CHAPTER ONE

Maisie Dobbs glanced around, taking account of the congregation gathered in Chelstone's ancient parish church. She was sure not one more person could be squeezed into the edifice. Every single pew was packed with villagers and visitors who had travelled from far and wide to pay their respects to the deceased. She sighed, drawing her gaze beyond those gathered to the rounded entrance, a hallmark of the church's early Norman architecture, and then up towards the wooden buttresses holding the roof fast, as if to catch the prayers of those below. She had met a woman, once, who told her she could see the prayers from distressed souls littering the ceiling of every church she had ever entered, as if those heartfelt messages had been inscribed on fine tissue paper and cast up so God could reach down to collect each one.

Maisie had always been intrigued by the names bestowed upon the different parts of a church: the nave, the chancel, the transept, altar 22and apse. The sanctuary. Sanctuary. The word echoed in her soul. The church's vintage attested to the hundreds of years local folk had come to mark baptisms, marriages and the burials of loved ones; to celebrate Christmas, Easter and her favourite, the Harvest Festival. Today marked the laying to rest of Lord Julian Compton.

For a moment Maisie stared at plaques dedicated to ‘The Glorious Dead' of two world wars, then cast her eyes towards the carpenter's tools left on a bench set against the cold stone walls. She was wondering how many more names would be added, when she felt a light squeeze against her fingers as Lady Rowan Compton took her hand. She pressed the liver-marked hand in return, and Lady Rowan leant into her, a gesture revealing the older woman's need to be grounded in her presence, for though Maisie had remarried, she was still the widow of Rowan's only son. In her much shorter life, Maisie had worn the black of mourning twice to mark the loss of a man she adored, and during that time, Rowan had come to appreciate her daughter-in-law's strength even more, grateful for her fortitude at the worst of times. Maisie knew all this, not least because the motherly love bestowed upon her was returned.

Seated in the square, panelled section of the church designated for generations of the Compton family, who had once owned the entire village and still presided over some four thousand acres of the surrounding land, Maisie whispered to the matriarch.

‘Rowan—'

‘Don't worry – I'm bearing up, Maisie.' She squeezed Maisie's hand again. ‘I won't let down my wonderful Julian with tears.'

‘I'm here, Rowan.'

‘I know.'

The vicar gave an almost imperceptible nod in their direction, 23and as Rowan released her grasp, Maisie came to her feet, walked towards the grand brass lectern and stepped up to the Bible, already open to the page from which she would read. It was a tome so heavy, only the pages were ever moved. She felt the urge to cough mounting, and cleared her throat.

‘Our first lesson is from Matthew Five …' She began to read, her eyes meeting those of Lady Rowan as she reached the words ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted'.

Maisie felt her voice catch. There has been too much mourning. Too great a need for comfort. Stepping down from the lectern after speaking the words ‘Here endeth the lesson,' she saw her husband of almost four years give a half-smile and nod. Mark Scott was seated on the other side of Lady Rowan, holding her right hand as the funeral service for Lord Julian continued. Maisie knew that if asked later, she might not be able to remember anything but approaching and leaving the lectern. Her heart was filled with missing the man who had assisted her so many times in her work, who had once been her father-in-law and, as age had softened his demeanour, had become a much-loved friend.

Later, the service over, Maisie stood alongside Lady Rowan, who insisted upon acknowledging each parishioner as they left the church.

‘So kind of you to come …'

‘Yes, he will indeed be missed.'

‘Do join us at the manor for a cup of tea …'

‘You were so kind – His Lordship would have been delighted.'

‘Ah, Mr Jones, every year he maintained your hot cross buns were the very best!'

And so it went on; the mourners, wrapped in heavy coats and woollen scarves, were now waiting to pay their respects in the low 24sunlight of a chilly autumn morning. As the crowd thinned, Maisie noticed one man who had waited until all had left the church, and stepped away towards him.

‘Edwin, I take it you've come in place of your father today, and are here to read the will.'

‘Yes, I'm afraid he's not been at all well, Miss Dobbs – oh dear, sorry, I should have said ‘Mrs Scott'.

‘Please, do not apologise – I still use my maiden name for any assignments I choose to undertake. It makes things easier, though perhaps more difficult for some.' She smiled to put the young man at ease. ‘Your father has been our trusted solicitor for many a year, and I am sure as his son you are more than up to the task.'

Edwin Klein, who was some six feet and four inches tall, appeared to have become used to leaning down to speak sotto voce in situations where he had no desire to reveal his words to anyone but the person with whom he was in conversation. His shoulders became rounded as he bent forward, his voice low.

‘Indeed, we should of course gather to discuss the last will and testament and aspects of the Trust, but I have been observing Lady Rowan and I would suggest we wait – after all, as an executor, you know the details, as does Lady Rowan, so no surprises there. However, there are a couple of somewhat urgent issues of some concern.'

‘Oh dear – I don't like the sound of that.'

‘We have discovered that there are squatters at the Ebury Place mansion. As you know, last week I sent a clerk over to take a complete inventory of everything in the house, yet he was unable to gain entry due to interior bolts being drawn across. There were no signs of forced ingress, so the interlopers must have found a window open – and I'm afraid due to laws protecting squatters in such circumstances, 25there's nothing much that can be done. Of course, the police have been alerted, but their hands are full. If it's any consolation, I've spoken to one of our land lawyers, and he predicts the problem will only escalate across the country, and that by next year, given the sheer numbers of homeless left by six years of bombing, the Ebury Place mansion will be regarded as just the first of many vacant properties to be inhabited by goodness-knows-who!'

Maisie nodded. ‘Perhaps there's something I can do, but I really don't want to concern Lady Rowan with the problem, not at the moment – you're right, she's very tired.'

‘Granted, but Mrs Scott, she has to be informed soonest. Our firm will take your instructions, though at the moment our hands are rather tied.'

‘Was your clerk able to see inside? Is there damage?'

Klein shook his head. ‘All appears to be in order inside, though there's a broken window or two on the second floor – likely caused by land vibration from a bombing at some point. Minor issue. I would imagine the squatters are using only the smaller upper rooms and the kitchen – it's easier to heat, and of course there was a goodly amount of fuel left in the coal bunker adjacent to the scullery.'

‘Well, at least they won't go cold.'

‘I beg your pardon?' Edwin Klein registered alarm. ‘Mrs Scott, squatting is an offence, albeit a protected one in certain circumstances. Lord Julian gave instructions for the property to be made available for sale, and we would like to proceed as we understand there are interested parties, with at least one enquiry from an overseas government seeking suitable accommodation in London for a consular official of high standing. As you know, we were able to construct robust plans to limit death duties, but certain 26monies will remain due to the government, and a sale of the Ebury Place mansion could well solve the problem.'

Maisie reached forward and touched the younger Klein's arm. ‘Mr Klein – Edwin – Lord Julian was very particular about the order of service for his funeral, and he personally chose Matthew Twenty-Two for one of the readings. "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself".' She held his gaze. ‘We have all had rather a lot of the opposite, haven't we? Let me see if I can solve this problem without much ado, while at the same time respecting poorer souls who have been made homeless during this terrible war.'

The solicitor tilted his head and stood to his full height. ‘Right you are. I'll let my father know where we stand, and I will wait to hear the outcome of your efforts, along with your instructions.' He paused. ‘In the meantime, are arrangements in hand for Lady Rowan's removal from Chelstone Manor, or has she decided to remain in the older garden wing while the rest of the property is made ready for transfer?'

Maisie sighed, brushed lint from the sleeve of her black velvet coat and shook her head. ‘Edwin, the war has barely ended. We have recently offered rooms to young refugees from a German concentration camp, and they are expected to join us within weeks, plus everyone in that church is mourning the loss of a much-loved, deeply respected man, a hero held in high esteem within the village and – indeed – across an ocean. Let us rest for a little while – as you kindly suggested. I will deal with the squatters and I will let you know the situation regarding Lady Rowan's choice of residence.' She placed a hand on his arm. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Klein, my place is with her, at her side, but know we are most grateful for your assistance and will be in touch.'

She turned away just as Mark Scott approached.

‘Everything okay, honey? From a distance that seemed a bit tense.' 27

‘Well, all I can say is, he's not his father!'

‘Poor Rowan is all in, so George has taken her home – where there's a whole mass of people waiting to talk to her,' said Mark. ‘I think you should take over as soon as we get there so she can go upstairs to rest. She's a determined lady, but this has been a long haul for her. Your dad and Brenda are helping out, and as always, Priscilla is doing her bit – as you might say. She can hold a conversation with ten people at once and still have room for more.'

‘You're right, we should be on our way now. I hope Anna and Margaret Rose have minded their Ps and Qs at home.'

Maisie's adopted daughter, Anna, was now ten years of age and had become close to Margaret Rose, the daughter of her business partner, Billy Beale, and his wife, Doreen, after the family moved into the bungalow owned by Maisie's father and stepmother. It had been a temporary tenancy engineered by Maisie after the area around Billy and Doreen's home in the London suburb of Eltham was bombed. For their part, Maisie's father and stepmother came to live with her at the Dower House, a large property situated just within the boundary of the Chelstone Manor estate.

‘Don't worry, hon,' said Mark. ‘I predict those girls have their heads in books while snuggled up to Little Em. Our daughter is way more sensible than I was at that age. Anyway, Billy told me that they'll go straight over to the house and wait until we're back before they head on home with Margaret Rose.'

Maisie rested her hand on his arm as they walked towards a waiting motor car. ‘Mark, I'll be coming into London with you on Monday after all. I'll stay for a couple of nights at the flat – I know you'll be busy at the embassy preparing to leave for Washington, but we'll have some time together until you leave. I daresay Lady Rowan will be resting for 28most of my absence anyway. It appears there are squatters at the Ebury Place house, so I'm going to try to sort it all out.'

‘Squatters? Can't you just send in a few hefty young men – Priscilla's three boys look like they would be up for the job.'

‘Mark, over here squatter's rights go back to the Middle Ages, so it's not quite that straightforward.'

‘I would rather have your problem than the one I've got on my hands.'

‘I can't believe you're flying off again so soon,' said Maisie. ‘I wish you could stay.'

‘I wish I could too, but there's work to be done and I'm one of the poor diplomatic souls lined up to do it. Ambassador Winant thinks that because I'm married to a lovely English woman, I know more about your people than the rest of the department, so my title "political attaché" now encompasses getting my fingers in more pies than I would like.' He smiled. ‘Anyway, I shouldn't be more than a week or so this time, and at least we don't have to worry about the Luftwaffe any more. Just all those stops in a shaky Douglas DC-4 – Bournemouth to Shannon, Shannon to Lisbon, Lisbon to Gander, then Gander to Washington.'

Maisie nudged her husband. ‘And at the end of it all, Britain will be in even more debt to you lot.'

‘My lot? If it all works out, at least America will be giving you guys a big old wad of money in the new year, a loan to get you over the hump.'

‘Ah, but think of how that wad will help us – we'll be able to put a roof over the head of every homeless family.' 29

Maisie looked up at the grand Belgravia mansion she had first entered as a thirteen-year-old girl in 1910, when she reported for work at the kitchen entrance of the Compton family's London home, where she was to take up the post of under parlour maid. Some nineteen years later, having set up her own business, Maisie was asked by Lady Rowan to accept the offer of rooms at the mansion, as she and Lord Julian were spending more time at Chelstone Manor, the family seat in Kent. Though the request was put to Maisie as the necessary task of keeping an eye on the property and its London staff during the Comptons' absence, Maisie knew very well that Rowan wanted her to live in more comfortable surroundings than the rented bedsit situated next to her office in a less than salubrious area.

Later still, following Maisie's marriage to James Compton, the couple lived at the Belgravia property together, becoming master and mistress of the home where on hands and knees she had once scrubbed floors; where she had fluffed cushions, washed skirting boards, dusted even the tops of door frames and where, in time, she enjoyed one half-day off every fortnight. In girlhood Maisie's working day had started at five in the morning and did not end until after eleven at night. And it was the house where she had been discovered studying in the library at two in the morning by Lady Rowan, an event destined to change the trajectory of her future, though at the time she believed she had forfeited her job in a secret quest to further her education. Rowan enlisted the help of her friend Dr Maurice Blanche – a forensic scientist, psychologist and something of a philosopher – to advise on how best to help a young working-class girl who showed such intellectual promise. Maurice became Maisie's mentor, and in time she would learn the craft of forensic investigation when she accepted the offer to become his assistant, joining him in his work as an investigator. 30

Maisie thought of all these things as she stared at the house, wondering how she could find a way to gain entry, a means to talk to whoever had claimed shelter in one of the finest mansions in the most elite part of London. She set off across the street and made her way up the steps to the front entrance. Taking hold of the heavy door knocker, she rapped it against the small protruding brass plate a jaunty seven times, as if she were beating out a tune. It wasn't a rhythm the police would have used.

There was no answer.

She bent forward, lifted the letter box flap and called inside. ‘Hello! Anyone at home? I know you're there, so may I have a quick word?' She paused. ‘You're not in trouble – I believe I can help you. Hello!'

Leaving the flap open, she listened. There was no sound, so she tried again.

‘You won't be reported. Come to the door – you don't have to open it. Just come here and talk to me.'

Maisie moved the side of her head to the open letter box and strained to hear. Yes, there was whispering – she was sure she could hear voices. She called out again.

‘Look, I know you're there. I'm not with the police. I'm not with any government authority. And I'm not trying to kick you out – I know you need a roof over your head, and I know you're probably frightened.' She took a deep breath. ‘I promise I can help you.' She waited another second. ‘You can trust me. I know … I know this is your … your sanctuary, the only place you could find. Trust me.'

A few seconds passed, and as Maisie leant forward to have one final try, she heard someone walking towards the door, light of step as if on tiptoe. She held the letter box flap open. 31

‘Who are you?' It was the voice of a girl. From her tone, Maisie estimated her to be fifteen or sixteen years of age, but it was difficult to tell. Even younger children sounded older having endured a war.

‘My name is Mrs Scott. I used to live here – upstairs, where I think you must be bedding down. It's a cold house, isn't it? But the servants' quarters are smaller, so you can keep the rooms warm. Did you find the coal cellar?'

‘We're alright. And warm enough.'

‘Are you getting enough to eat?'

‘None of us is going hungry.'

‘How many of you are there? I just need to know, for … for insurance purposes. Are you with your family?'

The girl seemed to falter.

‘Hello – did you hear me?' Maisie paused, then added, ‘I promise it's alright to tell me.'

‘There was four. But now … but now there's five. And we're not related, but I suppose the four of us are sort of family.'

‘You don't sound quite sure, my dear. Do you need help?'

No answer.

‘Are you there?'

Maisie heard the girl sniff.

‘Oh, sweetheart, are you sure you're alright? Do let me help you.'

‘Yes, we're managing, but … but there's a man here and he's very ill. Every day I think he'll be dead by morning. He's everso poorly.'

‘What man? Do you know him?'

At once a pair of eyes appeared on the other side of the letter box, as the girl bent down to look at Maisie.

‘What's your name, my dear?'

‘Mary. Just Mary.' 32

‘Mary, tell me about the man. Has he given you reason to fear him?'

Mary shook her head. ‘No. Poor sod can hardly stand, let alone hurt anyone. I reckon he's the one who's in pain and I'm not much of a nurse. He turned up about six days ago, and us lot had already been here a couple of weeks. Never seen him before. He came in the back way.'

The girl sniffed again. Maisie reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a fresh linen handkerchief.

‘There you are.' She pushed the handkerchief through the letter box. ‘Take this, wipe your eyes and have a good blow. You'll feel better.'

Mary took the handkerchief, turned away to blow her nose, then came back to peer at Maisie.

‘Thank you.'

‘Now tell me about the man – it sounds as if he's suffering.'

‘Every day I wonder whether he'll be dead when we go in there, and what we'll do with him when he's gone. And he's wearing one of them demob suits – he said he'd been in the army. He scares me – he screams when he sleeps, and he sleeps a lot. We've brought him some soup every day, but we've almost run out of the tins in the pantry.'

‘How are you all feeling? Do you think he's had something that's catching? An illness?'

‘No, but we're … we're all scared, and … and we've got to stay here so we can work out what to do next.' She turned away.

‘Mary! Mary – are you still there?'

There was a hiatus, as if the girl were indeed wondering what to do next.

‘I'm here.' 33

‘Mary, is there something else you're afraid of?'

‘No. No, but … Nothing.'

Maisie was silent, concentrating on the young person on the other side of the door. Please don't close down, stay with me.

‘Mary, listen to me. I'm going to leave now – and don't worry, as I said, I'm not with the police or the council or the bailiffs. But I will come back with some supplies for you and your friends, and I'll make some nice broth for the man. I've some tinned food at home, so I'll bring it in for you. I'll leave a box by the back door, the one leading into the kitchen.'

‘That's how the man got in.'

‘Through the kitchen?'

‘Yes. He knew how to unlock the door, you know, without a key.'

‘And you found him upstairs?'

‘Like Goldilocks, he was, falling asleep in someone else's bed. But I suppose that's what we've all done, though none of us can sleep properly, in case they come for us.'

‘In case who comes for you?'

Another pause.

‘Mary? In case who comes for you?'

‘Doesn't matter. Anyway, I'll look out for the things you said you'd leave for us. But don't try to trick us.'

‘No, no tricks.'

The girl began to move, but Maisie called after her.

‘Has he said anything, this man?'

‘Mumbles most of the time.'

‘Has he made any sense?'

‘Doesn't say much. But like I said, he screams in his sleep. Tenko – tenko – tenko. Like that, only louder.' 34

‘Tenko?'

‘He doesn't make sense.'

‘Hmmm, no, he doesn't.'

‘And I reckon he's got a wife somewhere, or a girl, because he calls out for her.'

‘That could be a start.'

‘I doubt it – there's a lot of women called Lily, aren't there?'

‘Lily?'

‘Well, it could be something else, though it's definitely an L name – you know, Letty, or Lizzie. We can hardly understand him. He gets all white and frothy around his mouth when he's asleep and mumbling. Rotten sad, it is. Anyway, thank you for trying to help. When do you think you can fetch some food for us? One of my mates here is bound to get caught if he keeps going out trying to get more.'

‘Tell him to stay here. And … and keep yourselves occupied. If you go into the library, the big room with the books next to the drawing room, you'll see a cupboard in there with all sorts of games and puzzles. And you can read the books. Don't let yourselves get bored.'

‘Oh that's alright. We practise what we was taught.'

‘Practise? What do you mean?'

‘Mary! Don't say any more.' The voice came from behind the girl.

‘Nothing. Sorry. Got to go. Bye. Thank you, Mrs Scott.'

Maisie continued to watch as the girl named Mary walked away, stopping once to reach down and pull up long grey socks that had slipped down to her ankles. A boy of about the same age stepped into her line of vision. Now she could see that Mary was tall for her age and slender, with long legs that reminded Maisie of a young racehorse. She wore a pleated schoolgirl skirt, two cardigans and a 35blue blouse, and her shoes were ill-fitting.

‘You couldn't keep your mouth buttoned, could you?' said the boy, who was the same height as the girl, though his clothing would have been better suited to a shorter lad, and it appeared the most recent cutting of his ragged brown hair had not been executed by a barber.

‘She was trying to help us – I could see that.'

‘See it could you?' said the boy. ‘Just with them eyes of yours.'

‘Give it a rest, Jim.'

‘I'll give you this.'

The boy raised his hand, yet as Maisie continued to watch, in an instant the girl had swept him off his feet with a swift move, her leg shoved forward to hook around his right ankle as she pushed up his chin with the heel of her right hand, then brought her other hand down on his neck.

‘Don't ever do that again, Jim. What's the matter with you? You losing whatever's left in that brain on top of your shoulders? We've got to stick together, us lot, so just you get a grip of yourself. And if it crosses your mind to swing for me ever again, remember, I was always faster than you. I'll kill you, truly I will.'

Maisie let the letterbox flap close without a sound, as the girl who called herself Mary approached the staircase. Turning away towards the square, Maisie lifted her collar against a sharp breeze and looked up at cobalt clouds merging overhead as if to reflect her quandary. She walked on, determined to busy herself gathering a collection of foodstuffs, a task made more difficult by the limitations of her ration book. Mark would help – courtesy of the American embassy, he was able to obtain foods that were otherwise unavailable to the British people. The youngsters would be very grateful for a bar or two of American chocolate tucked inside a box of comestibles. And 36she needed to think, needed to consider her next move, because she had to cradle the information revealed by Mary with a light hand. For if she were not mistaken, the unknown man was calling out for a girl named Lizzie – and Lizzie died a long time ago. Then there was the other matter – it was clear a girl in her teens had been trained in unarmed combat. Therefore it would be fair to assume her friends were equally adept at taking care of themselves.