Charlotte.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve got your plate full.”
“My father’s not allowed any visitors until late this afternoon, and probably only once a day until the doctor says anything to the contrary, so I’ll be able to work on the case while I’m here.”
“Right then. Dr. Dene telephoned again.”
“Really?”
“Yep. And it’s interestin’ because ’e wanted to leave a message for you about your visit to see—let me look ’ere. I tell you, Miss, I can’t even read me own writin’ sometimes—Mrs. Thorpe’s housekeeper.”
“What was the message?”
“Didn’t say, except ’e wanted to pass on a message from ’er, that she’d like to see you again. She remembered something that might be useful.”
Maisie wrote notes on an index card as she spoke to Billy, and checked her watch.
“I’ll
“Awright, Miss. Anythin’ else?”
“Actually, there is. You know we spoke about your coming down to Chelstone for a while, perhaps a month or so? And you didn’t want to ‘sit on your duff,’ I think you said?” Without pausing to allow Billy to reply, Maisie said, “Well, I’ve got something for you to do that’s vital to me and to Lady Rowan. Billy, it’s to do with Chelstone Dream, the odds-on favorite to win the Derby in 1934.”
Before she was able to retreat to the Groom’s Cottage, Maisie fielded inquiries about her father’s health from Carter and Mrs. Crawford. As she walked into her father’s home, Maisie shivered. Never before had she felt a chill in the house, yet today the heavy dew outside seemed to permeate the stone walls and storm windows, creeping into each nook and cranny to claim a place.
Her father had obviously left in a hurry to tend to the mare. An enamel teapot three-quarters filled with old cold tea sat on the table; a loaf of bread, now crusty and hard around the edges, had been roughly cut and not returned to the bread bin. The butter dish and a jar of Mrs. Crawford’s homemade three-fruit marmalade were open on the table, with a sticky knife set on a plate. Maisie smiled, imagining her father hurriedly drinking scalding tea, quickly spreading a doorstep-like slice of bread with marmalade, then running out to get to the stable. She set about cleaning the room before seeking the comfort of a hot bath.
She lit the fire and set two large kettles of water on the hotplate, along with a cauldron usually used for soup. She dragged a tin bathtub from a hook in the scullery and placed it on the floor in front of the stove, ready to receive the scalding water, which she would cool to stepping-in temperature with cold water from the tap. She closed the curtains, locked the doors and went to the small box-like bedroom that had once been her own. Opening a wardrobe, she wondered if she would find anything to wear. She touched garments that should have been given to the rag-and-bone man years ago. There were her clothes from university years, the cast-offs from Lady Rowan so expertly fitted for her by Mrs. Crawford’s dexterous needlewoman’s fingers. There was the blue ball gown given her by Priscilla, her friend at Girton. As she touched the cool blue silk, she thought of Simon, of the party where they had danced the night away. Shaking off the memories, Maisie pulled out a pair of rather baggy brown trousers that had also been given her by Priscilla, at a time when women who wore trousers were considered “fast.”
As soon as she had found an old pair of leather walking shoes, Maisie took a clean white collarless shirt from her father’s chest of drawers, along with a pair of socks to complete her ensemble for the day. She would find an old corduroy jacket hanging up in the scullery, or she would simply wear her mackintosh while waiting for her clothes to be cleaned up at the manor. She’d not had time to pack a bag before leaving for Kent, but she could make do.
Maisie prepared her bath, opened the door to the fire and settled down to soak before embarking on the rest of her day. She began to soap her body, wondering what Rosamund Thorpe’s housekeeper might want to speak to her about. The Old Town in Hastings housed a small community, and Maisie imagined the grieving woman remembering something, some vital piece of information, after her visit. Then, not knowing how she might contact Maisie—for she would not readily have used her former employer’s telephone—Mrs. Hicks would have sought out Dr. Andrew Dene hoping that he might pass on a message for Maisie to see her when next in Hastings. But why did she not simply tell Dene what it was that she had remembered? Maisie suspected that the loyal housekeeper probably would consider such a disclosure tantamount to gossip.
A sharp knock at the door jolted Maisie from her reflections. Unwilling to interrupt her train of thought, she did not move, did not reach for a towel hanging over the back of a chair, did not call out, Just a minute! Instead, she silently waited until she heard the rustle of paper being poked under the door, and footsteps receding along the garden path. She settled back into the water for just a few more minutes, the now-blazing fire keeping her warm.
A note had been delivered by Maurice Blanche’s housekeeper, inviting Maisie to join him for breakfast. She dressed quickly, pulling on trousers, white shirt and the pair of brown leather walking shoes which, she thought, were set off quite nicely by her father’s best Argyll socks. Before leaving the groom’s cottage, Maisie took her folded linen handkerchief from the document case and slipped it into the pocket of the old jacket she had found, as predicted, hanging up in the scullery. Instead of drawing her hair back into a tidy chignon, Maisie plaited her long tresses into a loose braid so that, walking toward the manor house with her clothes folded under one arm, she caused Mrs. Crawford— who was on an expedition into the far reaches of the kitchen garden— to exclaim, “Maisie Dobbs, you look five and ten all over again!”
Seeing Maisie approach, Maurice opened the door as she made her way along the path leading from the Groom’s Cottage to the Dower House.
“He came round, Maurice, he came round as I was sleeping!”
