'About bloody time, too! And talkin' about deserters, what's the connection with Vincent Weathershaw? Remember me finding out that there was something that went on with 'im?'
'Yes,' continued Maisie. 'From what we know, Weathershaw was disciplined because he complained about the practice of military execution. He was vocal about it too, upsetting higher-ups. He was injured before he could be stripped of his commission and courtmartialed for insubordination.'
Billy whistled between his teeth.'This gets worse.'
'It did for Weathershaw. He came to The Retreat in good faith, a terribly disfigured man. He had known something of Jenkins while in convalescence, but at The Retreat he found out about his reputation as a battlefield executioner. Vincent had put two and two together, so Jenkins decided he had to go. He'd suffered terrible depression, poor man, so accident or suicide was entirely believable.'
'Poor sod. What about this other Jenkins?'
'Cousin. We thought Armstrong Jenkins was a brother, but he's not, he's a cousin. Surprisingly, Adam Jenkins was not in it for the money. His reward was the sensation of control. King of all he surveyed, and with a legion of serfs who listened to his every word, and despite what they heard, adored him. And that is the part of the puzzle that is most intriguing.'
'Indeed,' said Maurice.'Most intriguing.'
'That despite the rumors, such as they were, and the demise of those who 'left' The Retreat, Jenkins was held in very high regard by the men.'
Billy blushed.
'An interesting phenomenon,' said Maurice.'Such control over a group of people. It is, I fear, something that we shall see again, especially in times such as this, when people are seeking answers to unfathomable questions, for leadership in their uncertainty, and for a connection with others of like experience. Indeed, there is a word to describe such a group, gathered under one all-powerful leader, taken from the practice of seeking answers in the occult. What Jenkins founded could be described as a cult.'
'This is givin' me the shivers,' said Billy, rubbing his arms.
Maisie took up the story again. 'Armstrong Jenkins was the one who persuaded his cousin to have the men sign over their assets. And for a man coming into The Retreat, so desperately unhappy that he would willingly cloister himself, it was not such a huge step. Armstrong held the purse strings. He came to this area to work as medical examiner when The Retreat opened. Like his cousin, his is a case of power laced with evil.'
'I'll say. Gaw blimey, that was close.'
'I made three telephone calls before our last meeting in the lane, and what I learned alerted me to the level of your danger. One was to the Maudsley, to speak to Adam Jenkins's doctor; one was to the county coroner, to confirm Armstrong Jenkins's history, and finally one to Maurice's friend, the Chief Constable, to inform him of my suspicions. It was his intention to begin an investigation of The Retreat the following day--but of course events overtook him. Billy, I wanted you to relinquish your task as soon as you told me that another man wished to leave The Retreat. But you were adamant.'
Billy met Maisie's eyes with his own. 'I told you, Miss, I didn't want to let you down. I wanted to do something for you. Like you and that doctor did for me. You never did it 'alf-'earted because you was all tired out. You had men linin' up all over the place, yet you saved my leg. When I got 'ome, the doc said it was the best bit of battlefield leg saving 'e'd ever seen.'
Tears smarted in Maisie's eyes. She thought the pain had ceased. She hated this tide of tears that came in, bidden by truth.
'And I know it's a bit off the subject, like, but I wanted to ask you somethin', and I . . . I dunno . . . I just felt you didn't want to talk about it, and who can blame you? But . . . what 'appened to 'im? What 'appened to that doctor?'
A strained silence fell upon the room. The excited explanation of events at The Retreat gave way to embarrassment. Maurice sighed, his brow furrowed, as he watched Maisie, who sat with her head in her hands.
'Look, I 'ope I ain't said anythin' wrong . . . I'm sorry if it was out of turn. It ain't none of my business, is it? I thought you were a bit sweet on each other, that's all. I remember thinking that. So I thought you'd know. The man saved my leg, probably even my life. But I'm sorry. Shouldn't 'ave said anythin'.' Billy picked up his jacket as if to leave the room.
'Billy. Wait. Yes. Yes, I should have told you. About Captain Lynch. It's only fair that you should know. After what you've done for me, it's only fair.'
Maurice moved to Maisie's side and took her hand in his. She answered Billy's question.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It seemed to Maisie that no sooner had she returned to the casualty clearing station, from her leave at home with Simon, than droves of injured were brought in. As day stretched into night, the few hours' sleep that Maisie managed to claim each night offered only a brief respite from the war.
'Did you remember to tie the scarf, Maisie?' asked Iris, referring to the cloth tied to the tent pole, which would indicate to the orderlies that the nurses inside were on the first shift to be called if wounded came in at night.
'Yes. It's there, Iris. 'Night.'
''Night, Maisie.'
Often Maisie would fall into a deep sleep immediately upon climbing into her cot. Time and again her dreaming mind took her back to Chelstone, walking toward her father in the orchard. Yet as she came closer to him, he moved away, reaching up to pick rosy red apples before moving on. She would call out to him, and he would turn and wave, but he did not stop, he did not wait for her. This Frankie Dobbs simply picked the deep red apples, placed them in his wicker basket, and moved through the long grass of late summer.
Such was the weight he carried, that rich red juice ran from the bottom of the basket, leaving a trail for her to follow. She tried to run faster, yet her long, heavy woolen dress soaked up the red juice, clung to her legs, and caught in the grass, and as the distance between them extended, Maisie cried out to him.'Dad, Dad, Dad!'
