Maisie stopped once to look at All Saints’ Convalescent Hospital before setting out along the path lined with low trees and shrubs before it turned toward the broad front doors of the house. The route she had taken was infinitely more enjoyable than driving along the ancient streets that spiraled precariously up the hill. The building was laid out in an exact square and had been constructed of red brick and wood at the turn of the century. Its architecture was of the new style, with clean lines and a shallow roof. Some outbuildings had been added during the war when it was requisitioned for use as a military convalescent home. The owner had eventually sold the property to the local authorities, possibly to preempt compulsory purchase at a reduced price, and it was now used for all manner of convalescent cases though many of the patients were still old soldiers.
The door, constructed from a single substantial piece of wood, moved easily after Maisie turned the brass handle, opening into a large entrance hall with wooden floors and plain white walls. There were arched wooden beams above the staircase before her. A lift had been added to assist those who were unable to move themselves. Rubber strips ran along the floor in strategic places, minimizing slippage for invalids learning to walk again with caliper splints, crutches, or new artificial limbs. Despite vases of flowers and a lingering aroma of lavender furniture polish, if one turned quickly or took a deep breath, there was the unmistakable hospital smell of disinfectant and urine.
Maisie knocked on the frosted glass window of the porter’s office and was asked to wait while Dr. Dene was summoned.
“Miss Dobbs, delighted to meet you.” Andrew Dene began reaching out his hand when he was still three steps from the bottom of the staircase. “Maurice said to expect you here around one-thirty. Please.” They shook hands, and he indicated another door, which led to a long corridor. Though he had been one of the students who attended Maurice’s medical school tutorials, Maisie had expected someone far older. He seemed to be only four or five years her senior. If she was right, then he had certainly made his mark early. Dene’s light brown hair fell into his eyes repeatedly as they made their way toward his office. Maisie had to walk quickly to keep up with his athletic gait. She noticed with pleasure his ease of manner, as well as his obvious respect for Maurice and, by default, herself.
“You know,” said Dene, “I always wondered what it must be like to work with Maurice, at his side. He said something once about his assistant, but you could have knocked me down with a feather when I found out that the accomplished assistant was a woman.”
“Really, Dr. Dene?” Maisie’s tone caused Dene to rephrase his remark “Oh dear, that’s not what I meant.” Dene opened the door of his office and allowed Maisie to enter before him. “That’s me all over: Open mouth, insert foot. What I meant was . . . well . . . sometimes the work sounded so, you know, so tricky that . . .”
Maisie raised an eyebrow.
“I think I’d better just take it all back and get on with the business at hand before I have to show you out on my hands and knees.”
“Indeed, Dr. Dene, I can think of no better punishment at this moment.” She removed her gloves, and took the seat indicated. Despite his faux pas, Maisie thought Andrew Dene was rather fun. “Perhaps we can get down to business.”
“Oh yes, quite.” Dene checked his watch and reached for a manila folder with frayed edges that was already set to the side of the other stacks on his desk. “I have a meeting in twenty minutes. Mind you, I can be late.” He smiled at Maisie. “I understand you want to know more about the convalescent history of one William Beale, Corporal.”
“Yes, please.”
“Well, I’ve already looked at the file. I had to rescue it from what we refer to as the Dungeon down in the cellars. Unfortunately, the attending doctor has passed on now but the notes are all here. Looks like he’s lucky to have kept that leg. Amazing what those doctors were able to do over there, isn’t it?”
“I thought you . . .”
“Oh no. I was in medical school when I enlisted, but I was not qualified. They pushed me into the Medical Corps anyway, though not as a surgeon. As an assistant. Not quite a nurse, not quite a doctor. I ended up in Malta finding out more about surgical procedures on the job than I ever learned when I returned to medical school. By that time I had become more interested in what happened to soldiers when they came back, their recuperation, their post-operative care, and how I could best help them.”
“I see. So what can you tell me about Mr. Beale’s recovery?”
Dene looked through the notes once again, sometimes turning the file to one side the better to see a chart or diagram; then he closed the folder. He looked up at Maisie. “It would be less like finding a needle in a haystack if you were to tell me why you are interested—the medical aspects, that is.”
Maisie was taken aback by Dene’s manner but understood the need, given the array of procedures and therapies that would have been noted in the file. Maisie described her observations of Billy’s behavior, adding that his family life was also disturbed by his mood swings.
“Is this is a recent development?”
“Over the past few months, along with the increased pain in his legs.”
“Ah. Yes.” Dene reached for the file again. “Miss Dobbs, you were a nurse in France, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I—”
“And later, according to what I know, you worked with shell-shocked patients before returning to Cambridge. I understand from Maurice that you spent some time at the Department of Legal Medicine in Edinburgh.”
“That’s all correct.”
“So you don’t need me to tell you what’s going on, do you?”
Maisie looked at Dene intently, her deep blue eyes sparking. “I thought it best to confer with the attending doctor, or his successor, before jumping to conclusions.”
“A wise and very professional decision. Oh, and by the way, I’m
Maisie’s cheeks reddened.
Dene leaned back in his chair and made a church-and-steeple with his fingers. It was the same way Maurice
