James. Got the service record in my office now. Didn't know he called himself Major, though. I only heard him called Jenkins by James.'
'The men at The Retreat call him Major.'
'That's interesting. Jenkins was just a lieutenant.'
'Is there anything else there, Lord Julian? Any other anomalies?'
'Of course a service record is limited. He was discharged though, medical discharge.'
'Where to?'
'Craiglockhart.'
'Oh.'
'Yes. Right up your alley I'd say, Maisie. Mind you, he was a mild case, apparently. Of course I don't have a record of his treatment. Just the notes of his commanding officer. Says that he went gaga after a couple of chaps in his command deserted. Seems to have been an innocuous fellow, quite frankly. Got a commission based on need rather than any military talent, I would say, from the record. Officers were dropping like flies, if you remember. Well, of course you remember. Mind you, the chap's obviously got a business head on him, setting up this Retreat.'
'The men seem to adore him for what he's done there. Providing a place for them to go,' said Maisie.
'Yes, I've got to hand it to him. Now he's opened the doors to those who sustained other injuries. Like James. Bit like a monastery though, if you ask me, wanting people to sign over their assets. Mind you, if the idea is a place of refuge forever . . . .'
'Yes.'
'Shame, isn't it? That we only like our heroes out in the street when they are looking their best and their uniforms are 'spit and polished,' and not when they're showing us the wounds they suffered on our behalf. Well, anything else, m'dear?'
'No. I think that's all. Is there any chance that I might see--?'
'I'll have it sent down to Chelstone in the morning.'
'Thank you, Lord Julian. You've been most helpful.'
Maisie had spent most of that day at the dower house with Maurice, taking only a short break to visit Frankie Dobbs. She declined to sleep in the small bedroom that had always been hers at the groom's cottage, instead electing to remain by Maurice's telephone, just in case Billy needed her.Time and again she ran through the details of events and research information she had accumulated.
Adam Jenkins had lied about his status. But was it a lie, or had a man simply called him 'major' and it stuck? She remembered her grandfather, working on the Thames boats. People called him The Commander, but he had never been in the navy, never commanded anything. It was just a nickname, the source of which had been lost over the years. But how did Jenkins,'an innocuous little man,' assume such power? Billy had become a believer, and the men seemed to adore him. Was fear a factor? Was there a deeper connection between Vincent and Jenkins? And what about Armstrong Jenkins? Family member, or coincidence?
She had missed something. Something very significant. And as she reexamined, in her mind's eye, each piece of collected evidence that had led her to this place, she considered Maurice's words, and felt as if each day, all day, she was living in the moment before dawn broke. Maisie thought back, to that earlier dawn, more than ten years earlier. The beginning of the end, that was what it had been.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The time is drawing closer, is it not my dear?' Maurice asked her now. He looked at the grandfather clock, patiently tick-tocking the seconds away.
'Yes it is. Maurice, I want to take Billy out of The Retreat.'
'Indeed. Yes. Away from Jenkins. It is interesting, Maisie, how a time of war can give a human being purpose. Especially when that purpose, that power, so to speak, is derived from something so essentially evil.'
Maurice reached forward from his chair towards the wooden pipe stand that hung on the chimney breast. He selected a pipe, took tobacco and matches from the same place, and leaned back, glancing again at the clock. He watched Maisie as he took a finger-and-thumb's worth of tobacco from the pouch, and pressed it into the bowl of the pipe.
'Your thoughts, Maisie?'
Maurice struck a match on the raw brick of the fireplace, and drawing on the pipe, held the flame to the tobacco. Maisie found the sweet aroma pungent, yet this ritual of lighting and smoking a pipe soothed her. She knew Maurice to indulge in a pipe only when the crux of a matter was at hand. And having the truth revealed, no matter how harsh, was always a relief.
'I was thinking of evil. Of war. Of the loss of innocence, really. And innocents.'
'Yes. Indeed. Yes. The loss of that which is innocent. One could argue, that if it were not for war, then Jenkins--'
The clock struck the half hour. It was time for Maisie to leave to meet Billy Beale. Maurice stood, reaching out to the mantelpiece to steady himself with his right hand.
'You will be back at what time?'
'By half past eight.'
'I will see you then.'
Maisie left the cottage quickly, and Maurice moved to the window to watch her leave. They needed to say little to each other. He had been her mentor since she was a young girl, and she had learned well. Yes, he had been right to retire. And right to be ready to support her as she took on the practice in her own name.
'Billy. Good timing. How are you?'
