Birds of a Feather

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Relations between Maurice and Waite at the time must have been incendiary, thought Maisie. “What happened to the girl?”

  Maurice sighed. “By the time my staff located her, she had already taken her problem to a back alley. She was rushed to the clinic again. It was too late. I did all I could to save her life, but she died clutching my hand.”

  “Oh!” Maisie brought her hands to her mouth.

  Maurice stood up and tapped tobacco from his pipe against the brick of the fireplace, emptying it into the grate. “Even from Chelstone, I am still very involved in the work of my clinics. All the more reason to ensure that the health of women and children is provided for and protected by those who are qualified for such a task. I also now ensure that no benefactor visits a clinic without my express permission. A gift is unconditional by its very nature. Waite brought his tendency to dominate, along with prejudices rooted in experience, into my clinic and, I believe, killed an innocent child. No—two innocent children. I refused later requests to accept funds from him. A difficult man, Maisie.”

  They were both silent for several moments. Maurice suggested a walk to the orchard. Fortunately Maisie had dressed with such an excursion in mind, knowing Maurice’s maxim: “To solve a problem, take it for a walk.” Her dark brown trousers, fashionably wide, were complemented by brown walking shoes, an ivory linen blouse and a light-brown-and-cream Harris tweed jacket with a shawl collar and large square pockets at the hips.

  They strolled through still-damp grass and trees laden with blossom buds that gave a promise of summer’s bounty, and they spoke of Maisie’s work, her challenges, and how she had fared in the year since Maurice formally retired and she had set up in business on her own. Finally, Maisie spoke of her worries about Billy.

  “My dear, I believe you already know what is at the root of Mr. Beale’s erratic behavior.”

  “I have my suspicions,” she confessed.

  “How might you confirm them in such a way as to protect Billy?”

  “First of all, I think I should visit All Saints’ Convalescent Hospital in Hastings. It’s where Billy was sent after being discharged from hospital in London. They should still have his medical records. The problem will be gaining access to them.”

  “I think I can help, my dear. The physician in charge is known to me: He was one of my students at King’s College in London.”

  “Maurice, I do believe you know everyone!” Maisie moved a low bough aside as they walked through an avenue of trees.

  “Not quite, but my contacts are useful. I will telephone him prior to your arrival—when will you go?”

  “This afternoon. I know they are open for visitors on a Saturday.”

  “Good.”

  “Of course, what I really need to do is find a way to get him to a doctor to do something about the continued pain in his leg.”

  Maurice stopped. “Maisie, I sense that Billy has had enough of doctors. Sometimes people who have endured a chronic illness cannot face even a discussion with a doctor. And though I am a doctor, I can say that often there is good reason for such a reaction. We don’t have all the answers.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “First, you must find out whether your suspicions are grounded. Then you must confront Billy. You know this already. But a confrontation of this sort is best followed by a plan, an idea, a lens through which the future can be viewed once the secret has been revealed. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “I suggest that you bring Mr. Beale to the Dower House, where I would like him to meet a new acquaintance of mine.”

  Maisie inclined her head. “He’s a German by birth, though he came to this country as a child. While he was interned during the war, he met a very interesting man, also a German. The man had developed a means of exercise and movement that helped maintain health in the camp: Even during the first flu epidemic in 1917, not one of those interned was lost. In fact most of those in the camp were released in a healthier state than before the war, despite being poorly nourished. The physical movements incorporated in the regimen have been used to rehabilitate the severely wounded with great success. My friend is a practitioner of the regimen.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Gideon Brown. After the war he changed his surname from Braun, and his Christian name from Günther to Gideon. It made life a little less difficult for him, given the manner in which those of German extraction were treated at the time. The man whose work he has followed now lives in America. His name is Joseph Pilates.”

  Maisie smiled. “I’m glad that at least I have the bare bones of a plan now . . . But my first step is All Saints’. In fact, I may be able to kill two birds with one stone, as Rosamund Thorpe lived in the same area.” Maisie checked her watch. “Eleven o’clock. If I leave by noon, I should be there by half past one.”

  “You’d better get along then, hadn’t you, Maisie? Remember to ask for Dr. Andrew Dene. I will have spoken with him by telephone before you arrive.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Maisie reversed the MG out of the narrow lane onto the carriage sweep that led from the main gate to the manor house. As she drove slowly along the gravel road, Lady Rowan waved from the edge of the lawn where she was walking with Nutmeg and Raven, her two black Labradors, and a Welsh Springer Spaniel who answered to the name of Morgan. Though Lady Rowan walked with the aid of a silver-tipped cane, her posture gave the impression of youthfulness. She wore a tweed walking skirt, a brown corduroy jacket and a small fur scarf around her neck. Her ensemble was topped off by a jaunty brown felt hat, a single feather pinned to the band with an amethyst brooch. She waved again at Maisie, who slowed the car to a halt.

  Maisie stepped from the MG. “Lady Rowan, how are you?”

  “Hallo, Maisie, dear. So lovely to see you. How is the motor car running? Serving you well, I hope.”

  “Oh, yes, very well indeed.” Maisie smiled warmly. “It’s never broken down, and goes very smoothly. I’m off to Hastings this afternoon.”

  “Anything exciting, Maisie?” Before Maisie could respond, Lady Rowan held her hand up. “I know, I know, you can’t divulge the nature of your work. I never learn, do I? It’s just that you always seem to be involved with something so very intriguing!” Lady Rowan’s eyes crinkled to emphasize not a little envy at Maisie’s employment. “Mind you, I’ve had my day, Maisie, I’ve had my day.”

  “No you haven’t, Lady Rowan. What’s all this I hear about breeding racehorses?”

  “It’s most thrilling. Your good father and I have pored over breeding records. He is a most knowledgeable man when it comes to horses, so we expect to see the will to win in the eyes of this one! I confess I am beside myself with anticipation, which is why I am pacing back and forth across the lawn. Otherwise I would make a nuisance of myself in the stable.”

  “Dad’s keeping an eye on the mare, but he said it could be a day or two yet.”

  “When do you leave, Maisie? Will you come to see me before you go back to London?” Lady Rowan refrained from displaying the affection that would embarrass them both, but in truth she viewed Maisie almost as a daughter.

  “I am here until tomorrow, Lady Rowan. Aren’t you coming back to London at the end of this week?”

  “Hmmm. I confess, I’m tempted to stay at Chelstone until after Merriweather foals.”

  “Shall I call on you when I get back from Hastings?”

  “Yes, that would be lovely. Don’t let me detain you a moment longer. Come along, Nutmeg. Morgan, come here! Oh dear, it seems I’ve lost Raven again.”

  Maisie laughed, took her seat in the MG, and continued down the driveway, then along the country lanes until she joined the main road for Tonbridge. The journey to Hastings was an easy one. She saw few vehicles as she cruised through the Weald of Kent, crossing into Sussex near Bodiam, where she could see parts of the old castle beyond the hop gardens.

  She entered Hastings from the east, negotiating the narrow streets of the
Old Town, which was still so much like a fishing village, in stark contrast to the development along the promenade toward St. Leonards, built up during Queen Victoria’s reign to cater for the town’s increase in popularity with day-trippers.

  Her first stop would be a visit to All Saints’ Convalescent Hospital, a red-brick mansion on the Old Town’s East Hill. It commanded sun-filled views over the channel on a good day, only to be battered by wind and rain when the weather turned. It was just after one o’clock, she had estimated the journey exactly. Because it was such a fine day, Maisie decided to park the car along Rock-a-Nore, then take the path that led alongside tall wooden net shops where fishermen hung out their nets to dry. She would make her way to the East Hill via the Old Town’s small funicular railway, a carriage that took passengers from sea level to the upper lift station, with its castellated towers that each contained an iron tank filled with more than one thousand gallons of water to operate the water-balance lift. Once outside the station, visitors would set off along the cliffs, where they could enjoy the fresh, if sometimes biting, sea air. At the top Maisie would have just a short walk to All Saints’.

  Having made her way past the shacks with counters where day-trippers bought small bowls of tasty jellied eels, whelks, or winkles, or strolled while lunching on fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, Maisie bought her ticket, and found that her companions on the ascent were four women clad in walking skirts, leather boots, and heavy pullovers; they were clearly prepared for a day’s hiking. She felt her stomach turn when the funicular began to move. As the carriage made its way up the cliff, Maisie wondered if Billy had used this means of coming down into the town when he had reached a point in his convalescence at which short excursions were allowed. She knew that he had met Doreen in Hastings. Had it been on her day off, perhaps, when each had gone with friends to the pier to listen to the band and drink sarsaparilla? She imagined Billy cracking jokes as Doreen blushed and turned away toward her group, then back again to smile in a way that was just a little coy. The carriage lurched again, and Maisie waited while the four women alighted first, maps flapping in the wind, one pointing toward the Firehills at Fairlight where out-of-work Welsh miners had been brought in to create a series of walking paths along the cliffs.

  Seagulls whooped and called below her as she walked along the edge of the East Hill. From her vantage point she could see the rooftops below. The architecture revealed the history of the town, from beamed medieval hall houses with huts and fish smokers in the back, to Regency mansions, and brick two-up-two-down cottages built perhaps only sixty years earlier.

  Maisie stopped once to look at All Saints’ Convalescent Hospital before setting out along the path lined with low trees and shrubs before it turned toward the broad front doors of the house. The route she had taken was infinitely more enjoyable than driving along the ancient streets that spiraled precariously up the hill. The building was laid out in an exact square and had been constructed of red brick and wood at the turn of the century. Its architecture was of the new style, with clean lines and a shallow roof. Some outbuildings had been added during the war when it was requisitioned for use as a military convalescent home. The owner had eventually sold the property to the local authorities, possibly to preempt compulsory purchase at a reduced price, and it was now used for all manner of convalescent cases though many of the patients were still old soldiers.

  The door, constructed from a single substantial piece of wood, moved easily after Maisie turned the brass handle, opening into a large entrance hall with wooden floors and plain white walls. There were arched wooden beams above the staircase before her. A lift had been added to assist those who were unable to move themselves. Rubber strips ran along the floor in strategic places, minimizing slippage for invalids learning to walk again with caliper splints, crutches, or new artificial limbs. Despite vases of flowers and a lingering aroma of lavender furniture polish, if one turned quickly or took a deep breath, there was the unmistakable hospital smell of disinfectant and urine.

  Maisie knocked on the frosted glass window of the porter’s office and was asked to wait while Dr. Dene was summoned.

  “Miss Dobbs, delighted to meet you.” Andrew Dene began reaching out his hand when he was still three steps from the bottom of the staircase. “Maurice said to expect you here around one-thirty. Please.” They shook hands, and he indicated another door, which led to a long corridor. Though he had been one of the students who attended Maurice’s medical school tutorials, Maisie had expected someone far older. He seemed to be only four or five years her senior. If she was right, then he had certainly made his mark early. Dene’s light brown hair fell into his eyes repeatedly as they made their way toward his office. Maisie had to walk quickly to keep up with his athletic gait. She noticed with pleasure his ease of manner, as well as his obvious respect for Maurice and, by default, herself.

  “You know,” said Dene, “I always wondered what it must be like to work with Maurice, at his side. He said something once about his assistant, but you could have knocked me down with a feather when I found out that the accomplished assistant was a woman.”

  “Really, Dr. Dene?” Maisie’s tone caused Dene to rephrase his remark “Oh dear, that’s not what I meant.” Dene opened the door of his office and allowed Maisie to enter before him. “That’s me all over: Open mouth, insert foot. What I meant was . . . well . . . sometimes the work sounded so, you know, so tricky that . . .”

  Maisie raised an eyebrow.

  “I think I’d better just take it all back and get on with the business at hand before I have to show you out on my hands and knees.”

  “Indeed, Dr. Dene, I can think of no better punishment at this moment.” She removed her gloves, and took the seat indicated. Despite his faux pas, Maisie thought Andrew Dene was rather fun. “Perhaps we can get down to business.”

  “Oh yes, quite.” Dene checked his watch and reached for a manila folder with frayed edges that was already set to the side of the other stacks on his desk. “I have a meeting in twenty minutes. Mind you, I can be late.” He smiled at Maisie. “I understand you want to know more about the convalescent history of one William Beale, Corporal.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Well, I’ve already looked at the file. I had to rescue it from what we refer to as the Dungeon down in the cellars. Unfortunately, the attending doctor has passed on now but the notes are all here. Looks like he’s lucky to have kept that leg. Amazing what those doctors were able to do over there, isn’t it?”

  “I thought you . . .”

  “Oh no. I was in medical school when I enlisted, but I was not qualified. They pushed me into the Medical Corps anyway, though not as a surgeon. As an assistant. Not quite a nurse, not quite a doctor. I ended up in Malta finding out more about surgical procedures on the job than I ever learned when I returned to medical school. By that time I had become more interested in what happened to soldiers when they came back, their recuperation, their post-operative care, and how I could best help them.”

  “I see. So what can you tell me about Mr. Beale’s recovery?”

  Dene looked through the notes once again, sometimes turning the file to one side the better to see a chart or diagram; then he closed the folder. He looked up at Maisie. “It would be less like finding a needle in a haystack if you were to tell me why you are interested—the medical aspects, that is.”

  Maisie was taken aback by Dene’s manner but understood the need, given the array of procedures and therapies that would have been noted in the file. Maisie described her observations of Billy’s behavior, adding that his family life was also disturbed by his mood swings.

  “Is this is a recent development?”

  “Over the past few months, along with the increased pain in his legs.”

  “Ah. Yes.” Dene reached for the file again. “Miss Dobbs, you were a nurse in France, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “And later, according to what I know, you worked with shell-s
hocked patients before returning to Cambridge. I understand from Maurice that you spent some time at the Department of Legal Medicine in Edinburgh.”

  “That’s all correct.”

  “So you don’t need me to tell you what’s going on, do you?”

  Maisie looked at Dene intently, her deep blue eyes sparking. “I thought it best to confer with the attending doctor, or his successor, before jumping to conclusions.”

  “A wise and very professional decision. Oh, and by the way, I’m her successor. Mr. Beale’s attending physician here was Dr. Mrs. Hilda Benton.”

  Maisie’s cheeks reddened.

  Dene leaned back in his chair and made a church-and-steeple with his fingers. It was the same way Maurice sat when considering a problem.

  “Here’s what I suspect is at the root of Mr. Beale’s behavior, and I would add that it is not uncommon, though a terror to address. According to the notes,” Dene opened the file and passed two pages to Maisie, “he was initially treated for pain with massive doses of morphine. I would imagine he was hard to medicate, probably one of those who can soak up medication and still feel everything.”

  Maisie remembered Billy being brought in to the casualty clearing station in June, 1917, his eyes wide even as the surgeon’s knife cut into his flesh, and his promise that he would never forget the doctor and nurse who saved him.

  “Of course, we didn’t know as much about dosage then as we do now. In fact, the military was rather slap-happy with morphine, cocaine, and various other narcotics. You must remember that people could buy heroin kits from the corner chemist’s, even from Savoy &Moore, to send to their soldier loved ones in France, just in case. Then everyone cheerfully expected the need for medication to go away along with the pain as soon as the men were out of uniform. Boom-boom, good-bye, soldier, you’re on your way! Unfortunately in many cases the pain and the craving lingered. And even when both went away, recurrence of pain naturally re-creates that craving for medication. Doctors are a bit more careful now but there’s a healthy black market in cocaine, especially among old soldiers. I don’t want to cast aspersions, but to be candid, Miss Dobbs, I believe that Mr. Beale is struggling with a dependence upon narcotics. Though from what you say, I would imagine he’s not in too deeply. Yet.”