'For some of the dust to clear.' She recounted the events of the past week, taking care to give as much detail as possible.
Maurice was silent, nodding his head, and then closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again.
'So what are you waiting for, my dear, if you know who must be brought to book for the death of Michael Clifton, and for the attack on his parents?'
'I'm not quite ready. I have a feeling we will locate the woman with whom Michael was involved very soon. And I'm waiting for more proof. I have to be sure.'
'And then?'
Maisie looked down at her hands, and rubbed the back of one hand with the palm of the other. 'I don't know… there are people to consider, people whose lives will be changed. I'd like to see if I can avoid too much damage.'
'I suspected that might be the case.' Maurice sighed, then went on. 'Of course, such an impact might be the best thing. The truth always finds a way, Maisie, in some manner or form. You cannot deliberately change the course of the river without causing a flood or drought somewhere else.'
'But everything changes when you unearth the past,' said Maisie.
'That's not necessarily a bad thing, is it? You bring old events and choices to the surface, and you change the vista-but spring will come, the soil will seed itself, that flood or drought will abate, and life goes on in that new landscape.'
Maisie nodded, but said nothing, so Maurice continued.
'The past was unearthed when Michael Clifton's remains were brought up from the battlefield where his life was taken.'
'And you don't mean the battlefields of France, do you, Maurice.'
Maurice smiled and began to cough, allowing Maisie to lean him forward and rub his back. When the coughing had diminished, she poured water for him and held it to his lips. Soon he was settled and answered her question.
'No, I don't. Life's battlefields are just as violent. Michael was caught in another offensive, wasn't he?'
Maisie nodded.
'Then it is your job to be an advocate for truth, Maisie.'
'I've kept quiet about a few things in my time.'
'So have I. But never a killer.'
'No. Never a killer.'
Maisie had decided earlier in the day that she would travel back to London by train on Sunday evening. James did not have to be at his office early on Monday, and in any case wanted to spend the evening with his parents.
As the train rocked from side to side, Maisie looked out into the darkness and thought about the chain of events since she left the house on Saturday morning. On the one hand, she deliberated about the case of Michael Clifton and his family, and on the other, there was her relationship with James Compton. He had called for her on Sunday morning, as they had planned, and after a brief conversation with her father about the horses, they walked to the gate at the bottom of Frankie Dobbs' garden, then across the fields to the woodlands below.
With primroses, shiny egg-yolk-yellow celandines, and delicate white wood anemones underfoot, they followed an old path down to the stream that ran through a woodland of hazel, hornbeam, oak, and beech, and soon the pungent aroma of the wild garlic that grew alongside Kentish streams was released with every step taken. The place where James stopped, a benign meander in the rushing water overlooked by the lichen-covered remains of a broken beech tree, was marked by a chill in the air that caused Maisie to pull her woolen cardigan close around her body.
'This is where it happened,' said Maisie.
James nodded. 'Yes. It's not like it was then.' He pointed to the high side of the meander. 'There were logs across there, which created a large swimming hole here. I mean, it wasn't much of a swim, but that's what we called it.' He indicated the beech tree. 'And that's where the limb came down. As you can see, we're not that far from the house, and on the day it happened, my parents were taking a walk together. It was their habit to walk alone sometimes, just the two of them. They heard my screams.'
Maisie sat down on an old moss-covered log. 'Do you come back to this place often, James?'
He shook his head. 'No. Never, in fact. But I knew I would find it with no trouble.'
She nodded. 'Yes. The tragedy seems to have lingered in the air.'
He sat down beside her. 'I don't know what to feel, actually. It all seems so innocent here, in its way.'
'There is healing for you in this place, James. The kind of healing that is to be found in the wound itself.'
'I'm not sure I know what you mean. I'll think about it though.'
They both laughed, and James cleared his throat.
'I wonder, have you thought about what I said yesterday, about…you and me?'
Maisie nodded. 'Yes, I have.' She looked at him. 'Yes, I have, James. I've enjoyed your company. I'd like to…to spend more time with you.'
James nodded, gazed at the old beech tree, and took her hand in his. Then he turned and kissed her. 'We'll have good times, Maisie. We've both got some catching up to do, haven't we?'
She reached towards him and touched his face. 'Let's just enjoy today, James. Tomorrow's ground is a bit too soft for me yet.'
James Compton stood up, took her hand, and pulled her to him. 'Shall we go back now?'
'Yes, let's. Maurice will be ready to see me soon.'
James turned and stepped back onto the path, and just before she joined him, Maisie reached down to pick a single primrose, and threw it onto the water at the base of the beech tree. She watched the bubbling current catch the solitary bloom and carry it along until she could see it no more.
'Coming?' James called back to her.
She turned and smiled, feeling the color rush to her cheeks and a swell of anticipation. 'Yes, I'm coming! Wait for me, James.'
Detective Inspector Caldwell was waiting in a parked Invicta motor car when Maisie arrived at the office on Monday morning.
'Having a bit of trouble getting up in the morning, Miss Dobbs?' asked Caldwell, pushing back his sleeve to look at his watch with something of a dramatic flourish.
'I don't think that's any of your business, Detective Inspector.' She unlocked the front door and held it open as the policeman and his sergeant followed her up the stairs and into her office.
'And it looks like your trusty assistant is just as tardy on this fine Monday morning.'
Maisie rolled her eyes. 'Just as you were beginning to grow on me, Inspector.' She smiled as she removed her mackintosh and placed it on the hook behind the door. 'Now then, what can I do for you?'
'I thought I wouldn't let too much time go by without receiving some sort of report on your activities on behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Clifton. I allowed your personal investigation to continue, and I keep wondering whether you've uncovered information that might be of interest to us as we put the final touches to our report regarding the attack on our American visitors.' He sighed, and again Maisie thought it rather theatrical. 'Did you hear from our friends at the embassy, by the way?'
She shook her head. 'We heard from a man named John Langley, but nothing since. Seeing as Mr. Clifton's son and a family friend-Dr. Charles Hayden-are now here in London, I thought perhaps they had smoothed the way with the consular officials.'
Caldwell seemed to smirk. 'Personally, I think it's a bit of a cheek, him coming over here with his fancy doctor. As if our doctors aren't good enough. Who do they think they are, these Americans?'
Maisie was guarded in her response. 'I can see what you mean, Inspector. Mind you, I know Dr. Hayden. We met in the war. And no one objected to him or his fellow doctors from the Massachusetts General Hospital being
