that Maurice Blanche was here.

The nurse pulled back the screens. Tears welled up in Maisie’s eyes as she quickly went to her father’s bedside and took his hand in hers. She nodded at Maurice, who smiled but did not move toward her.

Leaning over her father’s body, which was covered with a sheet and standard-issue green hospital blanket, Maisie rubbed her father’s veined hands as if the warmth she generated might cause him to wake. She reached across to touch his forehead, then his cheek. A thick white bandage had been bound around his head, and Maisie could see dried blood where a deep wound had been tended. Looking down at his body, she saw a small frame over his legs. Fracture? Remembering the smoking chimney, she hoped so.

“I’m glad you’re here, Maurice. How did you manage to be allowed to stay?”

“I informed the ward sister that I was a doctor, so I was allowed to remain. Apparently, they are a bit short staffed and we both thought it best that your father be attended at all times.”

“You must be tired, but thank you, thank you so much.” Maisie continued to massage her father’s hands.

“Those of us who have reached our more mature years know the value of a nap, Maisie, and we can indulge ourselves without the comfort of pillow or bed.”

“Tell me what happened, Maurice.”

“The mare was experiencing some difficulty. According to your father, she was presenting incorrectly. Your father instructed Lady Rowan to summon the vet. Of course he was out on a farm somewhere. It’s lambing season, as you know. In the meantime your father was following all recognized procedures and had requested a length of rope to maneuver the foal into a better position for the birth. Lady Rowan was there, as were two of the farmworkers. From what I understand, your father lost his footing on hay that had become damp and soiled, and fell awkwardly. His head connected with the stone floor, which is bad enough, but a heavy implement that one of the farmworkers had left standing against the stall fell and struck your father.”

“When did this happen?”

“This morning, about half past nine or so. I came as soon as I was summoned, tended his immediate wounds, then deferred to Dr. Miles from the village, who arrived straightaway, followed by the vet. Your father was brought here immediately.”

Maisie watched the rise and fall of her father’s chest beneath the white and blue stripes of hospital-issue pajamas. She had only ever seen her father in his old corduroy trousers, a collarless shirt, waistcoat, and somewhat flamboyant neckerchief. Though a country groom since the war, on a working day he still looked more like a London costermonger, ready to sell vegetables from his horse and cart. But now he was pale and silent.

“Will he be all right?”

“The doctor thinks that the loss of consciousness is temporary, that he’ll be with us soon enough.”

“Oh God, I hope he’s right.” Maisie looked at her hands, now entwined with her father’s. Silence seeped into the space between Maisie and her former teacher and mentor. She knew that he was watching her, that he was asking questions silently, questions that no doubt he was waiting to put to her in words.

“Maisie?”

“Yes, Maurice? I think you want to ask me something, don’t you?”

“Indeed, yes.” Maurice leaned forward. “Tell me, what is at the heart of the division between yourself and your father? You visit rarely, though when you do you are pleased to see him. And though there is conversation between father and daughter, I see none of the old camaraderie, the old ‘connection’ in your relationship. You were once so very close.”

Maisie nodded. “He’s always been so strong, never ill. I thought nothing could stop him, ever.”

“Not like illness stopped your mother, or injury stopped Simon?”

“Yes.” Maisie brought her attention back to her father’s hands. “I don’t know how it started, but it’s not all my fault, you know!”

Blanche looked up intently. “Since our very early days together, when you were barely out of childhood, I can safely say that I do not think I have ever heard you
sound
like a child until now. You sound quite petulant, my dear.”

Maisie sighed. “It’s Dad, too. He seems to be drawing back from me. I don’t know what came first, my work keeping me in London, even at weekends, or my father always finding jobs to do. He’s preoccupied with other things when I visit. Of course he loves me, and there’s always a warm welcome, but then there’s . . . nothing. It’s as if seeing me is troublesome to him. As if I’m not part of him anymore.”

Maurice said nothing for a while, then asked, “Have you given it much thought?”

“Of course I’ve thought about it, but then I just put it out of my mind. I suppose I keep hoping that I’m imagining it, that he’s just immersed in Lady Rowan’s ambition to raise a Derby winner, or that I’m too caught up in a case.”

“But if you had to guess, if you brought your intuition into play, what would you say—truly—is causing the change?”

“I . . . I don’t really know.”

“Oh, Maisie, I think you do know. Come on, my dear, we have worked together for too long, you and I. I have seen you grow, seen you strive, seen you wounded, seen you in love, and I have seen you grieve. I know when you are evading the truth. Tell me what you
think
.”

Kneading her father’s hands, she spoke quietly. “I think it has to do with my mother. I remind him of her, you see. I have her eyes, her hair—even these.” She pulled at a tendril of hair, then pushed it back into the chignon. “In just a few years I’ll be the same age as she was when she first became ill, and I look just like her. He adored her, Maurice. I think he only kept going because of me. The fact is that he can’t see me without seeing her, though I’m not her. I’m different.”

Maurice nodded. “The pain of being reminded is a sharp sword. But there’s more, isn’t there?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose there is.” Maisie swallowed deeply. “He sent me away, didn’t he? To Ebury Place. And I know, I know, it all worked out for the best, and I wouldn’t be where I am today if he hadn’t, but—”

“But you can’t forget.”

“No.”

“And what of forgiveness?”

“I love my father, Maurice.”

“No one is questioning your love. I ask again: What of forgiveness?”

“I suppose . . . yes, I suppose some resentment still lingers. When I think about it, even though we made up and he would do anything for me. I . . . I suppose I am still upset, in a deep part of me, right in here.” Maisie placed her hand against her ribs.

Silence filtered into the air around them once again, drowning out the echoes of Maisie’s whispered confession until Maurice spoke again. “May I make a suggestion, Maisie?.”

She nodded and replied quietly, “Yes.”

“You must speak with your father. Not
to
him, but
with
him. You must create a new path. You do not need me to tell you that, strong as he is, your father is not getting any younger. This accident will have weakened him, though I expect he will enjoy a full recovery. I observed you enter this ward dragging your guilt, regret, and—yes—fear with you, fear that you might have lost your chance. But you haven’t lost it at all. Use your training, Maisie, your heart, your intuition and your love for your father to forge a new, even stronger, bond.”

Maisie watched Maurice as he spoke.

“I feel so . . . weak, Maurice. I should have known better than to allow the situation to continue.”

“
Should
have?
Should
, Maisie? Fortunately you are a human being, and it is recognizing our own fallibility that enables us to do our work.” Blanche stood up from his chair and rubbed his back and neck. “Now then, it’s getting late.”

“Oh I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you.”

Blanche held up his hand to silence her. “No, I wanted to remain here until you arrived. But now, I must report back to Lady Rowan. I suspect that our patient will improve with your presence.”

“Thank you, Maurice.”

Blanche inclined his head, and took up his coat and hat, which had been placed on the back of the chair.

“Maurice, I wonder if I might speak with you tomorrow about a case.”

“Waite?”

“It’s gone a bit further than that, really. I’m now convinced that the Coulsden and Cheyne Mews murders, and perhaps one more, are connected with the Waite case.”

“You will need to return to Chelstone later, perhaps after doctor’s rounds tomorrow morning, or before if Matron learns that you are here. Come to the Dower House when you are ready.”

“Thank you.” Maisie looked at her father again, then turned back to Maurice. “You know, it’s strange, but I believe the murders have to do with being reminded, and remembering . . . and, now that I think about it, with forgiveness, too.”

Blanche smiled and drew back the screen to leave. “I am not at all surprised. As I have said many times, my dear, each case has a way of shining a light on something we need to know about ourselves. Until tomorrow.”

Maisie took Maurice’s seat at her father’s bedside, ready to continue the vigil until he regained consciousness. In the distance she heard a receding footfall as her mentor left the ward. She was alone with her thoughts, and though she held on to her father’s hands firmly, and made a commitment to better times together in the future, she was wondering about the murdered women, and about Charlotte.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

M
aisie opened her eyes as dawn was just visible through the tops of rectangular paned windows beyond the screens. How long had she slept? She moved her head to look at her father and sat up carefully so that she would not disturb him.

“Dad! Dad—you’re awake!”

Frankie Dobbs forced a smile. “Been awake for a while, love. Just didn’t want to unsettle you.”

“Oh, Dad, I’m so glad.” Maisie leaned across the bed to embrace her father, then sat back.

“And I’m glad you came, love.”

“Straightaway, as soon as I heard.”

Frankie squeezed his daughter’s hand in his own broad palm. “To tell you the truth, for a moment I thought you were your mother. Fair took my breath away, it did, seeing you there. Thought I’d been taken, I did, and was with ’er again.”

Maisie checked her father’s pulse and touched his forehead with her slender fingers.

“Always checking something, my girl. Always making sure, eh?”

Father and daughter were silent for a while. Maisie knew she must use the door that Maurice had opened, in speaking of her mother.

“We don’t seem to talk of Mum any more do we, Dad?”

Frankie tried to move toward Maisie, and grimaced. “No, love, we don’t. Kept my memories to myself, and I s’pose you did, too.”

“Oh, Dad—”

“And I was thinking, as I was watching you ’ave a kip, that we’ve let a few things get between us, ’aven’t we?”

“I know—”

With a low screech the metal feet of the screen were pulled across the floor, and the nighttime Staff Nurse interrupted their conversation.

“I thought I heard voices. Good to see you awake, Mr. Dobbs. Had us all worried there. Doctor will be along to see you soon, and Matron will have a fit if she finds you here, Miss Dobbs. I’ll be going off duty directly doctor has finished, but you’d better be off, Miss.”

“Yes, I’d better. Dad, I’ll be back later today, during visiting hours.” Maisie reached down to kiss her father, then left the enclosure to step out into the ward. Morning sunlight was filtering in, warming patients and nurses alike.

Walking toward the exit, Maisie turned to the nurse.

“What’s the prognosis?”

“Well, Miss—”

“I was a nurse myself, so I have some understanding of the situation.”

“I’m not supposed to say, but I can tell you this—of course, we’ll know more after Doctor sees him this morning—but he sustained a serious concussion, plus he’s cracked both tibia. Not complete fractures, but something to watch all the same. I suspect he will need at least two or three months of rest, considering his age, and they will probably advise convalescence where he can receive adequate care.”

“I see.”

“But we’ll be able to say more when you come back this afternoon. Go home, have a nice cup of tea and a good sleep. Your father needs you in tip-top health!”

A
s Maisie drove, she thanked any unseen entity or power that might have had a hand in the events of the past hours, for openings that seemed to have materialized in several directions. It occurred to her that helping out with the horses in her father’s absence would be a real job for Billy. He would be close enough to be guided by Maurice, to receive instruction from Gideon Brown, and to be monitored by Andrew Dene. Her father wouldn’t rest until he knew the horses were being cared for by someone he knew, and who better than another London man? If her father needed to enter a convalescent home for a month or so, perhaps All Saints’ would be a good choice. Dr. Andrew Dene would understand a man who spoke his own language.