Jacqueline Winspear - Maisie Dobbs

"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.