A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [119]
And as she looked back towards the door, Maisie saw James Compton standing in the doorway.
“I can’t leave her alone at the flat, James,” whispered Maisie. “We must take her to Priscilla’s. Could you . . .”
“Yes, I’ll find a taxi—and I’ll let Priscilla and Douglas know—the telephone’s been reconnected downstairs. It’s Sandra, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Tell them we’ve found Sandra.”
Maisie did not trouble Sandra with questions. She could see that the young woman was beyond exhaustion, physically and emotionally, and that her spirit had been battered as if it were a ship in a storm. Now, in the guest room at Priscilla’s house, she helped Sandra into the bed and pulled up the sheets and counterpane, cocooning her so that she might sleep. She waited a moment, then tiptoed away, closing the door behind her. Priscilla was waiting for her on the landing.
“Maisie, you will stay for lunch, won’t you? Sandra isn’t the only one who looks as if she needs a rest—look at you, I bet you’ve been rushing about all over the place.”
“I’ve been busy, Pris. And I have to leave for Ipswich very soon.”
“Ipswich? Ips-bloody-wich! What are you going there for, and leaving that lovely man behind?”
Maisie put her finger to her mouth. “Shhhh. You’ll wake Sandra.”
They walked towards the staircase, but lingered there, still speaking in lowered voices.
“I tell you, Maisie, you’ll lose him if you carry on like this. I mean, it’s all very well to be working, if that’s what you want to do, but for heaven’s sake—that man adores you, and I know you feel the same way; you can’t fool me, you know. Can’t you stay just one day?”
Maisie could barely meet her friend’s eyes, so filled with concern. “I wish I could, but the sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be back again. James understands.”
“I think you’ll find there’s a distinction between understanding and tolerance. I don’t think he’ll be that happy about it for much longer.”
“He’ll surprise you, Pris.”
“I hope you’re right, my friend. I do hope you’re right.” They began making their way down the staircase. “You’ll stay for a quick lunch, then?”
“Yes, that would be nice.”
“We’ve some salmon in aspic, very nice with new potatoes and a salad. And cook made some freshly baked bread.”
“I could eat that—we didn’t have a moment for breakfast.”
Priscilla winked at her friend. “Didn’t we now?”
Maisie liked Priscilla’s dining room. It could have been so much more formal, and indeed, when they were entertaining on a larger scale, the room appeared very grand. But at other times, there always seemed to be something to indicate that this was a house where children lived and were not only loved by their parents, but enjoyed. A cricket bat might have been left behind a door, or a rugger ball under a side table. She had once discovered a muddy sock by the French windows, and it seemed there was a model airplane or an abandoned toy motor car to be found in almost every room. At intervals Priscilla was known to announce, “That’s enough! All toys to your room!” But such discipline was soon lost with her desire to have fun with her boisterous sons—a sentiment that most of their friends found incomprehensible, if not alarming.
“So, Maisie, what did you discover about Sandra’s foray into the world of cat burglary?” asked Priscilla.
“She didn’t tiptoe over any tiles, yet I wouldn’t have put it past her. But she was on the scent of the man who killed her husband, though he didn’t touch him with his own hands.”
“What happened?”
“First of all, it was my assistant who did most of the legwork, as I’ve been concerned with an assignment on behalf of another client. Essentially, here’s what happened. A man named William Walling—who appears respectable and businesslike enough but runs a fairly large criminal corporation and controls all sorts of rackets—had stepped up pressure on his people recently. Everything he’s done has been under the cover of a legitimate business, but like many such men, he has a protection operation—shopkeepers