"First you lift your bonnet, like so."

George waited for Maisie to nod her head in understanding before continuing with his instructions, and as he turned his attention once again to the MG, she grinned with amusement at his preening tutorial.

"Right. See this--you turn on your fuel. Got it?"

"Yes, George."

George closed the engine cover, and indicated for Maisie to move away from the side of the car so that he could sit in the driver's seat.

"You set your ignition, you set your throttle, set your choke--three moves, got it?"

"Got it, George."

"You push the starter button--on the floor, Miss--with your foot and--"

The engine roared into life, perhaps somewhat more aggressively than usual, given the enthusiasm of George's lesson.

"There she goes."

George clambered from the seat, held open the door, and, with a sweep of his hand, invited Maisie to take his place.

"Think you've got all that, Miss?"

"Oh yes, George. You explained everything very clearly. As you say, it's very straightforward. A lovely motor."

"Oh, nice little runner, to be sure. 'Cording to them at Morris Garages, this one can do sixty-five miles an hour--up to fifty in the first twenty-five seconds! 'Er ladyship goes out of 'ere like a shot out of a gun, doesn't know where she's going, but goes like a shot anyway. Comes back all red in the face. Worries me with them gears though. Talk about crunch! Makes me cringe when I 'ear it. Thank 'eavens for us all that she don't get out in it much anymore. Now, then, sure of your way?"

"I'm sure, George. Down the Old Kent Road, and just keep on from there, more or less. I've done that journey many a time when I was younger."

"'Course, you was at Chelstone, wasn't you? Mind you, if I were you, I'd go out onto Grosvenor Place, then along Victoria Street, over Westminster Bridge, St. George's Road, and just the other side of the Elephant and Castle. . . ."

"I think I can remember the way, George, and thank you for the advice."

George walked around to the back of the MG and dropped Maisie's bag into the car's rear luggage compartment, while she made herself comfortable in the rich claret leather seat. He checked once again that her door was closed securely before standing back and giving her a mock salute.

Maisie returned the wave as she eased the smart crimson motor car out into the mews. It wasn't until she was across the Thames and past the Elephant and Castle that Maisie felt she could breathe again. At every turn she sat up straight and peered over the steering wheel, making sure that each part of the vehicle was clear of any possible obstruction. She had learned to drive before returning to Cambridge in 1919, but took extra care as it had been quite some time since she'd had an opportunity--although she did not want to admit as much to George. In fact, she did not change from first gear until she was well out of George's hearing, fearing a dreadful roaring as she reacquainted herself with the intricacies of the double-de-clutch maneuver to change gear.

It was a fine day in early June, a day that seemed to predict a long hot summer for 1929. Maisie drove conservatively, partly to minimize chances of damage to the MG and partly to savor the journey. She felt that she only had to smell the air and, blindfolded, she would know she had arrived in Kent. And no matter how many times she came back to Chelstone, every journey reminded her of her early days and months at the house. As Maisie drove, she relaxed and allowed her mind to wander. Memories of that first journey from the house in Belgravia came flooding back. So much had happened so quickly. So much that was unexpected yet, looking back, seemed so very predictable. Ah, as Maurice would say, the wisdom of hindsight!

Drawing to a halt at the side of the road to pull back the roadster's heavy cloth roof, Maisie stood for a moment to look at the medley of wildflowers that lined the grass verge. Arrowheads of sunny yellow charlock were growing alongside clumps of white field mouse-ear, which in turn were busily taking up space and becoming tangled in honeysuckle growing over the hedge. She leaned down to touch the delicate blue flower of the common speedwell, and remembered how she had loved this county from the moment she first came to work for the dowager. It was a soft patchwork-quilt land in which she found solace from missing her father and the Belgravia house.

Maisie had decided already that the day in Kent should become a two or three day excursion. Lady Rowan had given her permission to keep the car for as long as it was needed, and Maisie had packed a small bag in case she chose to stay. The hedgerows, small villages and apple orchards still full of blossom, were working their magic upon her. She stopped briefly at the post office in Sevenoaks.

"I'm looking for a farm, I think it's called The Retreat. I wonder if you might be able to direct me?"

"Certainly, Miss."

The postmaster took a sheet of paper and began to write down an address with some directions.

"You might want to be careful, Miss."

Maisie put her head to one side to indicate that she was listening to any forthcoming advice. "Yes, Miss. Our postman who does the route says it's run like a cross between a monastery and a barracks. You'd've thought that the blokes in there had seen enough of barracks, wouldn't you? There's a gate and a man on duty--you'll have to tell him your business before he'll let you in. They're nice enough, by all accounts, but I've heard that they don't want just anyone wandering about because of the residents."

"Yes, yes indeed," said Maisie, taking the sheet of paper. "Thank you for your advice."

The sun was high in the sky by the time Maisie came out of the post office, and as she touched the door handle of the MG it was warm enough to cause her to flinch. Pay attention, Maurice had always cautioned her. Pay attention to the reactions of your body. It is the wisdom of the self speaking to you. Be aware of concern, of anticipation, of all the feelings that come from the self. They manifest in the body. What is their counsel?

If those from the outside were questioned, albeit in a nonthreatening manner, when they entered, how might it be for the residents, the men who had been ravaged by war, in their coming and going? Maisie decided to drive on toward Chelstone. The Retreat could wait until she had seen Maurice.

Frankie Dobbs put the MG away in the garage and helped Maisie with her bags. She would stay in the small box room at the groom's cottage, which had once been her bedroom and was now always made up ready for her to visit, even though such visits were few and far between.

"We don't see enough of you, Love."

"I know, Dad. But I've been occupied with the business. It's been hard work since Maurice retired."

"It was 'ard work before 'e retired, wasn't it? Mind you, the old boy looks as if 'e's enjoyin' 'avin' a bit of time to 'imself. He comes in 'ere to 'ave a cup of tea with me now'n again, or I'll go over to see 'is roses. It surprised me, what 'e knows about roses. Clever man, that Maurice."

Maisie laughed.

"I have to go over to see him, Dad. It's important."

"Now then, I'm not stupid. I know that I'm not the only reason for you comin' all this way. Mind you, I 'ope I'm the main reason."

"'Course you are, Dad."

Frankie Dobbs finished brewing tea and placed an old enamel mug in front of Maisie, then winked and went to the cupboard for his own large china cup and saucer. As he brought some apple pie out of the larder, Maisie poured tea for them both.

"Maisie. You are lookin' after yourself, aren't you?"

"Yes, Dad. I can take care of myself."

"Well, I know that this work you do is sometimes, well, tricky like. And you're on your own now. Just as long as you're careful."

"Yes, Dad."

Frankie Dobbs sat down at the table with Maisie, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper and secured with string. "Anyway, I was in the 'ardware shop last week, talking to old Joe Cooke--you know 'ow that man can jaw--and, well, I saw this little thing. Thought it might come in 'andy, like, for you. Natty, innit?"

Maisie raised an eyebrow at her father, wondering if he was teasing her. With nimble fingers, she pulled away the string and opened the paper to reveal a shining new stainless-steel Victorinox pocket knife.

"Old Joe said it was a bit odd, buying a thing like this for me daughter, like, but I said, 'Joe, let me tell you, a daughter on 'er own can make more use of a thing like this, with them little tools, than any of them lads of yours.' In any case, y'never know when it might be just the thing you need, 'specially if you're runnin' all over in that motor."

"Oh, Dad, you shouldn't go spending money on me." Maisie pulled out each tool in turn, then looked at the closed knife in the palm of her hand. "I'll keep it with me all the time, just in case." Maisie slipped the knife into her bag, leaned across the table to kiss her father on the cheek, then reached for her tea.

Father and daughter laughed together, then sat in companionable silence drinking tea and eating apple pie, comfortable with only the heavy tick-tock of the grandfather clock for company. Maisie was thinking about The Retreat, and how she would present the story to Maurice.

Years of working with Maurice had helped Maisie prepare her answers to some of his questions, like a chess player anticipating the moves in a game. But she knew that the ones likely to be most difficult were those that pertained to her own past.

Frankie Dobbs interrupted Maisie's thoughts.

"So, that MG. Nice little motor, is it? What's she like on the corners?"

After tea Maisie walked though the gardens and down to the dower house. Maurice had been invited to use the house after the dowager's death, in 1916, and he had purchased the black-and-white beamed home in 1919. After the war, like many landowners of the day, the Comptons decided to sell parts of the estate, and were delighted when the much-loved house became the property of a friend. The gardens had suffered during the war as groundsmen left to enlist in the army, and land that had lain fallow was requisitioned to grow more produce. At one time it was feared that Chelstone Manor itself would be requisitioned to house army officers, but thankfully, given Lord Julian's work with the War Office, together with the fact that the fifteenth-century ceilings and winding staircases rendered the building unsuitable for such use, the manor itself was spared.

Though Maurice officially became resident at the dower house in 1916, he was hardly seen throughout the war years, and came to Chelstone for short periods, usually only to rest. The staff speculated that he had been overseas, which led to even more gossip about what, exactly, he was doing "over there." Maurice Blanche had become something of an enigma. Yet anyone watching him tend his roses during the scorching summer of 1929, as Maisie did before opening the latched gate leading to the dower house garden, would think that this old man wielding a pair of secateurs and wearing a white shirt, light khaki trousers, brown sandals, and a Panama hat, was not one for whom the word "enigma" was appropriate.

Maisie hardly made a sound, yet Maurice looked up and stared directly at her immediately she walked through the gate. For a minute his expression was unchanged, then his face softened. He smiled broadly, dropped the secateurs into a trug, and held both hands out to Maisie as he walked toward her.

"Ah, Maisie. It has taken you a long time to come to me, yes?"

"Yes, Maurice. I need to talk to you."

"I know, my dear. I know. Shall we walk? I'll not offer you tea, as your dear father will have had you swimming in the liquid by now."

"Yes. Yes, let's walk."

Together they passed through the second latched gate at the far end of the garden, and then walked toward the apple orchards. Maisie unfolded the story of Christopher Davenham, of his wife, Celia, the poor departed Vincent, and how she had first heard about The Retreat.

"So, you have followed your nose, Maisie. And the only 'client' in the case is this Christopher Davenham?"

"Yes. Well, Lady Rowan is a sort of client now, because of James. But we always took on other cases, didn't we? Where we felt truth was asking for our help."

"Indeed. Yes, indeed. But remember, Maisie, remember, truth also came to us as individuals so that we might have a more intimate encounter with the self. Remember the Frenchwoman, Mireille--we both know that my interest in the case came from the fact that she reminded me of my grandmother. There was something there for me to discover about myself, not simply the task of solving a case that the authorities could not begin to comprehend. Now, you, Maisie, what is there here for you?" Maurice pointed a finger and touched the place where Maisie's heart began to beat quickly. "What is there in your heart that needs to be given light and understanding?"

"I've come to terms with the war, Maurice. I'm a different person now,"Maisie protested.

The two walked on through the apple trees. Maisie was dressed for the heat and wore a cream linen skirt, with a long, sailor-collared linen blouse and a cream hat to shield her sensitive skin from the beating sun, yet she was still far too warm.

When they had walked for more than an hour, Maurice led them back to the dower house and into the cool drawing room. The room was furnished tastefully, with chairs covered in soft green floral fabrics of summer weight. Matching curtains seemed to reflect the abundant garden, with foxgloves, hollyhocks, and delphiniums framing the exterior of the dower house windows. As the winter months drew in, the light materials would be changed, with heavy green velvet drapes and chair covers bringing a welcome warmth to the room. For now the room was light and airy, and bore the faint aroma of potpourri.

Some indication of Maurice's travels was present, in the form of artworks and ornaments. And if one went into Maurice's study, adjacent to the drawing room, there were two framed letters on the wall, from the governments of France and Britain, thanking Dr. Maurice Blanche for his special services during the Great War of 1914-18.

"I am expecting a visitor this evening, for sherry and some reminiscences. The Chief Constable of Kent, an old friend. I will ask him about this Retreat, Maisie. I believe and trust your instincts. Go there tomorrow, proceed with the plan you have outlined to me, and let us speak again tomorrow evening after dinner--no doubt you will dine with your dear father--and let us also look again at your notes, to see what else speaks to us from the pages."

Maisie nodded agreement. A feeling of anticipation and joy welled up inside her as she realized how very lonely it had been working without Maurice. Before she left the house, Maurice insisted that Maisie wait for one minute.

"A new book. I thought you might be interested. All Quiet on the Western Front. It has just been published. You have no doubt read reviews and commentary about it."

Maisie raised an eyebrow, though she would never ignore a recommendation from Maurice Blanche.

"Remember, Maisie, while there is always a victor and a vanquished, on both sides there are innocents. Few are truly evil, and they do not need a war to be at work among us, although war provides them with a timely mask."

"Yes, I suppose you are right there, Maurice. I'll read it. Thank you.

And I'll see you tomorrow when I get back from The Retreat."

As Maisie turned to walk down the path and across the garden to the stables and groom's cottage, Maurice stopped her.

"And Maisie, when you visit The Retreat, consider the nature of a mask. We all have our masks, Maisie."

Maisie Dobbs held the book tightly in her hand, nodded, and waved to Maurice Blanche.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

On a bright sunny day The Retreat seemed truly to live up to its name, a place that would afford one sweet respite from the cares of the world. As she drew up to the Gothic cast-iron gate with a pillar of rough stone at either side, Maisie could see through the railings to the sun-drenched farm beyond. The road leading from the entrance to the front of the house was dusty, causing a rippled haze of heat to work its way up toward a blue sky dotted with only a few lintlike clouds.

In the distance she could see a large medieval country farmhouse fronted by apple orchards. A high brick wall restricted further inspection of The Retreat, but as she regarded the subject of her investigation and imagination, she noticed in front of her the pink and red blooms of roses that had grown furiously upward on the other side of the wall, and now seemed to be clambering toward her, to freedom. Each bloom nodded up and down in the breeze, and in that moment the wave of roses reminded Maisie of the men who scrambled from a mud-soaked hell of trenches over the top and into battle. Bleeding from their wounds, millions of young men had died on the sodden ground and barbed wire of no-man's land.

Maisie closed and opened her eyes again quickly, to extinguish the images that presented themselves so readily in her mind's eye and had been haunting her since she had torn at the weeds on Don's grave at Nether Green Cemetery. She reminded herself that she could not afford to be distracted or influenced by her memories.

Maisie was leaning back against the MG's door, looking up at the gates, when a man walked through a smaller pedestrian entrance built into the wall."Can I help you, Ma'am?"

"Oh yes indeed. Is this The Retreat?"

"Yes it is. And what might your business be here today?"

Maisie smiled at the man and approached him. He was tall and thin, with hair that seemed to be gray before its time. She was about to reply when she saw the long, livid scar running from his forehead across his nose and down to his jaw. There was no left eye where the left eye should have been, not even a glass one. The socket was laid bare, defiantly. And as Maisie looked into the right eye of the disfigured man, she saw that he dared her to turn away. She met the man's gaze directly.

"I have written but have received no reply, so I decided to visit without an appointment. It's about my brother. I understand that he might stay here, at The Retreat, until he is healed."

And remembering how Celia Davenham so delicately touched her own face when speaking of Vincent's wounds, Maisie brought her fingers to her left cheek, mirroring the unseen pain of the wounded man before her. He visibly took a deep breath, and waited a second before replying."You've come to the right place, Ma'am. Wait here and I'll be back in ten minutes. Mr. . . . er . . . Major Jenkins is who you need to see, and I'll have to get permission."

Maisie nodded, smiled, and said she would be glad to wait. He hurried back through the pedestrian entrance and, taking a bicycle that had been leaning on the other side of the wall, raced along the driveway toward the house. Maisie squinted to watch as the man, now a speck in the distance, stood the bicycle by a door at the side of the house, then ran inside. Five minutes later the speck came running out of the door, took up the bicycle, and grew larger in her vision as he neared the front gate once more.

"You can come in to meet with Major Jenkins, Ma'am. I'll open the gate for you. Drive slowly to the front of the house, and park your motor by the big fallen tree on the gravel there. Major Jenkins is waiting for you."

"Thank you, Mr. . . ."

Maisie held her head to one side, seeking a name.

"Archie, Ma'am."

"Thank you, Mr. Archie. Thank you."

"Actually, it's just Archie, Ma'am. We don't use surnames here."

"Oh, I see. Thank you, Archie. Is 'Jenkins' the major's Christian name?"

The man's face reddened, except for the scar, which became pale as the surrounding skin heated.

"No. 'Jenkins' is the major's surname."