Maisie Dobbs

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."

"Ah," said Maisie, "I see."

Maisie started the MG and drove to the gravel by the fallen tree as instructed. As she applied the handbrake, the door of the car was opened by a man who wore beige jodhpurs, a white shirt, and tall leather riding boots, and carried a baton.

"Miss Dobbs, I understand. I'm Major Jenkins."

Maisie took the hand offered to balance her as she got out of the car. Jenkins was of average height and build, with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and pale skin that did not seem to match his hair and eye coloring. His hair was so neatly swept back that ridges left by his comb reminded Maisie of a freshly ploughed field. She quickly regarded his face, looking for the scars of war, but there were none. None that were visible.

"Thank you, Major Jenkins. No doubt Archie told you why I am here. Perhaps you could tell me more about The Retreat."

"Indeed. Do come to my office, and we'll have tea and a talk about what we are trying to do here."

Jenkins sat in the Queen Anne chair opposite Maisie, who was seated in an identical chair. Tea had been brought earlier by Richard, another man who seemed not yet to be thirty, who had worked hard to mouth words of greeting to Maisie, his shell-blasted jawbone moving awkwardly as he made an enormous effort to physically frame the voice that came forth from his throat.

For her part Maisie did not draw back from the men at The Retreat, although she was sure she was not seeing those with the more devastating wounds. She had seen such wounds when freshly shattered bone and skin still clung to the men's faces, and scars were the best outcome to be hoped for.

"I read about it, in fact," said Jenkins,"then went over to France to have a look for myself. It seemed that these French chappies had a cracking good idea--provide a place of refuge for the men whose faces were altered, or taken, by war. It was certainly not the easiest thing to get going especially as, just after the war, many of the men here had such terrible injuries."

"What happened to them?"

"Frankly, for some it was just too much--bad enough having the wounds in the first place, but being young and having the girls turn away, not being able to go out without people staring, that sort of thing. To tell you the truth, we lost some--but of course we were their last chance of a bearable life anyway."

Jenkins leaned forward to offer Maisie a biscuit, which she declined with a wave of her hand. He nodded and set the plate down on the tray again.

"Of course, for most of our guests, being here helps. The men have no fear of sitting out in the sun, enjoying life outside. The physical work is good for them. Makes them feel better about themselves. No sitting around in bath chairs and blankets here. We go into Sevenoaks to the pictures occasionally--it's dark in the picture house, no one can see."

"And how long does a patient stay here?"

"Not 'patient,'Miss Dobbs. 'Guest.'We call them guests."

"What about the first names only, Major Jenkins?"

"Ah yes. Reminds them of better times, before they became pawns in the game of war. Millions of khaki ants clambering over the hill and into oblivion. The familiarity of using Christian names only is in stark contrast to the discipline of the battlefield, of this terrible experience. Relinquishing the surname reminds them of what's really important. Which is who they are inside, here." He held his hand to the place just below his rib cage to indicate the center of his body. "Inside. Who they are inside. The war took so much away."

Maisie nodded accord and sipped her tea. Maurice had always encouraged judicious use of both words and silence.

"Now then. Your brother?"

"Yes, Billy. He wasn't injured facially, Major Jenkins. But he walks with some difficulty, and has been so very . . . very . . . unwell. Yes, unwell, since the war."

"Commission?"

"Commission, Major Jenkins?"

"Yes, is he a captain, a second lieutenant?"

"Oh. Actually, Billy was a soldier, a corporal when he was injured."

"Where?"

"The Battle of Messines."

"Oh God. Poor man."

"Yes. Billy saw more than enough. But then they all saw more than enough, didn't they, Major Jenkins? Major Jenkins, why is Billy's rank important?"

"Oh, it's not important, really. Just enables me get a sense of what he might have experienced."

"And how might that have been different for Billy than for, let's say yourself, Major?"

"It's just that we have found that men have different experiences of recovery."

"Are you a doctor?"

"No, Miss Dobbs. Simply a man who wanted to do some good for the men who gave their identity for the good of the country and returned to a people who would rather see their heroes walking tall or at best limping, than reflecting the scars caused by our leaders' ill-conceived decisions."

Maisie took another sip of tea and nodded. It was a fair comment.

She left The Retreat thirty minutes later after a tour of the premises. She had been escorted to her car by Jenkins, who watched as she made her way to the gate at a very sedate five miles per hour, the gravel crackling under the tires like sporadic gunfire.

Archie waited for her, touched his forehead in a partial salute as she approached, and leaned down toward her open window as she drew alongside him.

"So, what do you think? Will your brother be joining us, Ma'am?"

"Yes. Yes I think so, Archie. I believe it would do him a power of good."

"Righty-o. We'll look forward to seeing him, then. Hold on while I open the gate."

Maisie waved as she pulled out onto the road, the roses once again nodding in the breeze as Archie waved her on her way.

While she hadn't flinched or drawn back from his wounds, Maisie felt the discomfort of Archie's injury. The sun shone through the windshield of the MG, its heat and brightness causing her eyes to smart and a sharp pain to move from the socket of her left eye to a place on her forehead. The body empathizing with another's pain, thought Maisie. The subconscious mind alerting her to Archie's agony, though she had been successful in appearing to ignore the scar and empty eye socket.

Maisie didn't go far. Stopping once again in Westerham, she sat on a bench in the old churchyard, took the notebook out of her handbag, and began to write an account of her visit.

A walk through the grounds of The Retreat accompanied by Major Jenkins had revealed very little to her that she did not already know, only now she was familiar with the extent of the house, where the "guest" rooms were, and how the farm worked.

There were twenty-five guests living in the main house and an old oasthouse, no longer used for drying hops--Kent's most famous harvest. Though converted to living quarters years before, the oast-house still bore the strong peppery aroma of warm hops.

The youngest man she met must have been thirty, which meant that he had been shipped to France at about age seventeen. The eldest was no more than forty years of age. Questioning Jenkins, Maisie had learned that although the guests were free to come and go at will, most remained, comfortable in the freedom from stares The Retreat afforded them.

Though the farm was to a large extent self-sufficient, each guest entrusted his personal savings to The Retreat, to draw upon for expenses beyond those of day-to-day living, and to contribute to the cost of helpers. If the farm's produce was bringing in a tidy sum, and providing much of the food, the pooled savings must have earned interest and amounted to a pretty penny in someone's bank account. The thought troubled Maisie.

The needs of the guests seemed to be few. There was no doctor on staff to provide for the physical care of those living with such terrible wounds, and no seasoned professional used to dealing with the emotional needs of those traumatized by war. Some of the men still wore the tin masks that had been provided for them when first recovering from their wounds. But the fine glaze used on tin molded to fit a face ten years younger now provided little respite from the mirror's reflection.

Maisie questioned Jenkins's approach. True, it seemed a benevolent idea, and she knew how successful the "holiday camps" had been in France, providing a resting place for wounded men struggling to return to peacetime life. But if The Retreat had been inspired initially by the success of an idea born of compassion, what fuel drove the engine now? The war was almost eleven years past. Then again, those who lived with its memory were still very much alive.

What about Jenkins? How and where had he served? Clearly the men at The Retreat were troubled as a result of their wounds and their memories. But Jenkins's soul was a troubled in a way that was different. Maisie suspected that his wounds lay deep within.

James would soon be going to The Retreat, so she had to act quickly. It was time to go back to London. Archie thought that The Retreat would do her "brother" a world of good. She wondered how Billy Beale would feel about his newfound siblinghood, and if, in a month, he would feel as if time in the country had done him a power of good.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"So what you think is that this Jenkins fella is getting up to no good down there at this Retreat 'e's set up?"

Billy Beale sat in the chair in front of Maisie Dobbs, his hands working around and around the fabric on the perimeter of his cap, which he had taken off when he came to answer Maisie's call. Maisie had lost no time in telling Billy Beale why he had been summoned, and how she needed him to help her."

"Yes, I do, Billy. I would only need you to be there for a week, no, let's say two weeks. To let me know what is happening, what you see."

"Well, you've come to the right person if you want someone what's willing. But I'm not sure I'm your man. Not as if I'm a toff, to mix with the likes of them."

"Billy. You don't need to be a toff. You just need to have some money--"

"And that's even bloomin' funnier. Money--the likes of me!"

"It's taken care of, Billy. As soon as you are accepted as a guest at The Retreat, a sum will be moved from your bank account to Major Adam Jenkins's account."

Billy Beale looked at Maisie and winked."And I bet I know who's got me a bank account I never 'ad before in me life."

"Yes. It was arranged today."

Suddenly Billy was quiet. He looked again at his cloth cap, and sat with obvious discomfort in the too-small chair opposite Maisie's desk. It was the end of another humid day in London:The summer of 1929 was breaking records for lack of rain, and for heat.

"I'd do anything for you, Miss. I said that when you moved in 'ere to run yer business. I've seen you work all hours 'ere. And I've seen 'ow you 'elp people."

Billy tapped the side of his nose in his usual conspiratorial fashion.

"What you do isn't what you'd call regular. I can see that. And if this 'elps someone, then I'm your man. Like I said before. You 'elped me Miss, when you weren't more than a girl. I remember."

"It could be risky, Billy. I believe this Jenkins is a troubled man, and possibly a dangerous one."

"No. Don't you worry about me. You've explained it all very well. I understand what's involved, Miss. And it won't take me long to set up a line for us, soon as I get the lay of the land. Now then. Let's look at that map again. Mind you--"

Billy rose to look down at the map that Maisie had spread out on the table.

"Just as well the missus is taking the nippers down to 'er sister's in 'astings. You reckon we leave tomorrow?"

"The sooner the better, Billy. Let's go over the plan again, and the story. We'll leave for Chelstone tomorrow. We'll be meeting with Maurice Blanche in the afternoon. He has been seeking some additional information for us from one of his contacts."

"And who might that be, if I may ask?"

"The Chief Constable of Kent."

"Bloody 'ell . . ."

"Quite, Billy. Now then, William Dobbs, we expect a letter from The Retreat to arrive at Chelstone by Friday, so we can drive over on Saturday. The other gentleman I told you about, who must not see me or know that I am involved in anything to do with The Retreat, will be taking up residence in just a few weeks. I hope to have this . . . this . . . investigation concluded by that time."

"Right you are, Miss. I'd better be getting 'ome then. Got to pack me ol' kit bag again, for the good of me country."

"Dr. Blanche has arranged for your clothes, Billy."

"It wasn't clothes I was going to pack, Sis," said Billy, with an impish smile,"You don't mind if I call you Sis, get used to it, like? I need to pack the other bits and pieces of kit that I'll be needing for this job."

Maisie looked up at Billy Beale and smiled.

"This is good of you, Billy. You were the only person I could ask. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Your help will not go unrewarded."

"It already 'as been rewarded. Been getting a bit bored around 'ere anyway. I need a change."

Maisie lingered for a while in the office before leaving, closing the door behind her, and making her way along the hallway to another unmarked door. Here she took a key from her pocket and entered the room. Home. She had moved a few weeks before, when it was clear that she needed to be closer to her work. The bed-sitting room was small, but all that she required was within the walls of this room. And when she needed some respite from the dour familiarity of such spartan accommodations, there was usually an invitation to stay at Ebury Place, or she would go down to Chelstone, to spend time in the calm and comforting company of her father.

"There. Reckon I've got everything."

Billy Beale placed one more bag in the luggage compartment of Lady Rowan's car, and stood to watch Maisie, who was securing her navy blue beret with a long pearl-tipped pin. Her corduroy jacket had been thrown around the shoulders of the driver's seat, giving the impression of a rather stout old man who had just sat down. An observer might have considered the young woman "fast," for today Maisie was wearing a pair of long beige cuffed trousers, with a linen blouse and brown walking shoes. Maisie looked at her watch and took her place in the driver's seat of the MG.

"Good. Not too late. We'd better get a move on. We need to be at Chelstone by noon."

Billy Beale hesitated.

"What is it, Billy?"

"Nothing really, Miss . . . it's just that . . ." He took the cap from his head and looked up at the sky."It's just that this is the first time I've left London since I got back from the war. Couldn't face it. O' course the missus 'as been away with the nippers. Been down to Kent with 'er people 'op-picking, and o' course to 'er sister's in 'astings. But not me, Miss."

Maisie said nothing, made no response. She understood the power of reflection well, and as she had done with Celia Davenham just a few short weeks before, she made no move to soothe Billy Beale, allowing him the time he needed to step into the car.

"But you never know, at least I might get a good night's sleep down there in the country." Still he hesitated.

"What do you mean, Billy?"

Maisie shielded her eyes from the morning sun as she looked up at him.

Billy sighed deeply, took a breath, opened the car door, and sat down on the passenger seat. The claret leather of the hardly used seat creaked as Billy moved to make himself comfortable.

"Just can't sleep, Miss. Not for long anyway. 's'bin like that since I got 'ome from France. That many years ago. Soon as I close my eyes, it all comes back."

He looked into the distance as if into the past.

"Blimey, I can almost smell the gas, can 'ardly breathe at times. If I fall asleep straight away, I only wake up fighting for breath. And the pounding in my 'ead. You never forget that pounding, the shells. Mind you, you know that, don't you, Miss?"

And as he spoke, Maisie remembered her homecoming, remembered Maurice taking her again to see Khan, who seemed never to age. In her mind's eye she saw herself sitting with Khan and telling her story, and Maurice sitting with her.

Khan spoke of bearing witness to the pain of another's memories, a ritual as old as time itself, then asked her to tell her story again. And again. And again. She told her story until, exhausted, she had no more story to tell. And Maisie remembered Khan's words, that this nightmare was a dragon that would remain alive, but dormant, waiting insidiously to wake and breathe its fire, until she squarely faced the truth of what had happened to Simon.

"You all right, Miss?"

Billy Beale placed a hand on Maisie's shoulder for just a second.

"Yes, yes, I was just thinking about what you said, Billy. So what do you do when you cannot sleep?"

Billy looked down at his hands and began pulling at the lining of his cap, running the seam between the forefinger and thumb of each hand.

"I get up, so's not to wake the missus. Then I go out. Walking the streets. For hours sometimes. And you know what, Miss? It's not only me, Miss. There's a lot of men I see, 'bout my age, walking the streets. And we all know, Miss, we all know who we are. Old soldiers what keep seeing the battle. That's what we are, Miss. I tell you, sometimes I think we're like the waking dead. Livin' our lives during the day, normal like, then trying to forget something what 'appened years ago. It's like going to the picture 'ouse, only the picture's all in me 'ead."

Maisie inclined her head to show understanding, her silence respectful of Billy's terrible memories, and of this confidence shared. And once again she was drawn back, to that year in the wards after her return from France, working to comfort the men whose minds were ravaged by war. Small comfort indeed. Yet for every one who could not bring his mind back from the last vision of a smoke-filled hell, there were probably dozens like Billy, living now as good father, good husband, good son, good man, but who feared the curtains drawn against darkness, and the light extinguished at the end of the day.

"Ready, Billy?" Maisie asked when Billy put the cap firmly back on his head.

"Reckon I am, Miss. Yes, I reckon I am. Do me the world of good will this, Miss. Bein' useful like."

They spoke little on the journey to Kent. Occasionally Maisie asked Billy questions as they drove along the winding country roads. She wanted to make doubly sure that he understood everything that was required of him. Information. She needed more information. A feel for the place. How did it work when you were on the inside? Was anything amiss?

She spoke to him of intuition, abbreviating the teaching she had received from Maurice and Khan many years before.

"You must listen to the voice inside, Billy," said Maisie, placing her hand to her middle. "Remember even the smallest sensation of unease, for it could well be significant."

Billy had been quick to learn, quick to understand that his impressions were important, just as relevant as facts on a page. As Maisie knew from their first meeting, Billy Beale was sharp, an acute observer of circumstances and people. He was just what she needed. And he was willing.

But was it fair to draw Billy into her work? If she thought that Vincent's death was questionable, was it right to involve Billy? Then again, he would not be at The Retreat for long. And they would be in daily contact. She had promised Maurice that as soon as she had gathered enough information, she would refer her findings to the authorities--if what she found required it.

Maisie knew that her curiosity was drawing both Billy and herself deeper into the mystery of Vincent. And even as she drove she closed her eyes briefly and prayed for the confidence and courage to face whatever was hidden in the darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Maisie parked the motorcar outside the dower house and led Billy into Maurice Blanche's home, to introduce her old teacher to her new assistant, and to have lunch together before she and Billy proceeded to The Retreat.

They talked about The Retreat, and Billy added weight to Maisie's earlier deliberations about the naming of this place where the wounded of a war over ten years past still sought refuge.

"O' course, it might not be just The Retreat, you know, as in gettin' away from it all into shelter. There's 'The Retreat,' in't there? You know, the bugle call at sunset. S'pose you'd 'ave to be an army man to know that, eh? Like 'retreating from a position' as well. That's what we should've done many a time--would've saved a few lives, and that's a fact."

Maisie set down her knife and fork and nodded thoughtfully.

The Retreat, the ultimate play on words to describe a place for the wounded. But what happened if someone wanted to retreat, as it were, from The Retreat?

"Maisie, while you are visiting your father, before you and Mr. Beale--or perhaps I should say 'Dobbs' to get him used to the name--anyway, before you depart for The Retreat, I will walk with Mr. Beale in the meadow, just beyond the orchard."

Maisie knew that this was not a chance suggestion, and watched the two men walk toward the meadow, heads together in conversation, the younger man ever so slightly ready to steady the older man lest he falter. If only he knew, she thought, how much the old man feared the faltering of the younger.

As soon as they returned, Maisie took Billy to The Retreat, but before entering, she drove around the perimeter of the estate and parked under the shade of a beech tree.

"It's a retreat all right, innit, Miss? Pity they don't allow visitors for the first month. Wonder what they'll say when I tell them I'm out after two weeks? Prob'ly be a bit upset with me, eh, Miss?"

Billy surveyed the landscape, the fencing, the road, and the distances between landmarks.

"Look, 'ere's what I think. No point trying to get all fancy here, rigging up lines to, y'know, communicate. Why don't I just meet you at the same time every evening, by that bit of fence there, and tell you what I know."

"Well, Billy, it seemed as if we had a good plan, for your safety, that is."

"Don't you worry about me. From what you've said, I don't think I'm that important to the likes of them. I'm just your average bread and butter, aren't I? No big legacies being signed over or anything."

Billy smiled at Maisie and pointed toward the fields between the large house in the distance, and the road.

"Tell you the truth, looking at this landscape now, it's best if we don't mess around with telephone lines coming too near the 'ouse. Draw more attention. No one's goin' to question an old soldier what wants to go off by 'imself for a jaunt of an evenin'. But they might question an old sapper fiddling around with a telephone line in the dark. And you know, Miss, I might be good at that sort of thing, but I never did say I was invisible. And I can't run like I used to, not with the leg 'ere." Billy slapped the side of his leg for emphasis. "But 'ere's what I can do now. I can rig up a line to that telephone box we just passed back there, on the corner as you leave the 'amlet back there. I 'ad a quick look as we drove by--not that I 'ad much time, what with the speed and all--"

Maisie grimaced at Billy, who continued. "It's one of them new ones, a Kiosk Number Four, I think. They 'ave em in places where there ain't no post office--did y'see? It's got a stamp machine on the back, and a pillar-box for letters. Sort of all purpose--mind you, me mate what works on the things says that the stamps get soggy when it rains, and then they all stick together and make a right old mess. So, anyway, getting' back to me and the old lines 'ere, if I need to get 'old of you urgent, like, or if I'm in an 'urry to get out of 'ere, I can always jump through this fence--well, sort of jump, what wiv the leg and all--and use the box and line what I rig up to connect with the outside line at that box up the road. D'you see what I mean, Miss? Then I'll run like a nutter, bad leg an' all!"

Maisie laughed nervously. "Right you are, Billy, I think I follow you. It sounds like a good idea."

Billy opened the car door, pulled himself out of the low seat, and walked around to the luggage compartment. He carefully took out two large old canvas kit bags and placed them on the ground. Taking out spools of cable, "small, so's I can work with them on me own," Billy walked over to the ditch at the base of the perimeter fence.

Moving aside grasses and wildflowers growing innocently at the side of the road, Billy began to unwind the cable into the ditch, moving away from Maisie, who remained in the car. It was a quiet thoroughfare, so they had little to fear from passing traffic, but nevertheless, country folk were apt to be inquisitive about two strangers lingering on the road. Especially if one were seen unraveling cable.

Maisie got out of the car and walked over to the fence, looking out over the land belonging to The Retreat. The perimeter fence, six feet tall and topped with barbed wire, would merge into a stone wall just half a mile along in the opposite direction to the line being laid out by Billy. The main gate was situated another half mile away from the beginning of the wall. Eventually Billy returned.

"Nicely done, and quick too. Managed to save meself some work by using the bottom wire of this 'ere fence." Billy pulled back the grass to point to the wire in question. "I hear that's what they've done over there in America, y'know--used the fences on farms to make connections between places, like." Billy pushed back his cap, and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead."Stroke of luck it bein' there--the telephone--see more of them in the towns, don't you? S'pose it's used by them what live in the terraced cottages in the 'amlet. I tell you, no one will see that line, mark my words."

Billy caught his breath, and for the first time Maisie heard the wheezing that revealed gas-damaged lungs. "You shouldn't be running like that, Billy."

"I'm awright, Miss. Now to this end." Billy held up a telephone receiver."The old 'dog and bone,' Miss. We used to say in the trenches that them as is on the end of the line only bloomin' 'ear 'alf of what's said--and then only what they want to 'ear anyway. Personally, meself, I reckon it's a poor old situation when you 'ave to make out a person's intentions from their voice in a tin cup."

Billy worked on as he spoke, wiring the receiver to a metal box he placed in the ditch before leaning in and connecting lines. He picked up the receiver, turned the dial, and listened. The operator responded at his request for a connection, charges to go to the recipient of the call, and put him through to Maurice's telephone number. They spoke briefly before Billy replaced the receiver on its cradle.

"I know it's not perfect, and it takes a bit o' time, but it might come in 'andy, you never know."

After ensuring that their makeshift telephone was hidden and secure, Billy then cut into the wire of the perimeter fence, forming a "door" through which he could escape, should escape become necessary. He secured the door with spare wire to camouflage the fact that the fence had been tampered with.

The first part of their task finished, Maisie and Billy loaded up the motor car again and drove slowly toward the main entrance to The Retreat. They said little, only speaking to confirm the time at which they would meet each evening.

Billy would take a solitary stroll at seven o'clock, which would bring him to the fence by the large beech tree at half past seven. Maisie would be waiting to meet with him for just a few moments, then he would make his way back to the main house. In all other dealings with the residents of The Retreat, there was to be nothing about him that could be remarked upon. He was to be invisible but for the bed he slept in and the food he consumed. But he was to watch, and listen and report back to Maisie.

"Welcome back to The Retreat, Miss Dobbs," said Archie as he opened the gate.

He walked toward the car, leaned down so that his face was alongside the passenger window, and addressed Billy.

"William, isn't it? The major is waiting to welcome you personally to The Retreat."

Billy Beale took the proffered hand and seemed not to see the terrible scars that had changed Archie's countenance forever. Maisie nodded to Archie, and moved the car slowly along the driveway.

"Poor bleedin' bugger--oh, I am sorry, Miss--I forget meself at times. Least I can get about and no one worries about a bit of a limp. Blimey, that poor fella, with that face. Not that I 'aven't seen worse. Just not seen it for a long time, not close up. That's all."

Maisie slowed the car even more."Billy, if you have any doubts--"

"Not likely," said Billy, straightening his shoulders. "If there's any funny business going on here that can cause any more damage to these blighters, then I want to do my bit to stop it."He paused to look at Maisie."Can't blame them for wanting to get away, can you?"

"No, you can't. But there's a lot that can be done for them now."

"Not when you've been through what they've been through. Just want to be left alone 'alf the time, I should think, never mind being messed around with by newfangled ideas of skin medicine and what 'ave you."

The car drew alongside the main building as Adam Jenkins, the major, came through the front door and down the steps toward them.

"Ah, William. Welcome to The Retreat. I am sure you will be comfortable here. Come into my study for tea, then we can get you settled later."

Adam Jenkins led the way, his white shirt once again crisply laundered, leather riding boots polished to a blinding shine, and not a hair out of place. He invited Maisie and Billy to take a seat, standing behind Maisie's chair to hold it for her, then indicating, with a nonchalant sweep of his hand, the seat by the window for Billy.

How strange, thought Maisie, that he should direct Billy to a seat that took the full strength of the late-afternoon sun, rays that would cause Billy to become hot and uncomfortable, and to have to shield his eyes with the hand that he would need to reach out for the teacup as it was offered to him. Strange to unsettle a person so.

Billy met Maisie's look and raised an eyebrow. He knows, thought Maisie. He knows that Jenkins has placed him by the window on purpose.

Ten minutes of seemingly purposeless conversation had been exchanged between Jenkins and Maisie. As befitting his character-- the tired veteran of a war over ten years past--Billy was silent. And hot. Maisie looked at Billy again. She saw the perspiration on his brow, his discomfort as he ran the forefinger of his right hand along the edge of his shirt collar.

Jenkins suddenly directed his attention away from Maisie, toward Billy. "My dear man. How remiss of me. How utterly stupid. Move over to this other chair and into the cool of the room immediately."

Jenkins put down his cup and used one hand to beckon Billy away from the window seat, and the other to indicate another seat.

Interesting, thought Maisie. A small gesture, but a subtle and significant one. Was it a ploy to begin to inspire Billy's trust? Placing himself immediately in the role of savior, and of one prepared to acknowledge a mistake. Or was Adam Jenkins genuinely admitting an error of judgment? Was this opening of his outstretched arms a move to render Billy more comfortable in another seat, an act of genuine concern? Or was it perhaps a deliberate action to draw Billy into his circle of admirers? Arms spread wide to bring him within the force of his influence.

Maisie watched Jenkins carefully, while attending to the business of afternoon tea. In her work with Maurice, Maisie had learned much about the charm and charisma of the natural leader, which, taken to an extreme, can become dictatorial and vindictive. Was Adam Jenkins such a man? Or an enlightened and concerned soul?

"Well, it's time to get some pawprints on the page, don't you think?" said Jenkins. He glanced at his watch, stood up, and walked over to a large heavily carved desk. The top was covered in rich brown leather, and only one plain manila file sat waiting for attention on top of a wooden board. He opened the file, checked the papers within, took a fountain pen from the inside pocket of his light linen jacket, and returned to the chair next to Maisie.

"We have received the necessary documents--thank you, Miss Dobbs--pertaining to the financial arrangements." He turned to Billy. "And I know you completely understand the commitment we request upon taking up residency at The Retreat, William. Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to sign here."

He placed the papers on the wooden board to provide a stable writing surface, and passed them to Billy, tapping the place for signature with his forefinger.

After Billy carefully wrote "William Dobbs" in the space indicated, Jenkins rang the bell for an assistant to escort Billy to his quarters, and as he did so, Billy winked at Maisie. Yet when Jenkins turned back to the two supposed siblings, he saw only the blank resignation of the man, and the worry etched in the face of his sister. But Maisie's concern was no act. She was worried for Billy. She had to ensure that he was at The Retreat not a moment longer than necessary.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Maisie waited anxiously at Maurice Blanche's cottage. Billy had been at The Retreat for three days, and each evening at seven o'clock, Maisie set off in Lady Rowan's MG, along country lanes filled with the lingering aroma of Queen Anne's Lace and privet, to meet Billy Beale by the perimeter fence, across the road from the ancient beech tree.

Each evening, with summer midges buzzing around her head, she watched as Billy approached. First she would see his head, bobbing up and down in the distance, as he walked across the fallow fields of tall grass. Then as he came closer, his wheaten hair reflected the setting sun, and Maisie wondered why no one noticed Billy Beale taking a walk each evening.

"Evenin', Miss," said Billy as he curled back the fence wire and clambered through.

"Billy, how are you?" As always, Maisie was both relieved and delighted to see Billy."You've caught the sun, Billy," she remarked.

"Reckon I 'ave at that, Miss." Billy rubbed at his cheeks. "All this working on the land, that's what's done it."

"And how is it, the working on the land?"

"'Not bad at all, Miss. And it seems to do these lads good. You should see some of them. Seems that they were right down in the dumps when they came 'ere. Then slowly, like, the work and the fact that no one looks twice at them starts to give them the, you know, the sort of confidence they need."

"Nothing unusual, Billy?"

"Can't say as there is, Miss. O' course, not that I can go around asking questions, but I keep my eyes open, and it seems like it's all on the up and up. The major is a funny bloke, but 'e's doing 'is bit, i'n'e? And now that there's space 'ere, what with some fellas gone, they're taking other blokes, with other injuries, not just to the face and 'ead, like. But you know that, don't you, otherwise I wouldn't be 'ere, not with this fine lookin' physog."

Billy grinned at Maisie and rubbed his chin.

"Quite, Billy. So is everyone happy there?"

"I should say so, Miss. Not much to dislike, is there? Mind you, there is one bloke, has some terrible scars on his face, just 'ere."

Billy turned his head to the right, and with the forefinger of his left hand indicated a line going from his ear, to his jaw, then to his chest. He grimaced, then continued.

"I think 'e's 'ad enough of being out 'ere--says that he feels good and well enough to get back to the real world."

"And what does the major say to that?"

"I don't know that 'e's said anything, Miss. I think they like 'em to give it some thought, you know, them as wants to leave."

"What makes you say that? What would stop someone from just leaving? It's in the contract that you can leave when you want."

"Well, what I've 'eard is that some blokes get back their confidence and next thing you know, they want to go back out, face the world. Then when they get back out, they find that it ain't all that rosy, that they get the stares an' all. Apparently that's 'appened a few times, and the blokes topped themselves."

"Is that what you've heard, Billy?"

"'ere and there. You 'ear talk. They think that this fella, who's wanting to get back to what 'e calls the 'real world,' is worrying the major. Seems the major has said 'e's . . . What was it 'e was supposed to 'ave said?"

Billy closed his eyes and scratched the back of his head. As he did so, Maisie saw the red sunburn at his neck, the farm laborer's "collar."

"That's it. The major 'as said 'e's suspectible."

"Do you mean susceptible, Billy?"

Billy smiled again."Yes, reckon that's it, Miss."

"Anything else, Billy?"

"Not really, Miss. The major seems a really good bloke, Miss. I don't know what 'appened to those fellas you found out about. P'raps they left and then was the type what couldn't stand up to bein' on the outside. But I will say this. There's blokes 'ere what love the major, you know. Think 'e's a lifesaver. And I s'pose 'e is really, when you think about it. Given some boys a way of life since the war, boys who thought they 'ad none."

Maisie noted Billy's comments on index cards and nodded her head. Slipping the cards and the pencil into her work-worn black document case with the silver clasp, she looked directly at Billy.

"Same time tomorrow evening, Billy?"

"Yes, Miss. Although, Miss . . . can we make it a bit earlier? 'bout 'alf past six? Some of the boys are 'aving a snooker tournament. Like to give it a go if I can. Join in with a bit of fun, like."

Maisie was silent for some seconds before replying."Right you are, Billy. But keep your eyes open, won't you?"

"Don't worry, Miss. If there's anything funny goin' on 'ere I'll find out all about it."

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."

"That's good, Billy."

Maisie turned to face Billy and with the intensity of her gaze compelled him to look back at her.

"That's good. That you admire the man. It'll make your time here easier, and what I ask you to do easier."

"'ow do you mean?"

"Just go about your business, Billy. Just go about doing what you have to do here. You don't have to do anything other than be yourself. Although I do request two things:That we keep to our evening meetings, that's one. The other is that you take care to maintain your assumed name. Do not give anything away. Is that clear?"

Billy relaxed as Maisie spoke to him, and nodded his head.

"I just want to know about your days. That's all, Billy. Then next week I'll come and collect you. In fact, I'll come tomorrow if you want."

"No. No, miss. I'll stay on as we agreed. Don't expect I'll find anything, though. These 'ere meetings might get a bit boring."

Maisie nodded her head, and continued to mirror Billy's movements with her own.

"Just one more thing, Billy. About the man who wanted to leave. Remember, you told me about him? What's happened to him?"

"Can't say as I've seen 'im for a day or so. Mind you, that's not unusual, if one of the fellas wants to 'ave a bit of time alone. Like they do."

Billy stopped speaking, kicked his feet at the ground, then looked up at Maisie.

"What is it, Billy?"

"Just a thought, though. So keen to leave, 'e was. End of the month, 'e said. Wouldn't think 'e wanted any time to 'imself, now I come to think about it."

Maisie made no move to agree or disagree. "Like I said, Billy. You don't need to go snooping around. Just meet me here every day."

"Right you are, Miss. Now then. Best be going, before I'm missed."

Maisie waited a second before responding to Billy's movement toward the fence.

"Billy . . ."

"Yes, Miss?"

With his good knee bent, ready to go through the hole in the fence, Billy turned to meet Maisie's direct stare.

"Billy. Don't you think that someone would understand that you just needed some time to yourself--if you're back a bit late, that is?"

"Oh, they might do, Miss," Billy replied thoughtfully. Then with a wink added,"But not when I'm due to defend my snooker title in 'alf an hour."

Maisie smiled as Billy climbed through on to the other side of the fence, and secured the wire. But instead of going back to the car, she remained in the same place to watch Billy Beale once again walk across the fields, back to his temporary life at The Retreat.

"Oh, please don't worry about the car, my dear. Heavens above, I can't even drive the thing, not with my hip at the moment. Besides, I think your need is greater than mine, and you are working in my interests."

Maisie had been holding the telephone receiver away from her ear while Lady Rowan spoke, but brought the receiver closer to reply.

"Thank you. I was worried. But I should have it back to you by the middle of next week."

"Right you are. Now, tell me. What's happening? James is due to leave for The Retreat in ten days. And heaven knows he won't be spoken to about anything. Not even to his father. I swear he hasn't been the same since that girl--"

"Yes, Lady Rowan. I know."

"And if it weren't for you, I would be absolutely frantic."

"Lady Rowan, may I speak to Lord Julian please?"

"Yes, yes . . . I know, I am just about to become tedious. He's in his study. I'll just nip next door to get him. Won't wait for Carter, it would take all day."

Maisie smiled. It would probably take a while for Lady Rowan to walk next door to the study to get Lord Julian. She hadn't been able to "nip" anywhere for some time.

Eventually, she heard Lord Julian Compton's voice. "Maisie, what can I do for you?"

"Lord Julian. In confidence."

"Of course."

"I wonder if you could help me with some information that I believe you may be able to obtain for me from your former contacts at the War Office."

"I'll do what I can--what do you need, Maisie?"

"Jenkins. Major Adam Jenkins. I need to see his service record, if at all possible."

"I've already obtained it, m'dear. Didn't like the sound of this Retreat business when I heard about it from 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?"

"Doin' awright, Miss. Yourself?"

Without responding to his question, Maisie continued with her own.

"Any news?"

"Well, I've been thinking a bit and keeping my eyes open."

"Yes."

"And I've noticed that the fella who wanted to leave ain't around."

"Perhaps he's left, gone home."

"No, no. Not in the book."

"What book?"

"I found out there's a book. By the gatehouse. Records the ins and outs, if you know what I mean. Took a walk over to 'ave a word with old Archie the other day, and it looks like the bread delivery is all that's gone on in a week."

"And Jenkins?"

"Chummy as ever."

"Billy, I think it's time for you to leave."

"No--no, Miss. I'm safe as 'houses. Sort of like it 'ere, really. And no one's looking twice at me."

"You don't know that, Billy."

"One more night, then, anyway. I want to find out where this fella's gone. I tell you, I keep my eyes peeled, like I said, and one minute 'e's there and the next 'e's not. Mind you, there is someone in the sick bay."

"And who tends the sick bay?"

"Well, there's a fella who was a medic in the war, 'e does all your basic stuff, like. Then this other fella came up today. In a car, doctor's bag and all. I was working in the front garden at the time. Dead ringer for Jenkins actually. Bit bigger, mind. But you could see it round 'ere." Billy rubbed his chin and jaw. "'round the chops."

"Yes. I know who that is,"Maisie whispered as she wrote notes on an index card.

"What, Miss?"

"No. Nothing. Billy, listen, I know you think that Jenkins is essentially a good man, but I fear that you may now be in some danger. You are an innocent person brought into my work because I needed information. That must change. It's time for you to leave."

Billy Beale turned to Maisie and looked deeply into her eyes."You know, Miss, when we first met, when I said I'd seen you before, after that shell got me leg. Did you recognize me?"

Maisie closed her eyes briefly, looked at the ground to compose herself and then directly at Billy. "Yes. I recognized you, Billy. Some people you never forget."

"I know. I told you, I would never forget you and that doctor. Could've 'ad my leg off, 'e could. Anyone else would've just chopped the leg and got me out of there. But 'im, that doctor, even in those conditions, like, 'e tried to do more."

Billy gazed out across the land to The Retreat.

"And I know what 'appened. I know what 'appened after I left. 'eard about it. Amazing you weren't killed."

Maisie did not speak but instead slowly began to remove the pins that held her long black hair in a neat chignon. She turned her head to one side and lifted her hair. And as she drew back the tresses, she revealed a purple scar weaving a path from just above her hairline at the nape of her neck, through her hair and into her scalp.

"Long hair, Billy, hides a multitude of sins."

His eyes beginning to smart, Billy looked toward The Retreat again, as if checking to see that everything was still in its place. He said nothing about the scar, but pressed his lips together and shook his head.

"I'll stay 'ere until tomorrow, Miss. I know you need me to be at this place at least another day. I'll meet you 'ere at half past seven tomorrow, and I'll 'ave me kit bag with me. No one will see me, don't you worry."

Billy did not wait for Maisie to respond, but clambered back through the fence. And as she had each evening for more than a week now, Maisie watched Billy limp across the field to The Retreat.

"I'll be here," whispered Maisie. "I'll be here."

Maisie did not go to bed, and was not encouraged to do so by Maurice. She knew that the time of reckoning could come soon. Yes, if Jenkins was to make his move, it would be now. If not, then the investigation would lie dormant; the file would remain open.

She sat on the floor, legs crossed, watching first the night grow darker, then the early hours of the morning edge slowly toward dawn. The clock struck the half hour. Half past four. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes. Suddenly the telephone rang, its shrill bell piercing the quiet of the night. Maisie opened her eyes and came to her feet quickly. Before it could ring a second time, she answered the call.

"Billy."

"Yes. Miss, something's goin' on down 'ere."

"First, Billy--are you safe?"

"No one's seen me leave. I crept out, kept close to the wall, came straight across the field and through the fence to the old dog 'n' bone 'ere."

"Good. Now--what's happening?"

Billy caught his breath. "I couldn't sleep last night, Miss. Kept thinking about, y'know, what we'd talked about."

"Yes, Billy."

Maisie turned to the door as she spoke and nodded her head to Maurice, who had entered the room dressed as he had been when he had bidden her goodnight. He had not slept either.

"Anyway. 'bout--well, blimey, must 've been over 'alf an hour ago now--I 'eard a bit of a racket outside, sounded like a sack bein' dragged around. So, I goes to the window to see what's what."

"Go on, Billy. And keep looking around you."

"Don't you worry, Miss, I'm keepin' me eyes peeled. Anyway, it was 'im, bein' dragged away down the dirt road."

"Who?"

"The fella that wanted to leave. Could see 'im plain as day, in the light coming from the door."

"Where does the dirt road lead to--the quarry?"

"Yes, Miss. That's right."

Maisie took a deep breath.

"Billy, here's what you are to do. Go into the hamlet. Keep very close to the side of the road. Do not be seen. There may be someone else coming from that direction heading for The Retreat. Do not let him see you. Meet me by the oak tree on the green. Go now."

Maisie replaced the receiver. There was no time to allow Billy Beale another question before ending the call.

Maurice handed Maisie her jacket and hat and took up his own. She opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced by Maurice's raised hand.

"Maisie, I never, ever said that you were too young for the many risks you have taken. Do not now tell me to stay at home because I am too old!"

Billy clambered out of the ditch and stretched his wounded leg. Kneeling had made him sore, and he rubbed at his cramped muscles. The sound of a breaking twig in the silence of the early morning hours, as leaves rustled in a cool breeze, made him snap to attention. He remained perfectly still.

"Now I'm bleedin' 'earin' things," whispered Billy into the dawn chill that caught his chest and forced his heart to beat faster, so fast he could hear it echo in his ears.

"Like waitin' for that bleedin' whistle to go off for the charge, it is."

Billy took his bag by the handle and slung it over his shoulder. Looking both ways, he began to cross the road to take advantage of the overhanging branches that would shield him as he made his way along the lane into the hamlet. But as he moved, his leg cramped again.

"Blimey, come on, come on, leg! Don't bleedin' let me down now."

Billy tried to straighten his body, but as he moved, his war wounds came to life, shooting pain through him as he tried to take a step.

"I'm afraid you've let yourself down, William," a man's voice intoned.

"Who's that? Who's there?" Billy fell backward, his arms flailing as he tried to regain balance.

Adam Jenkins stepped out of the half-light in front of Billy. Archie stood with him, together with two other longtime residents of The Retreat.

"Desertion is what we call it. When you leave before your time."

"I just, well, I just wanted to 'ave a bit of a walk, Sir," said Billy, nervously running his fingers through his hair.

"Well, a fine time to be walking, William. Or perhaps you prefer 'Billy?' A fine time for a stroll."

Jenkins signaled to Archie and the other men, who pinioned Billy's hands behind his back and tightly secured a black cloth across his eyes.

"Desertion, Billy. Terrible thing. Nothing worse in a soldier. Nothing worse."

Maisie drew up alongside the oak tree in the hamlet of Hart's Lea. There was no sign of Billy.

"Maurice, he's not here," said Maisie, as she swung the car in the direction of The Retreat, and accelerated."We've got to find him."

Maisie drove at high speed along the lane to The Retreat, scanning the side of the road as she maneuvered the car. Beside her Maurice was silent. Abruptly she swung the car onto the verge by the beech tree and got out. Kneeling on the verge, she ran her fingers over the rough ground. In the early light of morning, she could see signs of a scuffle.

Yes, they had Billy.

Maurice climbed out of the car, with some difficulty, and joined Maisie.

"I must find him, Maurice. His life is in danger."

"Yes, go, Maisie. But I would advise that this is the time--"

Maisie sighed,"Of course, you're right, Maurice. Over here I think we might be in luck."

Lowering herself into the ditch on the other side of the road, near the perimeter fence of The Retreat, Maisie reached down, and pulled up Billy's makeshift telephone.

"Thank God! They didn't find it--they must have arrived just after he replaced the receiver. I'm not really sure how you--"

"Go now, Maisie. I will see to it. I may be old, but such things are not beyond the scope of my intelligence."

Maisie rushed over to the MG, opened the door, and took out the black jacket that Maurice had handed her when they left the house. Pulling on the jacket, Maisie was about to close the door of the car, when she stopped and instead reached behind the driver's seat for her bag. She hurriedly took out the new Victorinox knife, slipped it into the pocket of her trousers, and closed the car door. Maisie crossed the road, pausing only to touch Maurice's shoulder with her hand, before pulling back the wire and squeezing through the hole in the fence. She ran quickly across the field, aided by the grainy light of sunrise.

At first Maisie took care to step quietly past the farm buildings, but soon realized that they were deserted, a fact that did not surprise her. "He will probably want to set an example to the residents," Maisie had said to Maurice as they left the dower house."He'll have an audience. An 'innocuous' little man would love an audience."

Maisie squinted at the silver watch pinned to the left breast pocket of her jacket. The watch that to this day was her talisman.Time had survived with her, but now time was marching on. Billy was in grave danger. She must be quick Within minutes she reached the quarry, and as she ran, the memories cascaded into her mind. She must get to him. Simon had saved him, and so must she. She must get to Billy.

She slowed to a walk and quietly crept into the mouth of the quarry, keeping close to the rough sandstone entrance so that she would not be seen. Maisie gasped as she scanned the tableau before her. A sea of men were seated on chairs, facing a raised platform with a wooden structure placed upon it. With their damaged faces, once so very dear to a mother, father, or sweetheart, they were now reduced to gargoyles by a war that, for them, had never ended. There were men without noses or jaws, men who searched for light with empty eye sockets, men with only half a face where once a full-formed smile had beamed. She choked back tears, her blue eyes searching for Billy Beale.

As the rising sun struggled against the remains of night, Maisie realized that the wooden structure was a rough gallows. Suddenly, the men's faces moved. Maisie followed their gaze. Jenkins walked toward the platform from another direction. He took center stage, and raised his hand. At his signal Archie and another man came toward the platform, half guiding, half dragging a blindfolded man between them. It was Billy. As she watched, Billy--jovial, willing Billy Beale--who surely would have given his life for her, was placed on his knees in front of the gallows, and held captive in the taut hangman's noose. It would need only one sharp tug from the two men working in unison to do its terrible work.

The audience stood unmoved, yet in fear; their eyes, behind the terrible deformities war had dealt them, showing terror. And in that dreadful moment when she thought that the strong, fast legs that had borne her to this place had become paralyzed, Maisie was haunted by the past and present coming together as one. She knew that she " must take action, but what could stop this madness immediately, without the men rising up against her--such was Jenkins's control over them--and without risking Billy's immediate death? "Fight like with like," she whispered, remembering one of Maurice's lessons, and as she uttered the words, a picture flashed into her mind, a memory, of being on the train with Iris, of watching the soldiers as they marched off to battle, singing as they beat a path to death's door. There was no secret route along which she could stealthily make her way to Billy's side. She had only one option. For just a second Maisie closed her eyes, pulled her shoulders back, and stood as tall as she could. She breathed deeply, cleared her throat, and began to walk slowly toward the platform. For Billy she must be a fearless warrior. And as the men became aware of her presence, she looked at their faces, smiled kindly, and began to sing.There's a rose that growsIn No-Mans' LandAnd it's wonderful to seeThough it's sprayed with tearsIt will live for yearsIn my garden of memory . . .

As she gained on the platform, now keeping her eyes focused on Jenkins, Maisie heard a deep resonant voice join her own. Then another voice echoed alongside her, and another, until her lone voice had become one with a choir of men singing in unison, their low voices a dawn chorus that echoed around the quarry.It's the one red roseThe soldier knowsIt's the work of the Master's hand'Mid the war's great curse,Stands the Red Cross NurseShe's the Rose of No-Man's Land . . .

Maisie banished all fear as she stood on the ground below Jenkins. Dressed in the uniform of an officer who had served in the Great War, he stood with eyes blazing. She avoided looking at Billy, instead meeting Jenkins's glare while ascending the steps to the platform. The men continued to sing softly behind her, finding solace in the gentle rhythm of a much-loved song. Standing in front of Jenkins, she maintained eye contact. Her action had silenced him, but in mirroring his posture, she knew of his inner confusion, his torment, and his pain. And in looking into his eyes, she knew that he was mad.

"Major Jenkins . . ." She addressed the officer in front of her, who seemed to regain a sense of place and time.

"You can't stop this, you know. This man is a disgrace to his country," he pointed his baton towards Billy."A deserter."

"By what authority, Major Jenkins? Where are your orders?"

Jenkins's eyes flashed in confusion. Maisie heard Billy groan as the rope cut into his neck.

"Has this man received a court-martial? A fair trial?"

Voices murmured behind her as Jenkins's audience, the wounded "guests" of The Retreat, began to voice dissent. She had to be in control of each moment, for if one word were out of place, the men could easily become an angry mob--dangerous not only to this mind-injured man in front of her but to Billy and herself.

"A trial? Haven't got time for trials, you know. Got to get on with it! Got a job to do, without having to tolerate time wasters like this one." He pointed his baton at Billy again, then brought it to his side and tapped it against his shining leather boots.

"We do have time, Major." Maisie held her breath as she took her chance. Billy had begun to choke. She had to make her bravest move.

Though Maurice had cautioned Maisie in the use of touch, he had also stressed the power inherent in physical connection: "When we reach to place a hand on a sore knee or an aching back, we are really reaching into our primordial healing resources. Judicious use of the energy of touch can transform, as the power of our aura soothes the place that is injured."

"Major Jenkins," said Maisie, in a low voice."It's over. . . the war is over. You can rest now . . . you can rest. . . ."And as she whispered the words, she raised a hand, stepped closer to him, and instinctively held her palm against the place where she felt his heart to be. For a moment there was no movement as Jenkins closed his eyes. He began to tremble, and with her fingertips Maisie could feel him struggle to regain control of his body--and his mind.

The onlookers gasped as Jenkins began to weep. Falling to his knees, he pulled his Webley Mk IV service revolver from its holster and held the barrel to his head.

"No," said Maisie firmly, but softly, and with a move so gentle that Jenkins barely felt the revolver leave his grasp, she took the weapon from his hand.

At that moment, as the audience watched in a stunned silence that paralyzed all movement, she saw lights beginning to illuminate the entrance to the quarry. Uniformed men ran toward the platform, shouting, "Stop, police!" She abandoned Jenkins, who was rocking back and forth, clasping his arms about his body, and moaning with a rasping, guttural cry.

Maisie pushed the revolver into her pocket and moved quickly toward the lifeless body of Billy Beale. Archie and his assistant were nowhere to be seen. Maisie quickly took out her pocket knife and, holding back the flesh on Billy's neck with the fingers of her left hand, she slipped the blade against the rope, and freed Billy from the hangman's noose. As Billy fell toward her, Maisie tried to take his weight, and stumbled. She was aware that Jenkins was now flanked by two policemen, and that all around her the frozen moment had thawed into frenzied activity.

"Billy, look at me, Billy," said Maisie, regaining balance.

She slapped his face on both sides, and felt his wrist for a pulse.

Billy choked, and his eyes rolled up into their sockets as his hands instinctively clamored to free his neck from the constriction that he could still feel at his throat.

"Steady on, Miss, steady on, for Gawd's sake."

Billy choked, his gas-damaged lungs wheezing with the enormous effort of fighting for breath. As he tried to sit up, Maisie supported him with her arms around his shoulders.

"It's awright, Miss. I'm not a goner. Let me get some air. Some air."

"Can you see me, Billy?"

Billy Beale looked at Maisie, who was now on her knees beside him.

"I'm awright now that you're 'ere, even if you are a bit 'eavy 'anded. Mind you . . ." he coughed, wiping away the blood and spittle that came up from his throat,"I thought you'd never get over chat-tin'wiv that bleedin' lunatic there." Billy pointed toward Jenkins, then brought his hand back to his mouth as he coughed another deep, rasping cough.

"May I have a word, Miss Dobbs?"The man looking down at her beckoned the police doctor to attend to Billy, then held out a hand to Maisie. Grasping his outstretched hand, she drew herself up to a standing position and brushed back the locks of black hair that were hanging around her face. The man held out his right hand again. "Detective Inspector Stratton. Murder Squad. Your colleague is in good hands. Now, if I may have a word."

Maisie quickly appraised the man, who was standing in front of her. Stratton was more than six feet tall, well-built, and confident, without the posturing that she had seen before in men of high rank. His hair, almost as black as her own, except for wisps of gray at the temples, was swept back. He wore corduroy trousers and a tweed jacket with leather at the elbows. He held a brown felt hat with a black grosgrain band in his left hand. Like a country doctor, observed Maisie."Yes. Yes, of course, Detective Inspector Stratton. I . . . ."

". . . Should have known better, Miss Dobbs? Yes, probably, you should have known better. However, I have been briefed by Dr. Blanche, and I realize that you were in a situation where not a moment could be lost. Suffice it to say that this is not the time for discussion or reprimand. I must ask you, though, to make yourself available for questioning in connection with this case, perhaps tomorrow?"

"Yes, but--"

"Miss Dobbs, I have to attend to the suspect now, but, in the mean-time--"

"Yes?" Maisie was flushed, tired, and indignant.

"Good work, Miss Dobbs. A calm head--very good work." Detective Inspector Stratton shook hands with Maisie once again, and was just about to walk away when she called him back.

"Oh, Inspector, just a moment. . . ." Maisie held out the service revolver she had taken from Jenkins."I think you'll need this for your evidence bag."

Stratton took the revolver, checked the barrel, and removed the ammunition before placing the weapon safely in his own pocket. He inclined his head toward Maisie and smiled, then turned toward Jenkins, who was now flanked by two members of the Kent Constabulary. Maisie watched as Stratton commenced the official caution:"'You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be put into writing and given in evidence."

Maisie looked around at Billy, to satisfy herself that he was safe-- he was now on his feet and speaking with the doctor--then surveyed the scene in front of her. She watched as Maurice Blanche walked among the terrified audience of 'old soldiers' who still seemed so very young, his calming presence infectious as he stood with the men, placing a hand on a shoulder for support, or holding a weeping man to him unashamedly. The men seemed to understand his strength, and clustered around to listen to his soothing words. She saw him motion to Stratton, who sent policemen to lead the residents of The Retreat away one by one. They were men for whom the terror of war had been replayed and whose trust had been shattered. First by their country, and now by a single man. They were men who would have to face the world in which there was no retreat. Maurice was right, they were all innocents. Perhaps even Jenkins.

Jenkins was now in handcuffs and being led to a waiting Invicta police car that had been brought into the mouth of the quarry, his unsoiled polished boots and Sam Browne belt shining against a pressed uniform. Not a hair on his head was out of place. He was still the perfectly turned-out officer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

So, what I want to know," said Billy, sitting in Maurice Blanche's favorite wing chair, next to the fireplace in the dower house, "Is 'ow did you get on to Adam Jenkins in the end. And I tell you, 'e certainly 'ad me there. I was beginnin' t'think 'e was a crackin' bloke."

Maisie sat on a large cushion on the floor sipping tea, while Maurice was comfortable on the sofa opposite Billy. She set down her cup and saucer on the floor and rubbed at her cold feet.

"I had a feeling, here." Maisie touched the place between her ribs, at the base of her breastbone."There was something wrong from the beginning. Of course you know about Vincent. And the others. That was a mistake on Jenkins's part, suggesting to Vincent's family that he be interred at Nether Green because it's a big cemetery, with lots of soldiers' graves. It was a mistake because he used it several times."

Maisie took a sip of her tea and continued."I questioned the coincidence of several men buried with only their Christian names to identify them. Then I found out that they were all from the same place. The Retreat."

"And what else?" asked Billy, waving a hand to disperse the smoke from Maurice's pipe.

"A mistrust--on my part--of someone who wields so much power. The inspiration for The Retreat was admirable. Such places have worked well in France. But, for the most part, those places were set up for soldiers with disfiguring wounds to go to on holiday, not to be there forever. And using only Christian names was Jenkins's innovation. Stripping away a person's name is a very basic manner of control. It's done in all sorts of institutions, such as the army--for example, they called you 'corporal,' not 'Billy,' or possibly--rarely--even 'Beale.'"

Billy nodded.

"The irony is, that it was one of the first men to live at The Retreat, Vincent Weathershaw, who gave him the idea for the Christian-names-only mode of address."

Maisie caught her breath and continued.

"More evidence came to hand after you went to The Retreat. Each cause of death was different--there was even a drowning listed--yet each could be attributed to asphyxiation of some sort. To the untrained eye, an accident. The word of the examiner would not be questioned. No police were involved, they were considered to be deaths from 'accidental' or 'natural' causes--and as the men were all seeking relief from torment by coming to The Retreat, the families had no lingering questions. In fact, there was often relief that the loved one would not have to suffer anymore," said Maisie.

"Indeed." Maurice looked at Maisie, who did not return his gaze. He took up the story. "Then there was Jenkins's own history. How could someone who had given his superiors cause to refer to him as "innocuous" have gained such power? Maisie telephoned the doctor who had supervised his care at Craiglockhart--the hospital in Scotland where shell-shocked officers were sent during the war. The poet Siegfried Sassoon was there."

"Well, sir, I ain't never bin much of a one for poetry." Billy waved smoke away from his face once more.

"The doctor, who is now at the Maudsley psychiatric hospital in London, informed me that Jenkins's mental state was not as serious as some," said Maisie,"But there was cause for concern."

"I'll bet there was." Billy rubbed at the red weal left by the rope at his neck.

"You know what happened to deserters, Billy?"

Billy looked at his hands and turned them back and forth, inspecting first the palms, then his knuckles."Yes. Yes I do, Miss."

"They were taken and shot. At dawn. We talked about it. Some of them just young boys of seventeen or eighteen--they were scared out of their wits. It's been rumored that there was even a case of two being shot for accidentally falling asleep while on duty."Tears came to Maisie's eyes and she pursed her lips together."Jenkins was the commanding officer instructed to deal with a desertion. 'Innocuous' Jenkins. Much against his will--and apparently he did question his orders--he was instructed to preside over such an execution."

"And . . ."

Billy sat forward in the leather chair.

"He carried out orders. Had he not, then he might well have been subject to the same fate. To disobey would have been insubordination."

Maisie got up from the floor and walked to the window. Maurice's eyes followed her, then turned to Billy."The mind can do strange things, Billy. Just as we can become used to pain, so we can become used to experience, and in some cases a distasteful experience is made more palatable if we embrace it."

"Like putting sugar in the castor oil."

"Something of that order. Jenkins's sugar was the power he claimed. One might argue that it was the only way for him to stomach the situation. He was not a man strong in spirit. So close was he to the act of desertion that it made him detest the actual deserter, and in meting out this terrible, terrible punishment, he maintained control over the part of him that would have run away. He became very good at dealing with battlefield deserters. Indeed, he enjoyed a level of success, we understand, that he did not enjoy in other areas of responsibility."

Maurice looked again at Maisie, who turned to face Billy."Jenkins's idea of founding The Retreat was formed in good faith. But once again the need for control emerged. The chain of murders began when one of the men wanted to leave. Jenkins felt the man's decision keenly. He was, in effect, deserting The Retreat. For Jenkins, his mind deeply affected by the war, there was only one course of action. And then one death made the others easier."

"Blimey," whispered Billy.

"Had you been at The Retreat longer, you too would have heard it said that it was difficult to depart with one's life. Obviously he could not shoot a man--it would not be easy for the medical examiner to disguise the truth of such a wound--but he could use a more dramatic method. This gallows in the quarry would not break a man's neck, but would deprive the body of oxygen for just about long enough to take a life. A death that it would be easy to attribute to suicide or accident. And he must have been in a hurry with you, Billy, because with the others, a heavy cloth was wrapped around the noose. The rope marks were not as livid as the necklace you're now wearing."

Billy once again rubbed at his neck. "I reckon it's all bleedin' wrong, this 'ere business of shootin' deserters. I tell you, 'alf of us didn't know what the bloody 'ell we were supposed to be doin' over there anyway. I know the officers, specially the young ones, didn't."

Maurice pointed the stem of his pipe at Billy, ready to comment. "Interesting point, Billy. You may be interested to know that Ernest Thurtle, an American by birth, now the MP for Whitechapel, has worked hard in Parliament to have the practice banned--it wouldn't surprise me if a new law were passed in the next year or so."

"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!"

"Bloody hell, whatever is the matter with you?"

Iris sat up in bed and looked across at Maisie who, in her sudden wakefulness, lay on her back staring straight toward the top of the main tent pole, her violet eyes following drops of rainwater as they squeezed through the canvas and ran down to the ground.

"Are you all right?"

Iris leaned over and nudged Maisie.

"Yes. Yes, thanks. Bad dream. It was a bad dream."

"Not even time to get up yet. Brrr. Why doesn't it ever seem to get warm here? Here we are in the third week of May, and I'm freezing!"

Maisie did not answer, but drew the blankets closer to her jaw.

"We've got another half an hour. Then let's get up and go and get ourselves a mug of that strong tea," said Iris, making an attempt to reclaim the comfort of deep sleep.

"Looks like we've got some 'elp coming in today, ladies."

One of the medical officers sat down with Iris and Maisie, ready to gossip as he sipped scalding tea and took a bite out of the thick crust of bread.

"Lord, do we need it! There's never enough doctors, let alone nurses," said Iris, taking her mug and sitting down on a bench next to Maisie.

"What's happened?" asked Maisie.

"Think they're coming in from the hospital up the line. We've been getting so many in each day 'ere, and someone pushing a pencil at a desk finally got wind of it. Some docs are being moved. Down 'ere first."

Maisie and Iris looked at each other. She had written to Simon only yesterday. He had said nothing to her about being moved. Was it possible that he was one of the doctors being sent to the casualty clearing station?

"Mind you, they might not like it much, what with them shells coming in a bit closer lately," added the medical officer.

"I thought the red cross meant that we were safe from the shelling," said Iris, cupping her hands around her mug.

"Well, it's supposed to be safe. Red crosses mark neutral territory."

"When will they arrive . . . from the hospital?" asked Maisie, barely disguising her excitement. Excitement laced with trepidation.

"End of the week, by all accounts."

It was late afternoon when new medical personnel began to appear. Maisie was walking through the ward, with men in various stages of recovery waiting for transportation to a military hospital in beds on either side of her, when she saw the silhouette she knew so well on the other side of the canvas flap that formed a wall between the ward and the medicines area. It was the place where nurses prepared dressings, measured powders, made notes, and stood to weep, just for a moment, when another patient was lost.

He was here. In the same place. They were together.

Without rushing, and continuing to check her patients as she made her way toward Simon, Maisie struggled to control her beating heart. Just before she drew back the flap of canvas, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, then walked through into the medicines area.

He was on his own, looking through the pile of records, and familiarizing himself with the stocks of medicines and dressings. As Maisie entered, Simon looked up. For a moment neither moved.

Simon broke the silence, holding out his hand and taking hers.

"Why didn't you tell me in your letter?" whispered Maisie, looking around, fearful that someone might see her speaking with Simon.

"I didn't know I'd be sent. Not until yesterday." He smiled. "But now we're together. Couldn't believe my luck, Maisie."

She held his hand tighter."I am so glad. So glad that you are here. And safe."

"Good omen, don't you think? That we're here in the same place."

In the distance Maisie heard a wounded soldier calling for her, "Sister. In 'ere. Quick."

Simon held onto Maisie's hand for a second before she rushed to attend to her patient.

"I love you, Maisie," he said, and brought her hand to his lips.

She nodded, smiled, and ran to her duties.

Working side by side was easier than either had thought it might be. For three days, wounded were brought in to the hospital and, time and time again, Maisie saw another side of the Simon she loved, the Simon who had stolen her heart as she danced in a blue silk dress. He was a brilliant doctor.

Even under the most intense pressure, Simon Lynch worked not just to save a life but to make that soldier's life bearable when the soldiering was done. With Maisie at his side, ready to pass instruments to him even before he asked--to clear the blood from wounds as he brought shattered bones together and stitched vicious lacerations-- Simon used every ounce of knowledge garnered in the hospitals of England and in the operating tents of the battlefield.

"Right, on to the next one," said Simon, as one patient was moved and orderlies pushed forward with another soldier on a stretcher.

"What's waiting for us in the line?"

"Sir, we've got about a dozen legs, four very nasty heads, three chests, three arms, and five feet--and that's only as far as the corner. Ambulances coming in all the time, sir."

"Make sure we get the ones who can travel on the road as soon as possible. We need the room, and they need to be at the base hospital."

"Yes sir."

The orderlies hurried away to bring in the next soldier, while Simon looked down at the wounded man now dependent upon his judgment and skill, a young man with hair the color of sun-drenched wheat, and a leg torn apart by shrapnel. A young man who watched his every move so intently.

"Will you be able to save me leg, sir? Don't want to be an ol' peg-leg, do I?"

"Don't worry. I'll do my best. Can't have you not able to chase the ladies, can we, Corporal?" Simon smiled at the man, despite his exhaustion.

Maisie looked up at Simon, then down at the corporal, and as Simon removed the shrapnel, she cleaned the bleeding wounds so that he could see the extent of the injury. To keep the soldier's spirits up-- this man so conscious of everything happening around him--Maisie would look up for a second from her work and smile at him. And as Simon cut skin and brought together flesh, muscle, and bone that had been torn apart, the soldier took heart. For though he could not see Maisie's smile through the white linen mask that shielded part of her face, her warm blue eyes told the soldier what he wanted to hear. That all would be well.

"Right. On your way to Blighty you are, my man. Done the best for you here, and God knows you've done your best for Blighty. The sooner you get home, the sooner they'll get you moving again. Rest assured, Corporal, the leg is staying with its owner."

"Thank you, Captain, sir. Thank you, Sister. Never forget you, ever."

The soldier looked intently at Simon and Maisie, fighting the morphine to remember their faces. A "Blighty," a wound sufficiently severe to warrant being sent back to England--and he would keep his leg. He was a lucky man.

"This one's ready for transport. We're ready for the next one."

Simon called out to the orderlies, and Maisie prepared the table as Corporal William Beale was taken to an ambulance for transfer to a base hospital closer to the port. He would be home within two days.

"I feel sorry for the ones who are left," said Maisie.

She and Simon were walking by moonlight along a corridor of ground between the tents, quiet and ready to part quickly should they be seen together. Distant sporadic gunfire punctured their conversation.

"Me too. Though the ones I ache for are the ones who are injured so terribly, so visibly to the face or limbs. And the ones whose injuries can't be seen."

"In the London Hospital, there were many times when a woman cried with relief at the passing of her husband or son. They had wounds that the family couldn't cope with--that people on the street couldn't bear to see."

She moved closer to Simon, who took her hand.

"It'll be over soon. It has to be, Maisie. The war just can't go on like this. Sometimes I feel as if I'm doctoring in a slaughterhouse. One body of raw flesh after another."

Simon stopped and drew Maisie to him and kissed her."My Maisie of the blue silk dress. I'm still waiting for an answer."

Maisie drew back and looked into Simon's eyes. "Simon, I said to ask again when this is over. When I can see a future."

"That's the trouble," said Simon, beginning to tease her, "Sometimes I think you can see the future--and it gives me chills!"

He held her to him again."I tell you what, Maisie. I promise that I won't ask you again until the war is over. We'll walk together on the South Downs and you can give me your answer then. How about it?"

Maisie smiled and looked into his eyes, bright in the moonlight. Simon, Simon, my love, she thought, how I fear this question. "Yes. Yes, Simon. Ask me again on the South Downs. When the war is over."

And Simon threw back his head and laughed, without thought for who might hear him.

"God . . . ."

Simon's lips were drawn across his teeth as he looked at the wound to the soldier's chest, and uttered his plea to the heavens. Maisie immediately began cleaning the hole created by shrapnel, while Simon stanched the flow of blood. Nurses, doctors, anesthetists, orderlies, and stretcher-bearers were everywhere, rushing, running, working to save lives.

Maisie wiped the sweat from Simon's brow and continued to work on the wound. Simon inspected the extent of the injury. Lights flickered, and the tent shuddered.

"God, I can hardly even see in here."

Suddenly it seemed as if the battlefield had come to the hospital. As they worked to save the lives of men being brought in by the dozen, the tent shook again with the impact of a shell at close quarters.

"What the bloody hell . . .?"

"Sir, sir, I think we're coming under fire," an orderly shouted across to Simon. The operating tent was becoming part of the battlefield itself. Maisie swallowed the sour liquid that had come up from her stomach and into her mouth. She looked at Simon, and to combat her fear, she smiled at him. For one second he returned her smile broadly, then turned again to his patient. They could not stop.

"Well, then. Let's get on with it!"

Let's get on with it.

Those were the last words she heard Simon speak.

Let's get on with it.

CHAPTER THIRTY

It was on a warm afternoon in late September that Maisie stepped out of the MG and looked up at the front of an imposing Georgian building in Richmond. Two Grecian-style columns stood at either side of the steps, which in turn led to the heavy oak doors of the main entrance. The house had once been a grand home with gardens that extended down toward the Thames, where the great river grew broader on its meandering journey from the village of Thame in Oxfordshire, after it emerged as a small stream. From Richmond it would rush on toward London, through the city, and into the sea, fresh and salt water meeting in a swirling mass. Maisie loved to look at the river. There was calm to be found in viewing water. And Maisie wanted to remain calm. She would walk to the water and back, to get her bearings.

The Retreat affair had been brought to its conclusion. Jenkins was now at Broadmoor, incarcerated with those who were considered mentally ill and dangerous. Archie and others involved in Jenkins's wrongdoing at The Retreat were also in institutions where they would find a measure of compassion and solace. They were not being held "at His Majesty's Pleasure" but would be released in time. Other men had returned to families or to their solitary lives, some finding renewed understanding.

Billy Beale found that he did not really enjoy publicity, that it was enough for him to go about his business each day, though if a person needed help, then he, Billy Beale, was the man.

"Of course, the missus don't mind gettin' a bit extra when she goes into that skinflint butcher for a nice bit of lamb, and the attention's brought a bit of a smile to 'er face. But me, I dunno. I'm not your big one for bein' noticed on the street."

Maisie laughed at Billy, who daily told of the latest encounter that came as a result of being the hero of events at The Retreat. He was supervising the placement of her new office furniture, which had just been moved to a larger room on the first floor of a grand building in Fitzroy Square, just around the corner from the Warren Street premises. Finally giving in to Lady Rowan's insistent nagging, Maisie would now be living in her own rooms at the Belgravia house.

"Look, my dear, Julian and I have decided to spend most of our dotage at Chelstone. Of course we'll come up for the Season, and for the theater and so on. But it is so much calmer in Kent, don't you think?"

"Well, Lady Rowan . . . ."

"Oh, no, I suppose it wasn't that calm for you, was it?" Lady Rowan laughed and continued. "Anyway, with James on his way to Canada to take care of our business interests again--thank heavens-- the house will be all but empty. We'll have a skeleton staff here, naturally. Maisie, I must insist you take over the third-floor living rooms. In fact, I need you to."

Eventually Maisie concurred. Despite the fact that business was coming in at a respectable clip, Billy was now working for her, and money saved on her own rent would contribute to his wages.

As was Maurice's habit at the closure of a case, Maisie had visited the places of significance in The Retreat affair. During her apprenticeship, she had learned the importance of such a ritual, not only to ensure the integrity of notes that would be kept for reference, but for what Maurice referred to as a "personal accounting," to allow her to begin to work with new energy on the next case.

Maisie had walked once more in Mecklenburg Square, though she did not seek a meeting with Celia Davenham. She had received a letter from Celia after events at The Retreat became headline news. Celia had not referred to the inconsistency with the surname Maisie had given, but instead thanked her for helping to put Vincent's memory to rest.

She took tea at Fortnum & Mason, and at Nether Green Cemetery she placed fresh daisies on the graves of Vincent and his neighbor Donald, and stopped to speak to the groundsman whose son rested in a place overlooked by passing trains.

Maisie drove down to Kent in early September, when the spicy fragrance of dry hops still hung in the warm air of an Indian summer. She passed lorries and open-top buses carrying families back to the East End of London after their annual pilgrimage to harvest the hops, and smiled when she heard the sound of old songs lingering on the breeze. There was nothing like singing together to make a long journey pass quickly.

She drew the car alongside menacing heavy iron gates, and looked up, not at blooms, but this time at blood red rosehips overgrown on the wall. The Retreat was closed. Heavy chains hung on the gates and a sign with the insignia of the Kent Constabulary instructed trespassers to keep out.

Because memories had been given new life by her investigation, they too were part of her personal accounting. Maisie wrote letters to Priscilla, now living with her husband and three young sons in the South of France, each boy bearing the middle name of an uncle he would never know; to the famous American surgeon Charles Hayden and his family; and to Iris, who lived in Devon with her mother. Like many young women who came of age in the years 1914-18, Iris had no husband, for her sweetheart had been lost in the war. Maisie's letters did not tell the story of The Retreat, but only reminded the recipients that she thought of them often, and was well.

Now, as Maisie stood in the gardens of the grand house, looking out over the river and reflecting once again upon how much had happened in such a short time, she knew that for her future to spread out in front of her, she must face the past.

She was ready.

The conversation demanded by Billy had untied a knot in her past, one that bound her to the war in France over ten years ago.

Yes, it was time. It was more than time.

"Miss Dobbs, isn't it?"

The woman at the reception desk smiled up at Maisie, her red lipstick accentuating a broad smile that eased the way for visitors to the house. She crossed Maisie's name off the register of expected guests and leaned forward, pointing with her pen.

"Go along the corridor to your left, just over there, then down to the nurses' office. On the right. Can't miss it. They're expecting you. Staff Nurse will take you on from there."

"Thank you."

Maisie followed the directions, walking slowly. Massive flower arrangements on each side of the marble corridor gave forth a fragrance that soothed her, just as the sight of water had calmed her before she entered. Yes, she was glad she had made this decision. For some reason it was not so hard now. She was stronger. The final part of her healing was near.

She tapped on the door of the nurses' office, which was slightly ajar, and looked in.

"I'm Maisie Dobbs, visiting . . . ."

The staff nurse came to her.

"Yes. Good morning. Lovely to have a visitor. We don't see many here."

"Oh?"

"No. Difficult for the families. But you'd be surprised what a difference it makes."

"Yes. I was a nurse."

The staff nurse smiled."Yes. I know. His mother told us you would be coming. Very pleased, she was. Very happy about it. Told us all . . . well, never mind. Come with me. It's a lovely day, isn't it?"

"Where is he?"

"The conservatory. Lovely and warm in there. The sun shines in. They love the conservatory."

The staff nurse led the way down the corridor, turned left again, and opened a door into the large glass extension to the main building, a huge room filled with exotic plants and trees. Staff Nurse had not stopped talking since they left the nurses' office; they do that to put the new visitors at ease, thought Maisie.

"This was originally called the Winter Gardens, built by the owner so the ladies of the house could take a turn in the winter without going outside into the cold. You can have quite the walk in here. It's a bit too big to call it a conservatory, I suppose. But that's what we call it."

She motioned to Maisie once again. "This way, over to the fountain. Loves the water, he does."

The staff nurse pointed to an open window. "And though it's warm, it doesn't get too warm, if you know what I mean. We open the windows to let the breeze blow through in summer, and it still feels like summer, doesn't it? Ah. Here he is."

Maisie looked in the direction of her outstretched hand, at the man in a wheelchair with his back to them. He was facing the fountain, his head inclined to one side. The staff nurse walked over to the man, stood in front of him, and leaned over to speak. As she did so she gently tapped his hand. Maisie remained still.

"Captain Lynch. Got a visitor, you have. Come to see you. A very beautiful lady."

The man did not move. He remained facing the fountain. The staff nurse smiled at him, tucked in the blanket covering his knees, and then gave Maisie a broad smile before joining her.

"Would you like me to stay for a while?"

"No, no. I'll be fine." Maisie bit her lip.

"Right you are. About twenty minutes? I'll come back for you then. Never find your way out of the jungle alone!"

"Thank you, Staff Nurse."

The woman nodded, checked the time on the watch pinned to her apron, and walked away along the brick path overhung with branches. Maisie went to Simon and sat down in front of him, on the low wall surrounding the fountain. She looked up at this man she had loved so deeply, with all the intensity of a first love, a love forged in the desperate heat of wartime. Maisie looked at the face she had not seen since 1917, a face now so changed.

"Hello, my love," said Maisie.

There was no response. The eyes stared at a place in the distance beyond Maisie, a place that only he could see. The face was scarred, the hair growing in a shock of gray along scars that lay livid across the top of his skull.

Maisie put her hand to his face and, running her fingers along the jagged lines, wondered how it could be that the outcome of wounds was so different. That scars so similar on the outside concealed a different, far deeper injury. In comparison, her own wounds from the same exploding shell had been superficial. Yet Simon's impairment freed him from all sensation of the deeper wound: that of a broken heart.

Simon still did not move. She took his hands in hers and began to speak."Forgive me, my love. Forgive me for not coming to you. I was so afraid. So afraid of not remembering you as we were together, as you were. . . ."

She rubbed his hands. They were warm to the touch, so warm she could feel the cold in her own.

"At first people asked me why I didn't come, and I said I didn't feel well enough to see you. Then as each month, each year passed, it was as if the memory of you--of us . . . the explosion--were encased in fine tissue-paper."

Maisie bit her lip, constantly kneading Simon's still hands as she spoke her confession."I felt as if I were looking through a window to my own past, and instead of being transparent, my view was becoming more and more opaque, until eventually the time had passed. The time for coming to see you had passed."

Breathing deeply, Maisie closed her eyes and gathered her thoughts, then continued, her voice less strained as the weight of formerly unspoken words was lightened.

"Dad, Lady Rowan, Priscilla--they all stopped asking after a while. I kept them at arm's length. All except Maurice. Maurice sees through everything. He said that even if people couldn't see my tissue-paper armor, they could feel it, and would not ask again. But he knew, Maurice knew, that I would have to come one day. He said that the truth grows even more powerful when it is suppressed, and that often it takes only one small crack to bring down the wall, to release it. And that's what happened, Simon. The wall I built fell down. And I have been so filled with shame for being unable to face the truth of what happened to you."

Simon sat still in his wheelchair, his hands unmoving, though blood colored his skin.

"Simon, my love. I never did tell you my answer. You see, I knew that something dreadful was going to happen. I couldn't promise you marriage, a future, when I could see no future. Forgive me, dear Simon, forgive me."

Maisie looked around, trying to see what Simon's stare focused upon, and was surprised to see that it was the window, where they were reflected together. She, wearing her blue suit and a blue cloche, her hair in a chignon at the base of her neck. A few tendrils of hair, always the same few tendrils of black hair, had flown free and fallen down around her forehead and cheeks. She could barely see his facial wounds in the reflection. The glass was playing tricks, showing her the old Simon, the young doctor she had fallen in love with so long ago.

Maisie turned to face Simon again. A thin line of saliva had emerged from the side of his mouth and had begun to run down his chin. She took a fresh linen handkerchief from her handbag, wiped the moisture away, and held his hand once again, in silence, until the staff nurse returned.

"How are we, then?" She leaned forward to look at Simon, then turned to smile at Maisie."And how about you?" she asked.

"Fine. Yes, I'm fine," she swallowed and returned the nurse's smile.

"Good. Bet you've done him the world of good." Staff Nurse looked at Simon again and patted his hand. "Hasn't she, Captain Lynch? Done you a power of good!"

Simon remained perfectly still.

"Let me lead you out of the maze here, Miss Dobbs."

As she walked away, Maisie stopped to look back at Simon, then at his reflection in the windowpane. There he was. Forever the young, dashing Simon Lynch who had stolen her heart.

"Will you come again?"

They had reached the main door of the house. A grand house that was now a home for men stranded in time by the Great War, men trapped in the caverns of their own minds, never to return.

"Yes. Yes I will come again. Thank you."

"Right you are then. Just let us know. Loves a visitor, does Captain Lynch."

Maisie drove back into London, waving to Jack Barker as the MG screeched around the corner into Warren Street, before stopping at her new office in Fitzroy Square. She parked the car in front of the building and watched as Billy positioned a new brass nameplate with tacks, then stood back to appraise the suitability of his placement before securing the plate with screws. He rubbed his chin and moved the plate twice more. Finally he nodded his head, satisfied that he had found exactly the right place for her name, a place that would let callers know that M. Dobbs, Psychologist and Investigator, was open for business.

Maisie continued to watch as Billy worked, polishing the brass to a glowing shine. Then Billy looked up and saw Maisie in the MG. He waved and, rubbing his hands on a cloth, walked down the steps and opened the car door for her to get out.

"Better get weaving, Miss."

"Why, what's happened?"

"That Detective Inspector Stratton from Scotland Yard, the Murder Squad fella. Been on the 'dog and bone' four times already. Urgent, like. Needs to be 'in conference' with you about a case."

"Golly!" said Maisie, grabbing the old black document case from the passenger seat.

"I know. 'ow about that? We'd better get to work, 'adn't we, Miss?"

Maisie raised an eyebrow and walked with Billy to the door. She ran her fingers along the engraving on the brass plate, and turned to her new assistant.

It was time to go to work.

"Well then, Billy--let's get on with it!"

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, I am indebted to Holly Rose, my friend and writing pal who read the initial tentative pages of Maisie Dobbs and pressed me to continue. Adair Lara, my writing mentor, was the first to suggest I consider writing fiction, and later, after my "accident horribilis,"when Maisie Dobbs was barely half written, insisted that convalescence was an ideal time to finish the book--broken arm notwithstanding.

I have been truly blessed in my association with Amy Rennert and Randi Murray of the Amy Rennert Agency, for their wise counsel, wonderful humor, hard work, and most of all, their enthusiastic belief in Maisie Dobbs. I am equally blessed in my editor, Laura Hruska, who has the qualities that make her one of the best--including, I believe, psychic powers that enable her to see into my mind.

My godmother, Dorothy Lindqvist, first took me to London's Imperial War Museum when I was a child, an experience that brought a new reality to my grandfather's stories of the Great War of 1914-18. Now, years later, many thanks must go to the museum for its amazing resources, and to the staff who were most helpful during my research visits.

The following people kindly responded to emails and phone calls, providing me with detail that has brought color and texture to the life and experience of Maisie Dobbs: Kate Perry, Senior Archivist at Girton College; Sarah Manser, Director of Press and Public Relations at The Ritz, London; Barbara Griffiths at BT Group Archives, London; John Day, Chairman of the MG Car Club Vintage Register; and Alison Driver of the Press & PR Department of Fortnum &Mason, London. For his dry wit and dogged investigative skills, my utmost gratitude goes to Victor--who knows who he is.

On a personal level thanks must go to my parents, Albert and Joyce Winspear, for their great memories of "old London," and their recollections of my grandfather's postwar experiences; my brother, John, for his encouragement;my friend Kas Salazar, who constantly reminds me of my creative priorities; and last--but certainly not least--my husband and cheerleader, John Morell, for his unfailing support, and for sharing our home with a woman called Maisie Dobbs.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY - SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY - EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY - SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY - EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY - SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY - EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS