and pulled on her black leather gloves. Frankie had insisted on filling a flask with hot tea “just in case.” It seemed to Maisie that the Romney Marshes were living up to the description penned by William Lambarde in the sixteenth century: “Evil in winter, grievous in summer, and never good.” But Maisie knew there was something to be found in this forlorn wasteland. She was close to Camden Abbey.
Long before she reached the end of the gravel road leading to the mansion that was now the home of twenty-four Benedictine nuns, Maisie saw the abbey in the distance. The abbey was E-shaped, with a long, two-storey north-south spine and three wings extending out. The center wing held the main entrance. The end of each wing had an unusual bell-shaped face and roofline, inspired by the houses of Holland, where the first owner had grown up. In her letter Dame Constance had written that the nuns had lost their home in Cambridgeshire when it was requisitioned by the War Office for officer accommodation. Sir Edward Welch, owner of Camden House, which was fortunately ill-situated for military use, bequeathed his property to the order upon hearing of their distressing circumstances. He died shortly thereafter, and Camden House became Camden Abbey.
Maisie parked the MG, ensured that its roof was properly secured in case of rain while she was inside, and proceeded through the main door to what had once been a substantial entrance hall. To her left an iron grille at face height covered a small door. Maisie took the brass handle of the bell-pull next to the grille, drew it back and immediately heard the deep resonant clang of a large bell. She shivered in the cold, dark hall and waited.
The small door opened, and a nun nodded at her. Maisie smiled automatically, and as she did so she noticed the corners of the nun’s mouth twitch before she looked down piously.
“I am here to see Dame Constance. My name is Maisie Dobbs.”
The nun nodded and closed the door. Maisie shivered again, waiting alone. She heard another door open and footsteps grow louder as someone came to meet her. It was the same woman. She wore the habit of a postulant, and as she had not yet taken orders, she could meet Maisie without a barrier between them.
“Please follow me, Miss Dobbs.” The postulant seemed to swirl around as if practicing for the day when she would wear a full-length habit instead of a calf-length dress, and a cowl would replace the white collar buttoned tightly at her neck. The end of her veil flapped as she walked, reminding Maisie of the wings of a seagull slowing down for a landing on water. She opened an oak door with pointed iron hinges that stretched out into the center of the wood, and allowed Maisie to enter. The nun left her alone in the room, closing the door behind her with an echoing thud.
It was a small room, with a fireplace at one end and a window to the gardens at the other. Coal and wood crackled and sputtered in the grate, and the red carpet on the floor and heavy red curtains at the window made the room warm and welcoming. The plain wall bore no ornamentation but a crucifix. A comfortable wing chair had been placed in front of the grille that covered a small door situated next to the crucifix. A side table held a tray, and Maisie could see steam rising from the spout of a teapot covered with a plain white cozy. Upon closer inspection she found a plate of homemade oatmeal biscuits next to a milk jug, sugar, and a cup upturned on its saucer. The crockery was plain.
Each week for one term, when she had been at Girton, Maisie had walked to the order’s former abbey after lunch on a Wednesday, along with her fellow students. At half past one exactly, the small door leading to Dame Constance’s room would open, and she would greet them from behind the grille, ready to fire questions, question assumptions, and prod for opinions. Dame Constance had blended compassion with pragmatism. With the hindsight of the worldly experience she had since acquired, it was clear to Maisie that Dame Constance had suffered fools if not gladly, then with gracious ease.
The door clattered back, and the warm smile she had known so well beamed at her from beyond the iron grille once more.
“Maisie Dobbs! How lovely to see you. No, mind you keep well back, I’m still getting over this wretched cold you know, so do keep your distance from my bars.” Her demeanor did not give away her age. The timbre of her voice seemed that of a much younger woman. In fact, it had occurred to Maisie that she didn’t know how old Dame Constance actually was.
“Do not let me see a biscuit left on that plate at the end of our talk, Maisie. You young women of today do not know how to eat. Why, in my day, that plate would have been nothing but a few crumbs by now, and I’d be licking my fingers and dabbing at them so as not to miss a thing!”
From her seat next to the grille, Maisie leaned toward the iron bars, the warning of germs notwithstanding. “I can assure you, Dame Constance, I eat very well.”
Dame Constance was silent for a few seconds before continuing. “Tell me, dear girl, why have you come to me today? What can an old nun can do for a young sleuth? It must be serious for you to come on a Sunday.”
“I know of the guiding mission of the Benedictine order, and your solemn oaths of confidence. However, I believe that a young woman I am searching for may be within the walls of Camden Abbey.” She stopped. Dame Constance held Maisie’s eyes with her own and did not speak. Maisie continued. “Charlotte Waite is missing from home, and her father is concerned for her safety. I believe she has sought refuge here at the abbey. Can you confirm my suspicions?”
Dame Constance responded with a simple, “I see.” Maisie waited.
“You know, Maisie, that in his Rule, Saint Benedict bade his disciples to show special care and compassion toward those seeking refuge, the poor and pilgrims, and he did so because ‘in them is Christ more truly welcomed.’ There are those who knock at the door daily for food and drink, yet sometimes a hunger is deeper, a yearning for sustenance that cannot be named, but one that is always fed at our table.”
Maisie nodded.
“One of our pledges, when souls come to us seeking supersubstantial bread to assuage the poverty of the spirit, is the confidence of the cloister.”
Dame Constance paused, as if expecting Maisie to counter her words.
“I seek not to . . . interrupt the sacred path of one making her way to the abbey’s table for sustenance. I only seek confirmation that Charlotte Waite is here. That she is safe.”
“Ah,
“Yes, and we use it too easily, I’m sure.”
Dame Constance nodded. “Only.
