An Incomplete Revenge

“And you reckon they’ll see you at the reformatory this afternoon?”

“I hope so. I may have to grovel.”

“Best of luck, Miss. See you the day after tomorrow.”

MAISIE HAD OFTEN rolled her eyes at what she and others referred to as the old school tie, those connections forged and sealed in the boarding schools of youth—for those of a certain station—that would bond boys together as they came of age, so, as men, a favor could be asked, a door opened, even a loan settled or a crime forgotten. For her there was no old school tie or any other claim to some association, except that of being a Londoner, or the thread of familial relationship that rendered her welcome by Beulah and thus by the gypsy tribe. It was therefore a stroke of good fortune that the man who happened to be governor of the reformatory displayed on his desk a photograph of his wife as a young woman.

“Ah, your wife was a nurse, in the war, I see,” said Maisie.

“That’s where we met. I was a medical orderly at the same general hospital.”

Maisie smiled. “I was a nurse too, at a casualty clearing station.”

The man nodded. There was no need to say more, to share a reflection or a memory. He simply smiled and said, “And how can I be of service to you, Miss Dobbs?”

When she explained the reason for her visit and described the information she was seeking, he lifted a set of keys from his desk and replied, “We’ll have to go down to the records office. I can leave you there with the files for half an hour. Will that be sufficient?”

“Thank you—that will be plenty of time.”

Not quite the old school tie, but a lifelong bond all the same.

MAISIE LEFT THE reformatory for London in the late afternoon, glad to depart the dour smoke-stained red-brick buildings, to hear the gate locked behind her, and to silently bid adieu to the sullen boys, all dressed the same in blue overalls, working in the gardens, marching across the parade ground, and cleaning the windows. Though the reformatory was not a hardscrabble borstal, it was nevertheless an incarceration.

She drove all the way back to London with the top down on the MG, glad to feel the balmy air cross her skin, prickling her senses alive and shaking off the dark mood of the reformatory. She had gleaned more information than she thought possible, which, as she knew, would only beg more questions. To her list of tasks to be accomplished, she added a visit to the repository for war records, but she would need an introduction to open those doors, as she was not a relative of those whose records she sought. With luck, she could draw upon her relationship with the wearer of an impressive old school tie.

On the outskirts of London, she stopped to pull up the MG’s roof. Following some delay on the Old Kent Road, where a costermonger’s barrow had overturned, pitching fruit and vegetables into the street, she was keen to see her flat again. She had already sent a telegram to Priscilla to let her know that she was driving up this evening and would pick her up tomorrow morning for the journey to Margaret Lynch’s London home, from which the funeral cortege would leave.

Maisie spent the evening quietly, except for one excursion, out to a telephone kiosk to place a call to James Compton, to whom she gave a resume of her investigation to date. She informed him that she estimated a final visit to Heronsdene of only two more days, perhaps three, after which she would submit her report and recommendations. Then she asked if he knew where she might be able to reach his father.

“He’s here at the club this evening. We’ve been in conference with the directors all day, talking about expansion and also—right up your alley—security at our offices in Toronto. Can’t have one without the other.”

“Of course.”

“Hold on a minute, I’ll get him for you.” James set the telephone receiver on the table, and Maisie heard voices in the background as he informed the porter to hold the call. The voices receded, there was silence, and then a voice came closer again, thanking the porter.

“Maisie, how are you?”

“Very well, Lord Julian, and you?”

“Better when James has the reins well and truly in his hands, but I think it’ll be difficult to have him come back from Canada for any significant length of time, even though I’m trying my best. I thought he would stay for the hunting, but now I’m not sure.” He cleared his throat. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I need a door opened at the war records repository.”

“How soon?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. I want to view two records.”

“Consider it done—but I’ll need the names.”

MAISIE’S SECOND TELEPHONE call was to Priscilla, at the Dorchester.

“Maisie, I am so glad you telephoned. Where are you?”

“In a telephone kiosk in Pimlico.”

“Oh, dear God, a public telephone kiosk, and in the dark? Anyone could be watching you, ready to strike.”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Pris. There’s no one watching me, and I’m perfectly alright. How are the boys?”

“I’m making progress. I’ve summoned Elinor back from Wales, so she’s here with us—and probably glad to be back. Half her family are miners, and life is bleak for them.” There was a brief pause. “Oh. I seem to have found the perfect London house, and I may have settled the question of my sons’ education.”

“Will they board?”

“No. The boys will become day pupils at a London lycee where they teach in both French and English. It’s popular with diplomats from the far reaches of the empire who want their sons to have a solid British education, so everyone’s different. And when they come home at the end of the day, I will have Elinor to keep them on the