platform for the train back to London, she took a small notebook from her handbag and recorded the events of the day. Each detail was noted, including the color of Celia Davenham's shamrock-green gloves.
She had found two more graves whose headstones bore Christian names only, not very far from the final resting place of Vincent Weathershaw. Three young 'old soldiers' who had withdrawn from their families. Maisie sat back on the bench and started to compose her questions, the questions to herself that would come as a result of her observations. She would not struggle to answer the questions but would let them do their work.
'Truth walks toward us on the paths of our questions.' Maurice's voice once again echoed in her mind.'As soon as you think you have the answer, you have closed the path and may miss vital new information. Wait awhile in the stillness, and do not rush to conclusions, no matter how uncomfortable the unknowing.'
And as she allowed her curiosity full rein, Maisie knew what her next move should be.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Celia Davenham file comprised several pages by now, and included details beyond excursions to Nether Green Cemetery. Celia's birthdate (September 16, 1897), parentage (Algernon and Anne Whipton), place of birth (Sevenoaks, Kent), school (St. Mary's), and miscellaneous other details were recorded. Her husband was ten years older, not such a division in years at thirty-two, but it would have been something of a chasm at the age of nineteen or twenty, especially when the past offered more in the way of excitement than the day-to-day round of life in a maturing marriage.
Maisie knew where Celia shopped for clothes, where she took afternoon tea, even of her interest in needlework. Maisie also observed her comfort in solitude, and wondered how such a solitary soul could build a bridge to another. Did the Davenham marriage endure behind a veil of courtesy? The mundane communication that one would accord an acquaintance met on the street, but the formality of which could stifle the bond of affection between man and wife? It was evident that only one person could answer certain questions, and that was Celia Davenham herself. Maisie carefully replaced the pages in the file, placed it in her desk drawer, pushed back her chair, and made ready to leave her office.
A sharp knock at the door was followed by Billy Beale's freckled face and shock of wheaten hair, topped by a flat cap, poked around the dark wood doorjamb.
'Good afternoon to you, Miss Dobbs. 'Ow's business? Don't seem to 'ave seen much of you lately, though I 'eard that you'd 'elped old Mrs. Scott get something out of that thieving son of 'ers. Thought I'd pop me 'ead in to see if you need anything done in the way of 'andi-work in the office 'ere.'
'Billy, yes, Mrs. Scott is a client. But you know better than to expect a comment from me, don't you?'
'Miss Dobbs, you're spot-on right there. But you can't stop folk talking about your business, 'specially when you've 'elped them. People round 'ere don't miss a trick, and we've got memories like elephants into the bargain!'
'Have you now, Billy? In that case, perhaps you can tell me if you know someone I think you might have heard of.'
'Fire away!'
'Confidential, Billy.'
'Nod's as good as a wink . . .' Billy tapped the side of his nose to emphasize the integrity of any information he might receive--he could keep a secret.
'Vincent Weathershaw. Captain. Know him?' asked Maisie.
'Weathershaw. Weathershaw. Now that name rings a bell. Let me think.'
Billy took off his cap and scratched at his golden hair.
'You know, 'ere's what it is--I've 'eard about 'im. Never actually took an order from the man, but 'eard about 'im. By reputation, like.'
'What sort of reputation?' quizzed Maisie.
'If I remember rightly, a bit devil-may-care. Mind you, you saw it a lot. Some of them got so as they couldn't care less about their own lives. Like they were in it so long that the shelling didn't scare them anymore. Poor sods. Some of them, the officers, that is, came out of their fancy schools and straight into the trenches.'
'Was he reckless?'
'If it's the fella I'm thinking of, not reckless with 'is men. No, 'e was reckless with 'imself. Got so as 'e would just climb out of the bunker, no 'elmet, to go up and look around for the Kaiser's boys. Reckon they were more surprised than us when they copped sight of 'im walking around without a care in the world.'
'Ever hear about him again, Billy?'
'Miss Dobbs, it's not like I talk about it much. Best left behind. But you know that, don't you? You saw enough, must've done.'
'Yes, I saw enough for this lifetime, Billy.'
Maisie buttoned her coat, secured her hat in place, and pulled on her gloves.
'But tell you what, Miss. I'll ask around down the Prince of Wales, some of the lads might know something. This Weathershaw, he a client, like?'
'No, Billy. No, he's not. He's dead. Two years ago. See what you can find out, Billy.'
'Right you are, Miss,' replied Billy. Maisie ushered Billy out of the office and locked the door behind her as she left with him.
'It's confidential, Billy. Just bring it into the conversation,' instructed Maisie.
'Yes, Miss. Don't worry. Like I said when you moved in. Anything you want, you just ask Billy Beale.'
Maisie decided that a brisk walk to Piccadilly Circus would be just what she needed to clear her head for the next part of her task: information gathering, as Maurice would say.
Fortunately there had been several new clients since she had moved into the office in Warren Street.
