Maisie Dobbs

the sun drifted away to warm the shores of another continent, leaving behind a rose tint to bathe London at the end of a long day.

Looking again at her handwritten notes, Maisie continued rereading a draft of the report she was in the midst of preparing. The case in question was minor, but Maisie had learned the value of detailed note taking from Maurice Blanche. During her apprenticeship with him, he had been insistent that nothing was to be left to memory, no stone to remain unturned, and no small observation uncataloged. Everything, absolutely everything, right down to the color of the shoes the subject wore on the day in question, must be noted. The weather must be described, the direction of the wind, the flowers in bloom, the food eaten. Everything must be described and preserved. 'You must write it down, absolutely and in its entirety, write it down,' instructed her mentor. In fact, Maisie thought that if she had a shilling for every time she heard the words,'absolutely, and in its entirety,' she would never have to work again.

Maisie rubbed her neck once more, closed the folder on her desk, and stretched her arms above her head. The doorbell's deep clattering ring broke the silence. At first Maisie thought that someone had pulled the bell handle in error. There had been few rings since Billy installed the new device, which sounded in Maisie's office. Despite the fact that Maisie had worked with Maurice Blanche and had taken over his practice when he retired at the age of seventy-six, establishing her name independent of Maurice was proving to be a challenge indeed. The bell rang again.

Maisie pressed her skirt with her hands, patted her head to tame any stray tendrils of hair, and hurried downstairs to the door.

'Good. . . .' The man hesitated, then consulted a watch that he drew from his waistcoat pocket, as if to ascertain the accurate greeting for the time of day. 'Good evening. My name is Davenham, Christopher Davenham. I'm here to see Mr. Dobbs. I have no appointment, but was assured that he would see me.'

He was tall, about six feet two inches by Maisie's estimate. Fine tweed suit, hat taken off to greet her at just the right moment, but repositioned quickly. Good leather shoes, probably buffed to a shine by his manservant. The Times was rolled up under one arm, but with a sheet or two of writing paper coiled inside and just visible. His own notes, thought Maisie. His jet black hair was swept back and oiled, and his moustache neatly trimmed. Christopher Davenham was about forty-two or forty-three. Only seconds had passed since his introduction, but Maisie had him down. This one had not been a soldier. In a protected profession, she suspected.

'Come this way, Mr. Davenham. There are no appointments set for this evening, so you are in luck.'

Maisie led the way up to her office, and invited Christopher Davenham to sit in the new guest chair opposite her own, the chair that had been delivered just last week by Lady Rowan's chauffeur. Another gift to help her business along.

Davenham looked around for a moment, expecting someone else to step out to meet him, but instead the young woman introduced herself.

'Maisie Dobbs. At your service, Mr. Davenham.' She waved her hand toward the chair again. 'Do please take a seat, Mr. Davenham. Now then, first tell me how you came to have my name.'

Christopher Davenham hid his surprise well, taking a linen handkerchief from his inside pocket and coughing lightly into it. The handkerchief was so freshly laundered and ironed that the folds were still knife sharp. Davenham refolded the handkerchief along the exact lines pressed by the iron, and replaced it in his pocket.

'Miss, er, Dobbs. Well, um, well . . . you have been highly recommended by my solicitor.'

'Who is?'

Maisie leaned her head to one side to accentuate the question, and to move the conversation onto more fertile ground.

'Oh, um, Blackstone and Robinson. Joseph Robinson.'

Maisie nodded. Lady Rowan again. Joseph Robinson had been her personal legal adviser for forty-odd years. And he didn't suffer fools gladly unless they were paying him--and paying him well.

'Been the family solicitor for years. I'll be frank with you, Miss Dobbs. I'm surprised to see you. Thought you were a chap. But Robinson knows his stuff, so let's continue.'

'Yes, let's, Mr. Davenham. Perhaps you would tell me why you are here.'

'My wife.'

Maisie's stomach churned. Oh, Lord, after all her training, her education, her successes with Maurice Blanche, had it come to this? A love triangle? But she sat up to listen carefully, remembering Blanche's advice: 'The extraordinary hides behind the camouflage of the ordinary. Assume nothing, Maisie.'

'And what about your wife, Mr. Davenham?'

'I believe . . . I believe her affections are engaged elsewhere. I have suspected it for some time and now, Miss Dobbs, I must know if what I suspect is true.'

Maisie leaned back in her chair and regarded Christopher Davenham squarely.'Mr. Davenham, first of all, I must tell you that I will have to ask you some questions. They may not be questions that are easy or comfortable for you to answer. I will have questions about your responses, and even questions about your questions. That is my job. I am unique in what I do. I am also unique in what I charge for my service.'

'Money is not a problem, Miss Dobbs.'

'Good. The questions may be, though.'

'Do continue.'

'Mr. Davenham, please tell me what personal evidence you have to suspect that your wife is betraying your marriage in any way?'

'Tuesdays and Thursdays, every week, without fail, she leaves the house immediately after I have departed for my office, and returns just in time to welcome me home.'

'Mr. Davenham, time away from the house is no reason for you to suspect that you are being deceived.'

'The lies are, though.'