Pardonable Lie (28 page)

“Anger gives untold strength. You know that.”

“Wouldn’t you be angry?”

“I’m not saying she deserves to hang, for God’s sake. Your friend Lawton will no doubt seek a manslaughter charge rather than life in prison. She’s fortunately too young to see the black cloth.”

Maisie remembered the judge of her dreams placing the square black cloth of death atop his long silver-haired wig. She sighed, exasperated, then handed the file to Stratton, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes, reliving that first meeting with Avril Jarvis. As she did so, she went back again and again, focusing on one particular movement as the girl reached out—what was it for? Water? And then the moment when she touched the girl’s back, feeling the tension that warned of a secret held. She opened her eyes.

The smoke-blackened castellated walls of Holloway Prison loomed ahead. Gates opened for the Invicta to enter, and the car drew to a halt to allow Stratton and Maisie to alight and enter the prison. Following a meeting with the governor, they were led to a small room, not unlike the room at Vine Street where Maisie had first met Avril Jarvis, though this time there was no window. A table was positioned in the center of the room, with a hard wooden chair on either side. She chose the seat facing the door by which Avril would enter.

“I’ll wait outside,” Stratton said, before leaving the room.

Moments passed. Then the heavy door opened and Avril was led in. The woman guard pushed the girl into the wooden chair and stood in a corner.

“There is no need to guard me. You may wait outside.”

“If you please, madam, I—”

“Please leave us.”

She flashed a glare at Maisie. “I’ll be right outside.”

“Of course.” Maisie smiled and thanked the guard, who she knew would have been duty-bound to remain in the room but had possibly been instructed to allow leeway in this case.

Maisie regarded Avril Jarvis. Despite her incarceration, she seemed to be faring better than when they first met. The hell she was enduring now was clearly not as dark as the one before.

“How are you, Avril?”

“All right, miss.”

Maisie stood up and walked around the table, keeping her eyes on Avril, so that eventually the girl had to look up at her.

“What are you doing, miss?”

“Causing the walls to crumble, Avril.”

The girl was unnerved and frowned.

“Stand up.” Maisie’s voice was soft yet strong.

Avril pushed back her chair and stood, her hands at her sides. Maisie noticed the slightly shorter right arm. It was when she reached for the arm to wash it gently at their first meeting that Avril had flinched.

“Did you kill your uncle?”

“I reckon I must’ve.”

“You don’t remember?”

“That’s what I said, what I’ve said all along.”

“Could you have killed him?”

“Could I, miss?”

“Yes, could you?”

“Well, he wasn’t no saint, so I reckon I could.”

“Avril, you are lying.”

“No, miss, I ain’t lying.”

“Avril, I will concede that you may have passed out. I will concede that you may have felt like killing such a brutal man, but I know you could not have done it.”

Avril looked down. Maisie moved to a place directly in front of her.

“Avril.”

“Yes, miss?”

“Look at me.”

Avril looked up.

“I want you to lift your right hand and hit me as hard as you can.”

The girl’s eyes opened so wide that Maisie almost smiled.

“I can’t do that, miss.”

“No one’s here to see. Just you and me. Now then, do as I say. Hit me as hard as you can.”

Avril swallowed and lifted her left hand.

“No, Avril. You are not left-handed, you are right-handed. Your right hand.”

Avril Jarvis lifted her right hand and then, with her face reddening, she pulled down her fist with all her might and lunged at Maisie, who closed her eyes as the fist connected with her chest. She did not fall back, did not lose her footing. Instead, as she opened her eyes; she saw the girl standing there with tears flowing.

“You couldn’t have killed that man, Avril. You could barely move me.” Maisie stepped around to the girl’s back and pressed at the very point where she held her secret. “This is the muscle that does the work in your back, isn’t it, Avril? The one that compensates for your arm. Roll up your sleeve—all the way to your shoulder.”

Avril Jarvis rolled up the sleeve of her rough uniform dress to reveal an arm that was bent above the elbow.

“What happened to you, Avril?” Maisie reached into her black bag and pulled out a handkerchief, which she passed to the girl.

“I was ten when me stepdad first talked about me going away to London. I was scared, miss, right scared. I tried to run away, but he found me and dragged me back again. He beat me, said I was good for nothing and it wasn’t worth spending good money on food for me. I was working out in the fields then, even though the school board man came round, but he didn’t do nothing when he saw me stepdad, he was that scared of him. I ran away again, and he came after me—drunk, you know.” She sniffed and rubbed her eyes and nose with the handkerchief. “So I thought that if I killed myself, it would be all right. He wouldn’t be able to touch me then, would he? And I would be out of it, out of the way, if I was dead.”

Maisie nodded. “Go on.”

“So one day he said he was sending me away to work in London and Mum was crying and saying ‘No, no, no,’ so I ran off and hid in a tree and when he came up to drag me down I just let meself go. Right far up in the branches, I was. I broke me arm. Hurt me back as well. That’s why I’ve no strength. ’Course, we didn’t have the money for a doctor, so my stepdad just put a bit of wood along my arm and put a bandage around it and said that by the time I went to London, I wouldn’t even notice. I was twelve when I came up here. And my arm still hurts.” She began to weep, and as the tears flowed, Maisie held Avril Jarvis to her. “I want to go back to my mum, miss.”

“You will, Avril. Don’t worry, you will.”

I
T WAS ALMOST
dusk by the time Maisie returned to Ebury Place, Stratton’s driver having brought her back alone while the Inspector remained at Holloway. She went directly to her rooms, stopping only to accept Sandra’s offer to bring her supper on a tray later, perhaps a nice piece of steamed cod for strength.

A fire was already alight in the grate. Maisie slipped off her coat, draped it across the back of the chair, and slumped down, rubbing her temples as she did so. Images of the day flashed into her mind as she allowed the tension of the past few hours to seep away. She had summoned both Stratton and the guard, and as they entered the barren room where Maisie stood alongside the girl, Maisie placed a hand between the girl’s shoulder blades to encourage her to stand tall. She could not afford to bend. Avril Jarvis needed to be upright and firm, and Maisie ensured that she was nothing less than strong at this time, even if she crumbled when taken back to her cell.

“Inspector Stratton, I would like to draw your attention to a physical disability suffered by Miss Jarvis.”

Stratton frowned but knew that Maisie was not one to waste time. “What is it, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie turned to Avril. “Please roll up your sleeve again.” The girl obeyed, her thin damaged limb revealed to Stratton. “As you can see, Miss Jarvis sustained an injury some time ago that has rendered her weak and deformed, though the disadvantage is not immediately noticeable. She has compensated well.”

Stratton leaned closer to look at the girl’s arm. She began to tremble quite visibly but regained composure when Maisie smiled and touched her shoulder.

“The fact is that Miss Jarvis has little strength in that arm. Of course, you must have a doctor test her ability and physical dexterity, though I feel it should have been noticed at her preliminary medical.”

“What are you saying, Miss Dobbs?” Stratton looked directly at Maisie. He knew very well what she was saying.

“Miss Jarvis could hardly push me away with that arm, and she certainly does not have the might to drive a knife into the heart of a man.”

Stratton turned to the guard. “Please return Miss Jarvis to her cell.”

The guard took Avril Jarvis by her left arm. “Come along, Jarvis. Now then, don’t dawdle, get along.”

The door closed behind them.

“We have already discussed this, Miss Dobbs. What about rage, anger?”

Maisie shook her head. “As you know, I have medical training, so I can make a preliminary assessment—and again, I am surprised that her disability was not noted earlier.” Maisie glanced at Stratton as she began to pace. “Another assessment, possibly by an orthopedic surgeon, along with further consultation with the pathologist, will confirm that Avril Jarvis did not—could not—have killed the man referred to as her uncle.”

“If she didn’t, then who did?” Stratton shook his head.

“Ah, that I cannot tell you. Clearly the girl was first on the scene. She removed the knife from the body, an act that caused her to collapse and have no memory of subsequent events.” She paused, then played her next card. “You might entertain the possibility, Inspector, that the girl has absolutely no knowledge whatsoever regarding the identity of the killer. Her ‘uncle’ was a Soho ne’er-do-well with dubious associations. If a thirteen-year-old girl did not kill him, I am sure you could compile a list of undesirable characters and known felons who would have been only too glad to bring an end to his life.”

Stratton sighed, shook his head, and turned to the door, gesturing for Maisie to go before him. “I have work to do here, Miss Dobbs. I will have to call upon you again. However, I think we can assume that, if your suspicions are corroborated, Avril Jarvis will be released to her family in due course.”

As she gazed into the fire, Maisie smiled.
Home with her mother.

Maisie left her room only once before supper was brought on a tray. In the library she placed a telephone call to Sir Cecil Lawton’s chambers and, though she did not speak to him directly, she instructed a pupil to inform him that she would visit him at his estate in Cambridgeshire on Friday, with a request to let her know if the arrangement was not convenient. Maisie planned to make the journey by train, though she had received word from Eric that the MG was “Ready when you are, miss!” But she was not quite ready.

Of course, she could have seen Sir Cecil in his offices; however, her client, the father who had asked her to prove his son dead so his conscience could rest, was not the only man she wished to visit at the Lawton estate.

TWENTY-SEVEN

In the two days between the meeting at Holloway and her journey to Cambridgeshire on Friday, Maisie spent time at her office in Fitzroy Square, though she did not arrive until midmorning each day and left before four o’clock in the afternoon, a good three hours before her customary time of departure. There was another interview with Stratton regarding the Jarvis case, along with commencement of work for the new clients who required the services of Maisie Dobbs, Psychologist and Investigator, and who had seen Billy while she was in France. France: It seemed many weeks ago now, yet she must bring her pilgrimage back into the present for Lawton. She had still to compose both her verbal and written reports.

Maurice had remained in town for several days to monitor Maisie’s progress; although he was not in agreement with her insistence upon working, he could see that with her return to routine she had begun to step away from the chaos of her memories. Dene had returned to Hastings, but not before extracting a promise from Maisie that she would spend the weekend at Chelstone with her father, possibly remaining there until Monday.

On the morning of October 3, she set off for Cambridge, to be collected at the station by Sir Cecil’s chauffeur and driven over to Saplings. Lawton’s manservant, Brayley, was there to greet her when the motor car pulled up alongside the house. He did not allow his eyes to meet hers but instead executed a shallow bow before offering to take her coat.

“Sir Cecil will see you in the drawing room, Miss Dobbs.” He spoke as if their conversation on the street in Cambridge had never happened, as if he had never warned her to cease her investigation on behalf of his employer.

“Thank you.” Maisie walked past him, not waiting for him to escort her to the drawing room. She knocked and entered.

“Ah, Miss Dobbs. Good morning. I understand you have been unwell, a chill caught while in France.” Lawton betrayed his nervousness with cordial chatter. “I must say, that was probably all my fault for sending you there on a wild goose chase in the first place, but jolly good show for going and for being so thorough with your investigations per my brief to you. Of course, it’s not as if I didn’t know, you know—”

“Sir Cecil, may I sit down?” Maisie thought it interesting that this man who was so assured in court was actually quite clumsy outside his preferred milieu. But then, this was no ordinary interview.

“Yes, do take a seat. Brayley will be here with morning coffee shortly. I must say, I am gasping for a cup.”

“Sir Cecil, I have arrived at the following conclusions regarding your son.”

Sir Cecil Lawton was sitting on the edge of his buttoned leather chair. Now, realizing that it made him look less than the important man he was, he sat back and tried to assume a more relaxed position. “Go on.”

“I began by comparing Ralph’s records with what we have been given to understand occurred in France. I can tell you that your son was a brave aviator who served his country to the highest standards. He accepted the most dangerous of assignments.”

Lawton nodded. Maisie paused to consider his posture, his demeanor.
Is there sadness? Does he demonstrate regret?

“In fact, I do believe you may be unaware that on several occasions he delivered intelligence agents to their fields of operation behind enemy lines, work that demanded skill and courage.” Maisie saw Lawton raise his eyebrows, but he said nothing.
He wants only for me to tell him that his son is dead.
“Naturally, this information is in complete confidence. We are both bound by our loyalty to our country, Sir Cecil, and this information was procured at considerable risk.”

“Your report will remain within the walls of this room.”

“Thank you. The assignment that led to the crash was a particularly dangerous one executed at dusk. He was required to fly into enemy territory to drop a hamper of carrier pigeons for use by an agent he had previously transported to the area. His De Havilland came under enemy fire and he crashed. His craft exploded into flames upon impact.”

“And my son was killed.”

Maisie paused until Sir Cecil met her eyes with his own. She had considered her words with care. “I can confirm that Ralph Lawton died in the inferno.”

Sir Cecil exhaled deeply, though Maisie could see that it was a sigh of relief and not of regret.

“As you know, his remains are buried at Arras and commemorated there, along with others from the Flying Corps who gave their lives in the war.”

“Did he suffer? Do you think he suffered?”

Maisie reflected on the scarring on the neck and hands of the man who called himself Daniel Roberts, or the young boy in a photograph with his best friend, and on the man who had now found a semblance of peace.

“I cannot make this easier for you, Sir Cecil. I believe he suffered, though he is in a better place now.”

They were silent for a while, during which time Lawton’s manservant came to the drawing room bearing a mahogany tray with a silver coffee service and white china cups and saucers. The strong smell of fresh coffee brought Maurice to mind, and Maisie felt his presence, remembering his teachings upon the nature of truth. They had spent many hours of her apprenticeship speaking of the distinctions between fact and truth and the nature of the lie. Indeed, it was the powerful yet cloudy haze between those distinctions that had been at the heart of their recent discord.

“You have done well, Miss Dobbs. I wish my wife were still with me so that she could also hear your report. It would have served her better than the lies she heard from those crackpot mischief-makers.”

“Your wife did what she thought best, Sir Cecil. And their words brought comfort along with turmoil.” Maisie paused and reached into her document case. “My written report will follow. In the meantime, I have brought my final invoice, together with an accounting in respect of expenses for your perusal.”

Lawton reached for the envelope, taking out the page that bore Maisie’s account. “Let me deal with this now. I will return in a moment with a check for you.”

“Thank you.”

Maisie stood and looked around the room, noticing a collection of silver-framed photographs on a sideboard. She walked across the thick carpet and examined each photograph in turn. Most were taken in studios, formal sittings of Sir Cecil and Lady Agnes Lawton individually, as a couple, and then with their son, a frail-looking boy, with a countenance that seemed sad. Then she turned to another photograph of father and son. Though it was not taken in a studio, it had the hallmarks of formality, of the rules of behavior that each was bound to maintain. Maisie smiled, remembering the wall of photographs at the Partridge villa in Biarritz, of the three boys caught laughing, perhaps scrambling over their father in good-natured high jinks, then another showing Douglas with his arm around his eldest son as they both peered into a tide pool, trousers rolled up, heads close. There was truth in the images in front of her, a truth that helped her bear the weight of the story she had recounted to Sir Cecil: Ralph Lawton had suffered but was now free.

“There you are.” Lawton entered the room and handed Maisie a check. She glanced at the figure and noticed that the amount was a sum greater than that indicated in her final bill.

“Sir Cecil, I—”

He held up a hand. “Not only did you execute your investigation to a degree of thoroughness beyond that which I expected, but I have received word that charges against Miss Avril Jarvis have been dropped. She will be released on Monday. Of course, there are some administrative details, but the result is minimal work for my chambers.”

“Thank you, Sir Cecil.”

“Thank
you
, Miss Dobbs. My wife can rest in peace now, as does my son.”

Maisie walked toward the door, turning to her client on the threshold. She held out her hand. “You can rest too, Sir Cecil. You have kept your promise. Good day.”

A
S SHE LEFT
the room, Maisie was met by Brayley, who was to escort her to the motor car for her return to the railway station. She stopped, touched him on the arm, and pointed to the corridor that she supposed led to the kitchens.

“May I have a word?”

The man faltered, his face reddening. Their last conversation had proved adversarial on his part, but in this house he was subordinate. “Of course, m’um.”

They walked along the corridor until they reached an alcove with a bay window looking out onto the grounds.

“This will do.” Maisie looked around to ensure that they were alone. “You threatened me, Mr. Brayley?”

“Please, m’um, in my loyalty to my employer, I suffered a lapse in judgment. I beg of you, please do not speak to Sir Cecil of my visit to see you.”

“If I was going to speak of it, I would have done so by now. And after you came to see me, you came to watch me, to discover what I might have found out by following me.”

The man shook his head. “I just wanted to protect him. His son had a…a past. It would be a terrible thing if people knew, if your investigations revealed the truth.”

Maisie paused, again checking the pulse of the conversation. “And was it you who caused me to crash my motor car? Was it you who ran from Goodge Street station into my path?”

The man frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Yes, I admit, I followed you on two occasions and was even watching you come and go from your accommodations. I thought I might be able to talk to you again, but I did not try to cause you injury.”

Maisie frowned and nodded. She believed him but was not mollified. “You acted foolishly, Mr. Brayley. I could have you locked up for your behavior.”

“I beg of you—”

Maisie raised her hand. “Be calm. I might have sought to protect my employer in the same way.” She looked out at the view over the gardens, and then back at the manservant. “You must never speak of this again, of the promise Sir Cecil made.”

“I never have, m’um.”

Maisie pulled on her gloves. “I’m ready to leave now.”

They walked toward the waiting motor, and as the haggard manservant held the door for her she whispered to him, “Your secrets are safe. Goodbye, Mr. Brayley.”

As the motor car made its way slowly down the gravel driveway, Maisie leaned forward to watch as the flat fenlands swept past. So Brayley had tried to scare her, had tried to hamper her investigation into the life and death of Ralph Lawton, but he had not tried to kill her. Now she must move on, to explore the next possibility. Though tired, she knew she was regaining strength. And she would need strength to meet the person who would have her dead.

I
T HAD BEEN
another long day. Tomorrow she would go to Chelstone, though she had not decided whether to drive or travel by train. When she arrived back at Ebury Place, Sandra informed her that Eric was anxious to see her: He had collected the repaired MG just that morning and could not wait for her to see it. Despite the fact that she was gasping for a cup of tea, Maisie went directly to the mews that ran parallel along the rear of Ebury Place, to the garage where the Compton motor cars were kept. The old Lanchester was kept shining. Despite the fact that Lord Compton was now generally transported in the newer Rolls-Royce, he preferred to retain the Lanchester for sentimental reasons. “It’s a damn good motor,” he had been heard to say to George, his personal chauffeur. Though dwarfed by the Lanchester, the MG took pride of place and was gleaming as Maisie entered the garage.

“Oh, my goodness! What a wonderful job!”

Eric moved around the vehicle bearing a chamois, which he used to buff a hardly visible mark here or a speck of dust there. “I tell you, that Reg Martin is a right genius with a motor, specializes in coach work, and is a true craftsman.” He paused to stand back and admire the MG. “You wouldn’t even know what she’s been through.”

Maisie nodded. “She’s a treat, Eric.” She raised her eyebrows. “But now I had better see the bill, hadn’t I?”

Eric shook his head. “All taken care of, m’um.”

“What on earth do you mean? The man doesn’t work for nothing. In fact, in these times I’m amazed he’s still in business. Why am I not to have a bill?”

“Better talk to His Lordship. Came out here himself, he did, while you were over there in France. Unlike him, really. You know, he don’t say much, His Lordship, but he instructed me to have the bill sent to him, said he got you into this, and if you hadn’t been working for his friend this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Oh, dear. I do so hate to be beholden.” Maisie touched her forehead, fingering the now-healed scar.

“Nah, you ain’t beholden, m’um. It’s him that’s beholden; that’s why he’s paid for the repairs. Now then, when’re you taking her out? You could take her down to Kent tomorrow. Nice run down early in the morning—”

Maisie shook her head. “No, Eric. Perhaps early next week. Perhaps I’ll take her for a spin then.”

Eric frowned. “Right you are, m’um. Soon as you’re ready, she’ll be here, spick-and-span.”

Maisie thanked the young man and turned to leave, but just as she reached the door, he called to her.

“M’um?”

“Yes?” Maisie turned to the young man.