Maisie watched as Billy turned and walked through the field again. She walked back across the road, opened the car door, and sat down in the driver's seat, leaving the door ajar to watch Billy become but a speck in the distance.
Had she made a mistake? Had her gift, her intuition, played tricks on her? Were the deaths of Vincent--and the other boys who used only one name--suicide? Or simply coincidence? She sighed as she started up the MG again.
Maisie spent her days at Chelstone close to the telephone. She would pass a precious hour or two with her father each day, but quickly returned to the dower house in case she was needed. Together she and Maurice went over old cases for clues and inspiration, and speculated over the details of life at The Retreat.
'I would very much have liked to see the postmortem findings on our friend Vincent, and his colleagues.'
'I located the inquest proceedings, and it seems that they were all attributed to 'accidental death' in some form or another.'
'Indeed, Maisie. But I would like to inspect the details, to observe through the eyes of the examiner, so that hopefully I might see what he did not. Let's go back over the notes. Who conducted Vincent's postmortem?'
Maisie passed Maurice the report.
'Hmmm. Signed by the coroner, and not the attending examiner.'
Maurice stood up and walked around the room.
'To solve a problem, walk around,' he said, noticing her smile.
How often in the past had they worked together in this way, Maisie sitting on the floor, legs crossed in front of her, Maurice in his leather chair. He would get up, pace the floor with his hands together as if in prayer, while Maisie closed her eyes in meditation and breathed deeply, as she had been instructed years ago by Khan.
Suddenly Maurice stopped walking, and at almost the same moment, so close that neither would have been able to say who was first, Maisie came to her feet.
'What is it that you find so interesting about the reports, Maisie?'
She looked at Maurice.'It is not the actual contents of the report, Maurice. It is the lack of detail. There's nothing to go on, no loose threads. There's not the slightest particle of information for us to work with.'
'Correct. It is too clean. Far too clean. Let me see . . .' Maurice flipped the pages back.'Ah, yes. Let me telephone my friend the chief inspector. He should be able to help me.' He looked at the time, it was half past nine in the evening. 'Indeed, he should be delighted to help me--his interior will have been warmed by his second single malt of the evening.'
Maisie took her place on the cushion again and waited for Maurice. She heard his muffled voice coming from the room next door, the rhythm of his speech not quite English yet not quite Continental. The telephone receiver was replaced on the cradle with an audible thump, and Maurice returned.
'Interesting. Extremely interesting. It seems that the attending examiner in the case of Vincent, and likely also in the other cases, was on call in the early hours of the morning, with his duty ending at half past eight--and so was able to go to The Retreat immediately after he was summoned. He returned home after completing his cursory examination and writing a brief report. His name, Maisie, is Jenkins. Armstrong Jenkins. Something of a coincidence, I think. And the examination lists time of death at . . . let me see . . . yes, it was at five o'clock in the morning.'
'Dawn,' said Maisie.
Maisie leafed through the papers that she had spread across Maurice's desk. Her mentor came to her side.
'Maurice. They died at dawn. The time of death for each of the men buried at Nether Green is dawn.'
'An almost mystical hour, don't you think, Maisie?'
Maurice clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the window.
'A time when the light is most likely to deceive the eye, a time between sleep and waking. A time when a man is likely to be at his weakest. Dawn is a time when soft veils are draped across reality, creating illusion and cheating truth. It is said, Maisie, it is darkest just before dawn.'
'So there's still nothing much to tell you, Miss.'
Billy Beale stood with his hands in the pockets of his light sailcloth summer trousers, and kicked at the dry ground between his feet. He had been at The Retreat for only a week.
'Don't worry, Billy. It wasn't definite that you would find something. You're only going to be here a short time anyway. I just thought that some inside observations might be helpful.'
Maisie moved to stand next to Billy, and without his noticing, adopted the same stance. She was wearing trousers again, and a light cotton blouse, so it was easy for her to place her hands in her pockets, emulating Billy's pose exactly.
He's embarrassed about something, thought Maisie. There's something he doesn't want to tell me. As Billy moved in discomfort, so did Maisie. She closed her eyes and felt Billy's dilemma.
'And you think this Adam Jenkins is a good man, do you, Billy?'
Billy kicked at the ground again, and though his face was tanned from working on the land, she saw a deep blush move from his chin to his cheeks.
'Well, yes, reckon I do, Miss. And I feel awful, at times. After what 'e's done for them, 'ere I am sniffin' around for something nasty.'
'I can see how that might be difficult for you, Billy. You admire Adam Jenkins.'
'Yes. Yes, I admire the man.'
