“He was here in England with a job of work to do for his country—for the Fatherland. And I’m under no illusions as to why he’s giving us his sob story. He’s giving us his poor boy background to try to soften us up before we dig deeper with the really important interrogation. And he wants to avoid the gallows. As if we haven’t had enough trouble with Nazi sympathizers in our own upper classes—and even higher than that!” MacFarlane turned a page of notes. “He was targeting you as a means to gain an introduction to the Compton family, and—he hoped—to receive an invitation to the Chelstone Manor estate. I suppose he wanted to look at a life that had eluded him by a whisker of fate.” Another page turned, and then MacFarlane raised his eyes from the report to look directly at Maisie. “And needless to say, you are not to inform your father-in-law that his nephew—or the man who says he is Rupert Compton’s offspring—is languishing in no less a place than the Tower of London.”
Maisie nodded. “Of course I won’t say anything, though Julian is very well connected—I am sure he’ll know in time. He might even know already.” She paused. “Now, you can do something for me. I just saw two young women, both with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry—one of them was previously my friend Priscilla’s nanny. She still has a room at their house. What’s she doing here?”
“You know better—”
“I do,” interrupted Maisie. “But it’s a fair trade of information, is it not?”
“At the moment, she’s probably just doing clerical work.”
“And in the future?”
MacFarlane seemed to waver. He pushed back his chair and walked across to the window, looking down at the street below, then shaking his head. He turned back to Maisie, but did not take his seat. “It’s a fresh idea from our new prime minister—though you could say he’s not that new, having just had a baptism by fire in the exalted position. The young lady to whom you refer is one of the women we’ve earmarked as having special skills.” He took his seat once more, and turned to his notes, waiting for the penny to drop.
“Seeing as I doubt you’re interested in her quite amazing proven ability to silence three rambunctious boys,” said Maisie, “then I suppose you can only be interested in her fluency in French—especially colloquial French—and her familiarity with French culture. What’s going on, Robbie?”
“Something we were going to speak to you about, in time, Maisie. This new plan from our higher-ups. Not that I hold with it completely, but I see the value in it—especially now.”
“My French isn’t good enough for whatever you have in mind.”
“Of course it isn’t—we had enough trouble with you and German. Languages are not exactly your abiding strength, are they, Maisie? And you won’t leave that little evacuee girl—I know that now. September isn’t it, that you’ve got your hearing?” He raised his eyebrows in a conspiratorial fashion. “Anyway, where was I? Yes—as I was going to say, you may not be the most fluent speaker of French, but you know character, Maisie, and for what we have in mind—someone who can judge whether a man or woman has the very long list of qualities we’ll need—you’re the someone we think could be very valuable in this department.” He paused. “And there’s always the promise of such joyous repartee whenever you and I work together, isn’t there? Anyway, all in good time, all in good time. Can’t say any more now. But it might be what you’re looking for—in a few months, perhaps next year. A way to do your bit without your life being in danger while you’re careening around in an ambulance—yes, I know all about you and your friend putting your best foot forward.” He gathered up the papers in front of him. “Right, that’s enough of that. I’ve thanked you for serving your country and bringing an enemy agent to our attention, and I have given you more information than I should have about our aforesaid spy. Now you have to get on and we’ll both forget we saw each other this afternoon.”
“What will happen to him, Robbie? What will happen to Walter?”
“Eventually? He’ll be hanged. Very, very slowly.”
Maisie shook her head. “But—”
MacFarlane held up his hand to silence her. “Timothy Partridge. Wounded. Gordon Sanderson, a boy of sixteen doing his best for his country. Dead. Francis Able, Caldwell’s former assistant. Dead. And Sandy MacFarlane, eighteen years of age. My nephew. Dead,” said MacFarlane. “If you’d been caught in Munich, you would have faced a firing squad. Need we say more? I’ll be in touch.”
Maisie spent some eleven days at Chelstone. During that time Priscilla and Douglas made the decision to move into a tied cottage that had become vacant on one of the manor’s farms. The former tenant had died several months earlier, and the cottage had lain vacant, so Lord Julian suggested that the family could take up residence while Tim convalesced, though until essential work had been completed on the cottage, they would be staying with Maisie.
Tom had returned to Northumberland, having spent much of his compassionate leave at his brother’s bedside, his uniform working a magic on the matron, who failed to reprimand him when he overstayed visiting hours. Now, on a day when the sun was shining, Maisie and Priscilla had thrown a blanket down on the Dower House lawn, and were lazing in mid-afternoon warmth. Only the occasional cumulus cloud passing across the blue sky cast a shadow before moving on.
“Surprisingly, I am not at all in a hurry to return home to London full-time,” said Priscilla. “Yes, there is the issue of Tarquin finishing the school year, but I have found an excellent tutor locally—a former teacher at Tonbridge School—and Tarquin’s studies will be directed by him until he starts again in September, when he will most likely go to Tonbridge anyway. The man only lives in Plaxtol, so my son can rumble off to see him on that old bike he found in your shed. And if Tarq doesn’t like that school after he starts, then we’ll find him another. My younger two have rather rebelled against the yoke of discipline.”
“That’s got one of you sorted out. And Douglas seems quite content working in the library, though we have to prepare for Tim coming home. Anna is very excited.” Maisie looked at her watch. “She’ll be back from school soon. Dad has taken out the governess cart to collect her—I’m amazed he’s trained Lady to draw a carriage, and Anna thinks it’s wonderful!” Maisie stood up and pointed to the estate’s entrance. “I can tell they’re on their way because Emma is waiting by the gates at the end of the drive. And I bet the first thing Anna does is rush to the conservatory to see if Tim’s home.”
“Perhaps she’ll be able to bring him out of his funk when he’s here. Tom did his best for a couple of days, but I fear it’s going to be terribly hard, getting him to buck up.” Priscilla tapped the silver cigarette resting on the arm of her wooden chair, but did not attempt to light up. “Douglas says we must let him grieve the loss, but at the same time, he must be kept occupied, and then he must also rest. Your stepmother swears by the efficacy of slowly simmered bone broth, and I have lost count of the gallons we’ve taken into the hospital. The staff have been very good about it.”
“Brenda will make sure Tim wants for nothing—and I think it’s given her another cause,” said Maisie. “Brenda likes a cause—for her Maurice was a cause, and so was I. In fact, I believe I’m still one of her causes!”
Priscilla was about to comment when Anna came running into the garden, her leather satchel bouncing against her hip. She made a beeline for Maisie’s open arms.
“Oh that’s a full satchel!” said Maisie as Anna slithered to the ground, giggling.
“Auntie Pris—is Tim home?”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but not yet. Soon though.”
“Come on, let’s all go inside,” said Maisie. “Auntie Brenda’s made some Eccles cakes and I think they’re still warm.”
Tim had still not been discharged from the Royal East Sussex Hospital when Maisie caught the early train up to London on the morning of June 17th. In the meantime, life at the Dower House had become more settled, despite news of the fall of Paris on June 14th. It was time for Maisie to get back to work, and more especially to embark upon her final accounting. For work to commence on a new case, it was necessary to visit the people and places that had become significant in the course of bringing an investigation to a satisfactory close. It was a wiping of the slate—to a point—because it also encouraged greater understanding of lessons learned, and errors made, so that those mistakes might not be repeated in the future.