“We sell a lot of irises, what with the cemetery up the road. That and chrysanths, always popular.”
Maisie took the bunch of daffodils and handed over the exact change in pennies.
“Thank you.Very nice indeed.”
She set forth at a steady pace, and was soon just a few steps behind Celia Davenham. They had passed the shops now, and although there were still passersby, the number of pedestrians heading in the same direction was thinning out. Celia Davenham turned right, then left onto the main road. She waited for some motorcars and a horse-drawn cart to pass, looking ahead to the green-painted iron gates of Nether Green Cemetery. Maisie followed, careful to maintain her distance yet still keep the other woman in view.
Celia Davenham walked with purpose, her head lowered but her step firm. Maisie watched her, mentally noting every detail of the other woman’s demeanor. Her shoulders were held too square, hunched upward as if on a coat hanger. Maisie copied the woman’s posture as she walked, and immediately felt her stomach clutch and a shiver go though her. Then sadness descended, like a dark veil across her eyes. Maisie knew that Celia Davenham was weeping as she walked, and that in her sadness she was searching for strength. With a sense of relief, as she walked along Maisie shook off the other woman’s way of holding herself.
She followed Celia Davenham through the open gates, and along a path for about fifty yards. Then, without changing her pace, the object of Maisie’s investigation turned in from the path and walked across the grass, pausing by a relatively fresh grave. The large marble angel towering above a neighboring grave caught Maisie’s eye, and she made a mental note of this landmark. She knew she’d have to be careful. One grave can seem much like the next one when you are in a cemetery.
The cold seemed to close in around Maisie as she walked past Celia Davenham. A train chugged along the tracks nearby, its sooty vapor lingering for a moment over the headstones before being carried away by a chill breeze.
Maisie stopped by a grave that had clearly received no attention for years. She bowed her head and, carefully, looked sideways between the marble memorials, toward Celia Davenham. The woman was on her knees now, replacing dead flowers with the fresh irises, and talking. Talking to the dead.
Maisie, in turn, looked at the headstone she had unwittingly chosen as her cover. It bore the words:“Donald Holden. Born 1900. Died 1919. Beloved only son of Ernest and Hilda Holden. ‘Memory Is A Golden Chain That Binds Us ’Til We Meet Again.’” Maisie looked at the weeds underfoot. They may have met already, she thought, while keeping a keen but inconspicuous watch on Celia Davenham, who remained at the immaculate neighboring grave, her head bowed, still speaking quietly. Maisie began to clear the weeds on Donald Holden’s grave.
“Might as well look after you while I’m here,” she said quietly, placing daffodils in the vase, which was mercifully full of rainwater. She couldn’t afford to trudge all the way across the cemetery to the water tap: Celia might depart while she was gone.
As Maisie stepped to the side of the path to deposit a pile of weeds, she saw Celia Davenham move toward the headstone where she had held her vigil. She kissed the cold, gray marble, brushed away a tear, then turned quickly and walked away. Maisie was in no hurry to follow. Instead she nodded at Donald Holden’s headstone, then walked over to the grave that the Davenham woman had just left. It said “Vincent.” Just “Vincent.” No other name, no date of birth. Then the words,“Taken from all who love you dearly.”
The day had warmed by the time Maisie reached the station for the return journey to London. Celia Davenham, already on the platform, glanced at her watch repeatedly. Maisie went into the ladies’ toilets, walked across chilly floor tiles that radiated more moisture into the damp air, and ran icy water into the porcelain sink to rinse the dirt from her hands. She looked up into the mirror and regarded the face that looked directly back at her. Yes, the dark blue eyes still held a sparkle, but the small lines around her lips and across her brow betrayed her, told something about her past.
She knew that she would follow Celia Davenham this afternoon until the woman returned to her home in Mecklenburg Square, and believed that nothing else of note would occur that day. Maisie knew that she had found the lover, the man who had caused Christopher Davenham to pay a princely sum for her services. The problem was that the man Christopher Davenham thought was cuckolding him was dead.
CHAPTER FOUR
Maisie sat in the early morning half-light of her office considering her subject. Only one small lamp illuminated the room, but it was angled downward toward Maisie’s notes and a clutch of small index cards. Maurice maintained that the mind was at its sharpest before dawn.
In the early days of her pupilage with Maurice, he had told Maisie of his teachers, the wise men who spoke of the veil that was lifted in the early hours, of the all-seeing eye that was open before the day was awake. The hours before dawn were the sacred time, before the intellect rose from slumber. At this time one’s inner voice could be heard. Maisie had strained to hear that inner voice for days, since the single word “Vincent” had piqued her curiosity, since the apparent ordinariness of Celia Davenham’s grief had given rise to more questions than answers.
Slipping off her shoes and pulling her wool cardigan around her shoulders, Maisie took a cushion from her chair and placed it on the floor. Lifting her skirt above her knees to allow freedom of movement, she sat on the cushion, crossed her legs and placed her hands together on her lap. Maurice had taught her that silencing the mind was a greater task than stilling the body, but it was in those still waters that truth could be mirrored. Now, in the darkness, Maisie sought the guidance of intuition and formed the questions that, in time, would give her answers.
Why only one name? Why no dates etched into the headstone? What was keeping the relationship between Celia and Vincent alive? Was it simply grief, perpetuated by disbelief that a dear one has parted? Or another emotion? Maisie saw the grave in her mind’s eye, allowed her eyes to regard all aspects of the place where Vincent was laid to rest. But if he was at rest, why did she feel compelled to seek a path that was not as yet marked?
What is this question I cannot voice? Maisie asked herself. Donald Holden died just a year after the war. His grave bore signs of age. Vincent’s seemed fresher, as if the ground had been disturbed only in recent months.
Maisie sat for a while longer, allowing the stillness to calm her natural busyness, until the brighter, grainy light of the waking hours signaled her to move. She stood, stretching her arms high while standing on tiptoe. Today she would follow Celia Davenham to the cemetery again.
Celia was a creature of habit. This day she left the house promptly at nine o’clock in the morning, immaculately dressed in a suit of shamrock green wool, the broad collar of a cream silk blouse flat against her jacket, and pinned with a jade brooch, clearly part of a set that included her jade earrings. Matching shoes and bag with a carefully coordinated hat and umbrella completed the ensemble. This time the shoes were plain in design, but each shoe bore a fashionable clip in the shape of a leaf pressed onto the front. Maisie wore her navy skirt and jacket. Her serious business clothes. The journey to Nether Green was uneventful. Once again Celia Davenham traveled in first class, while Maisie sat in the prickly discomfort of a second-class carriage. Celia bought her customary bouquet of irises, while Maisie decided upon something different for Donald—and for her purse—this morning.
“I’ll have a nice bunch of daisies, please,” said Maisie to the flower seller.
“Right you are, Miss. Always look cheerful, daisies, don’t they, Miss? Last a while too. Newspaper all right, or do you need them wrapped special?”
“Yes, they are cheerful, aren’t they? Newspaper will be fine, thank you,” she said, holding out the correct change for a bunch of daisies.
Then Maisie quickly walked on, trailing Celia Davenham toward the cemetery. She entered through the green gates, and by the time she walked past Vincent’s grave toward Donald Ho
lden’s resting place, Celia was standing in front of the marble headstone, tracing Vincent’s name with the shamrock-green-gloved fingers of her right hand. Maisie walked past, her head lowered, and stopped in front of Donald’s grave. After a respectful silent prayer, she busied herself, emptying water from the vase and pulling a few weeds. Picking up the now-dead daffodils from her previous visit, she walked over to the tap, threw the dead flowers onto the compost pile, and filled the vase with fresh water. Maisie returned to Donald’s grave, replaced the vase, and arranged the daisies. As she worked, she looked sideways at Celia, who had removed her gloves and was arranging her bouquet of irises at the base of Vincent’s headstone. Having placed them to her satisfaction, she continued to kneel by the stone, staring at the name.
Maisie observed Celia Davenham, and once again moved her body to mirror the woman’s position. Her head seemed to sink lower on her long neck, her shoulders rounded, her hands tightened with pain. Such melancholy. Such an unending yearning. Maisie instinctively knew that Celia was dying inside, that each yesterday was being lived anew and that there could be no place for her husband until Vincent was allowed to rest in peace.
Suddenly the woman shuddered and looked straight at Maisie. She did not smile; it was as if she were looking beyond Maisie to another place. Regaining her own natural posture, Maisie nodded acknowledgment, a small movement that brought Celia Davenham back to the present. She nodded in return, brushed at her skirt, stood up, replaced her gloves, and quickly left Vincent’s grave.
Maisie was in no hurry. She knew that Celia Davenham would go home now. Home to play the loving wife, the role she would assume as soon as she walked through the door. It was a role that her husband had seen through easily, although his conclusions had been erroneous. Maisie also knew that the second’s glance and the deliberate acknowledgment she had initiated between herself and Celia ensured that the other woman would recognize her when they met again.
Maisie lingered for a while at Donald’s grave. There was something healing in this ritual of making a comfortable place for the dead. Her thoughts took her back to France, to the dead and dying, to the devastating wounds that were so often beyond her skill, beyond everyone’s. But it was the wounds of the mind that touched her, those who still fought their battles again and again each day, though the country was at peace. If only she could make the living as comfortable, thought Maisie, as she tidied a few more stubborn weeds in the shadow of Don’s headstone.
“Making a nice job of that one.”
Maisie swung around, to see one of the cemetery workers standing behind her, an older man with red, bony hands firmly grasping the handles of a wooden wheelbarrow. His ruddy complexion told of years working outdoors, but his kind eyes spoke of compassion, of respect.
“Why yes. It’s sad to see them so uncared for, isn’t it?” replied Maisie.
“I’ll say, after what those boys gave for us. Poor bastards. Oh, Miss, I am sorry, I forgot—”
“Don’t worry. It’s as well to voice one’s feelings,” replied Maisie.
“That’s the truth. Too much not said by ’alf.”
The man pointed to Donald’s grave.
“Haven’t seen this one being tended for a few years. His old Mum and Dad used to come over. Only son. Killed them, too, it did, I reckon.”
“Did you know them? I would have thought it would be difficult to know all the relatives, with so many graves,” said Maisie.
“I’m ’ere every day ’cept Sundays, that is. Been ’ere since just after the war. I get to know people. ’Course, you don’t ’ave long talks, no time for that, and folk don’t always want to talk, but, there again, there’s those that want to ’ave a bit of conversation.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure.”
“Not seen you before, not ’ere.”The man looked at Maisie.
“No, that’s true. I’m a cousin. Just moved to the city,” said Maisie, looking at the man directly.
“Nice to see it being taken care of.”The man firmed his grip on the wheelbarrow handles, as if to move on.
“Wait a minute. I wonder, could you tell me, are all the graves here, in this part, war graves?” asked Maisie.
“Yes and no. Most of these are our boys, but some lived a long time after their injuries. Your Don, well, you’d know this, but ’e ’ad septicemia. Horrible way to go, ’specially as ’e was brought home. Lot of folk like to bury ’em ’ere because of the railway.”
The man set the wheelbarrow down, and pointed to the railway lines running alongside the cemetery.
“You can see the trains from ’ere. Not that these boys can see the trains, but the relatives like it. They’re on a journey, you see, it’s a— you know, what do they call it, you know—when it means something to them.”
“Metaphor?”
“Yeah, well, like I said, it’s a journey, innit? And the relatives, if they’ve come by train, which most of them do, can see the graves as the train pulls out of the station. They can say another good-bye that way.”
“So, what about that one there? Strange, isn’t it? Just one word, the Christian name?” asked Maisie.
“I’ll say. The whole bleedin’ thing was strange. Two years ago ’e came, this one. Small family burial. ’e was a captain. Injured at Passchendaele. Terrible show was that one, terrible. Wonder ’e came ’ome at all. ’e’d lived away from the family, apparently, after bein’ ’ome for a bit. Wanted to be known only by ’is Christian name. Said it wasn’t important anymore, seein’ as they were all nobodies who could just be written off like leftovers. Shame to ’is family, accordin’ to a couple of ’is mates that came up ’ere for a while after. Now only that woman comes. Think she was ’is mate’s sister, known ’er for years, ’e ’ad. Keeps the grave nice, you’d think ’e only went down yesterday.”
“Hmm. Very sad indeed. What was his surname, do you know?”
By now the man was well into the telling of stories, and seemed glad of the opportunity, and importance, that a question brought him.
“Weathershaw. Vincent Weathershaw. Came from Chislehurst. Good family, by the looks of them. Mind you, ’e passed away where ’e was living. A farm, I think it was. Yes, ’e lived on a farm, not that far from ’ere—though more in the country, like. Far as I know, quite a few of ’em lived there.”
Maisie felt a chill as the stillness of the cemetery seeped through her clothing and touched her skin. Yet the shiver was familiar to Maisie, who had felt that sensation even in warm weather when there was no cooling breeze. She had come to recognize this spark of energy passing across her skin as a warning.
“Quite a few of them?”
“Well, you know.”The man rubbed his stubbled jawbone with the flat of his thick, earth-stained hand. “Them who got it in the face. Remember, we’re not far from Sidcup ’ere—you know. Queen Mary’s, the ’ospital where they did all that special work on faces, trying to ’elp the poor sods. Amazin’ when you think of it, what they tried to do there—and what they did do. Miracle workers, they were. Mind you, I wouldn’t mind bettin’ a few of them boys still weren’t fancy-looking enough for their sweethearts, and ended up at that farm.”
The old gardener picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow. Maisie saw that he was ready to move on, away from recollections of war.
“Well, I had better be getting on, Mr. . . .”
“Smith. Tom Smith.”
“Yes, I have to catch the two o’clock, Tom. And thank you.”
Tom Smith watched as Maisie picked her way past the graves to the path, and as he turned to leave he called to her. “I ’spect I won’t see you ’ere again . . . but you know, Miss, the funny thing about this ’ere Vincent is that ’e wasn’t the only one.”
“The only one what?”
“The only one buried with just a Christian name.”
Maisie held her head to one side, encouraging Tom to continue.
“There was a few of them, and you know what?
“What?” said Maisie.<
br />
“All lost touch with their families. Tragic it was, just tragic. Seeing their parents. You should never ’ave to go through that, never. Bad enough seeing ’em go off to war, let alone losing them when they come back.”
“Yes, that is tragic.”
Maisie looked at Tom, then asked the question that had been with her since the man had first spoken to her.“Tom . . . where is your boy resting?”
Tom Smith looked at Maisie, and tears rimmed his eyes. The lines etched in his face grew deeper, and his shoulders dropped. “Down there.” He pointed to the row of headstones nearest the railway line.
“Loved trains as a boy. Loved ‘em. Came back from France not quite right up ’ere.” He tapped the side of his head.“Would scream in the middle of the night, but it was all you could do to get a sound out of the boy in the daytime. One mornin’ the missus goes up to take ’im up a cup of tea and there ’e was. Done ’imself in. She was never the same. Never. Broke ’er spirit, it did. Passed away three years ago come December.”
Maisie nodded, held out her hand, and laid it upon his arm. They stood in silence.
“Well, this will never do,” said Tom Smith.“Must be getting along. Got to look after them, ’aven’t I? Good day to you, Miss.”
Maisie Dobbs bade the man good-bye but didn’t leave the cemetery immediately. Later, while waiting on the platform for the train back to London, she took a small notebook from her handbag and recorded the events of the day. Each detail was noted, including the color of Celia Davenham’s shamrock-green gloves.
She had found two more graves whose headstones bore Christian names only, not very far from the final resting place of Vincent Weathershaw. Three young “old soldiers” who had withdrawn from their families. Maisie sat back on the bench and started to compose her questions, the questions to herself that would come as a result of her observations. She would not struggle to answer the questions but would let them do their work.
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