'Go on.' Maisie wrote in her notebook without taking her eyes off Davenham, a skill that unnerved him.
'She has told me that she has been shopping, visiting friends or her mother--and upon investigation I find that if such visits have occurred, they have taken only an hour or so. Clearly they are a smokescreen.'
'There are other possibilities, Mr. Davenham. Could your wife, perhaps, be visiting her physician? Is she undertaking a course of study? What other reasons for her absences have you explored in your investigations, Mr. Davenham? Such absences may have a completely innocent explanation.'
'Miss Dobbs. Surely that is for you to find out? Follow her, and you will see that I am right.'
'Mr. Davenham. To follow a person is an invasion of the right of that individual to privacy. If I take on this case--and I do have a choice in the matter--I am taking on more than the question of who did what and when. I am taking on a responsibility for both you and your wife in a way that you may not have considered. Tell me, what will you do with the information I provide?'
'Well, I . . . I'll use it. It will be a matter for my solicitor.'
Maisie placed her hands together in front of her face, just touching her nose, as if in prayer.'Let me ask you another question. What value do you place on your marriage?'
'What sort of question is that?'
'A question to be answered, if I am to take on this investigation.'
'A high value. Vows are meant to be honored.'
'And what value do you place on understanding, compassion, forgiveness?'
Davenham was silent. He crossed his legs, smoothed the tweed trousers, and leaned down to rub away a nonexistent scuff on his polished leather shoes, before responding.'Damn and blast!'
'Mr. Davenham--'
'Miss Dobbs, I am not without compassion, but I have my pride. My wife will not divulge the nature of her business on those days when she is absent. I have come here in order to learn the truth.'
'Oh yes. The truth. Mr. Davenham, I will ascertain the truth for you, but I must have an agreement from you-- that when you have my report, and you know the truth, then we will discuss the future together.'
'What do you mean?'
'The information I gather will be presented in a context. It is in light of that context that we must continue our discussion, in order for you and your wife to build a future.'
'I'm sure I don't know what you mean.'
Maisie stood up, walked to the window, then turned to face her potential client. The bluff of the stiff upper lip, thought Maisie, who keenly felt the man's discomfort, and was immediately attuned to his emotions. Intuition spoke to her. He talks about pride when it's his heart that's aching.
'My job is rather more complex than you might have imagined, Mr. Davenham. I am responsible for the safety of all parties. And this is so even when I am dealing with society's more criminal elements.'
Davenham did not respond immediately. Maisie, too, was silent, allowing him time to gather his resolve. After some minutes the stillness of the room was broken.
'I trust Robinson, so I will go ahead,' said Davenham.
Maisie moved back to the desk, and looked down at her notes, then to the rooftops where pigeons were busy returning to newly built nests, before she brought her attention back to the man in the leather chair before her.
'Yes, Mr. Davenham. I will, too.' Maisie allowed her acceptance of the case to be underlined by another moment of silence.
'Now then, let's start with your address, shall we?'
CHAPTER THREE
Maisie rose early on Tuesday, April 9. She dressed carefully in the blue skirt and jacket, pulled a navy blue wool overcoat across her shoulders, placed a cloche on her head, and left her rented room in a large three-story Victorian terraced house in Lambeth, just south of the Thames. It was cold again. Blimey, would spring ever spring up? she wondered, pulling gloves onto already chilled fingers.
As usual Maisie began her morning with a brisk walk, which allowed her time to consider the day ahead and enjoy what her father always called 'the best of the morning.' She entered Palace Road from Royal Street, and turned right to walk toward Westminster Bridge. She loved to watch the Thames first thing in the morning. Those Londoners who lived just south of the river always said they were 'going over the water' when they crossed the Thames, never referring to the river by name unless they were speaking to a stranger. It had been the lifeblood of the city since the Middle Ages, and no people felt the legacy more keenly than those who lived with it and by it. Her maternal grandfather had been a lighterman on the water, and like all of his kind, knew her tides, her every twist and turn.
Londoners knew she was a moody creature. Human beings possessed no dominion over the Thames, but care, attention, and respect would see any vessel safely along her meandering way. Maisie's grandfather had all but disowned her mother when she had taken up with Maisie's father, for he was of the land, not that Frankie Dobbs would have called the streets of London 'the land.' Frankie was a costermonger, a man who sold vegetables from a horse-drawn cart that he drove from Lambeth to Covent Garden market every weekday morning. To Frankie Dobbs the water was a means to an end, bringing fruit and vegetables to market, for him to buy in the early hours of the morning, then sell on his rounds and be home by teatime, if he was lucky.
Maisie stopped at the center of the bridge, waved at the crew of a pilot boat, and went on her way. She was off to see Celia Davenham, but Celia Davenham would not see her.
Once across the bridge, Maisie descended into the depths of Westminster underground railway station and took the District Line to Charing Cross station. The station had changed names back and forth so many times, she wondered what it would be called next. First it was Embankment, then Charing Cross Embankment, and now just Charing Cross, depending upon which line you were traveling. At Charing Cross she changed trains, and took the
