Excerpt: Pardonable Lies by Winspear

The following is an excerpt from the book Pardonable Lies: A Maisie Dobbs
Novel
Jacqueline Winspear
Published by Henry Holt; August 2005; $23.00US/$30.95CAN; 0-8050-7897-5
Copyright © 2005 Jacqueline Winspear
ONE

The young policewoman stood in the corner of the room. Plain whitewashed
walls, a heavy door, a wooden table with two chairs, and one small window
with frosted glass rendered the room soulless. It was a cold afternoon and
she'd been in the corner since coming on duty two hours ago, her only
company the rumpled and bent girl sitting in the chair that faced the wall.
Others had come into the room to sit in the second chair: first, Detective
Inspector Richard Stratton, with Detective Sergeant Caldwell standing behind
him; then Stratton standing while a doctor from the Maudsley Hospital sat
before the girl, trying to get her to speak. The girl -- no one knew her age
or where she had come from because she hadn't spoken a word since she was
brought in this morning, her bloodstained dress, hands and face showing a
month's worth of dirt -- was now waiting for another person who had been
summoned to question her: a Miss Maisie Dobbs. The policewoman had heard of
Maisie Dobbs, but with what she had seen today, she wasn't sure that anyone
could get this young scrubber to talk.

The policewoman heard voices outside the door: Stratton and Caldwell and
then another voice. A smooth voice. A voice that was neither loud nor soft,
that did not need to be raised to be heard or, thought the policewoman, to
get someone to listen.

The door opened and Stratton came in, followed by a woman she presumed to be
Maisie Dobbs. The policewoman was surprised, for the woman was nothing like
she had expected, but then she realized that the voice had revealed little
about the owner, except that it had depth without being deep.

Wearing a plain burgundy suit with black shoes and carrying a worn black
leather document case, the visitor smiled at both the policewoman and
Stratton in a way that almost startled the uniformed woman, as her eyes met
the midnight-blue eyes of Maisie Dobbs, psychologist and investigator.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Chalmers," said Maisie, though they had not been
introduced. The warm familiarity of the greeting took Chalmers aback. "Brrr.
It's cold in here," added the investigator, turning to Stratton. "Inspector,
can we bring in an oil stove? Just to take the edge off?"

Stratton raised an eyebrow and inclined his head at the unusual nature of
the request. Amused at seeing her superior caught off guard, Chalmers tried
to hide a grin, and the seated girl looked up, just for a second, because
the woman's voice compelled her to do so.

"Good. Thank you, Inspector. Oh -- and perhaps a chair for Miss Chalmers."
Maisie Dobbs removed her gloves, placing them on top of the black bag, which
she set on the floor, before pulling a chair around so that she was seated
not opposite the girl, on the other side of the table, but close to her.

Strange, thought Chalmers, as the door opened and a constable brought in
another chair, left the room, and returned with a small paraffin stove,
which he placed by the wall. They exchanged quick glances and shrugged
shoulders.

"Thank you," said Maisie, smiling.

And they knew she had seen their furtive communication.

Now, sitting alongside the girl, Maisie said nothing. She said nothing for
some time, so that after a while Chalmers wondered what in heaven's name she
was there for. Then she realized that the Dobbs woman had closed her eyes
and had changed her position slowly, and though she couldn't put her finger
on it, it was as if she were talking to the girl without opening her mouth,
so that the girl -- as if she couldn't help herself -- leaned toward Maisie
Dobbs. Blimey, she's going to talk.

"I'm getting warmer now." It was a rounded voice, a west-country voice. The
girl spoke deliberately, with rolled r's and a nod when her sentence was
finished. A farm girl. Yes, Chalmers would have pegged her for a farm girl.

But Maisie Dobbs said nothing, just opened her eyes and smiled, but not with
her mouth. No, it was her eyes that smiled. Then she touched the girl's
hand, taking it in her own. The girl began to cry and, very strange again,
thought Chalmers, the Dobbs woman didn't reach out to put an arm around her
shoulder, or try to stop her or use the moment as Stratton and Caldwell
might have. No, she just sat and nodded, as if she had all the time in the
world. Then she surprised the policewoman again.

"Miss Chalmers. Would you be so kind as to poke your head around the door
and ask for a bowl of hot water, some soap, two flannels, and a towel,
please."

Chalmers gave a single nod and moved toward the door. Oh, this would surely
give the girls something to chew over later. They'd all have a giggle about
this little pantomime.

A bowl of hot water was brought to the room by the police constable, along
with the flannels, soap, and towel. Maisie removed her jacket, placed it
over the back of the chair, and rolled up the sleeves of her cream silk
blouse. Reaching into the bowl, she rubbed some soap on a wet flannel and
squeezed out the excess water. Then she lifted the girl's chin, smiled into
her reddened and bloodshot eyes, and began to wash her face, rinsing the
flannel and going back again, dabbing the hot cloth on the girl's temples
and across her forehead. She washed her arms, holding first her left hand in
the hot flannel and working the cloth up to her elbow, then reaching for the
girl's right hand. The girl flinched, but Maisie showed no sign of noticing
the movement, instead massaging her right hand with the cloth, gently
working it along her arm to the elbow, and then rinsing again.

It was as she knelt on the floor, taking one filthy bare foot after the
other and washing the dirt and grime away with the second flannel, that the
policewoman realized she had become mesmerized by the scene unfolding before
her. It's like being in church.

The girl spoke again. "You've got right soft 'ands, miss."

Maisie Dobbs smiled. "Thank you. I used to be a nurse, years ago, in the
war. That's what the soldiers used to say: that my hands were soft."

The girl nodded.

"What's your name?"

Chalmers stared as the girl -- who had been sitting in that room without so
much as a cup of tea since she was brought in twelve hours ago -- replied
immediately.

"Avril Jarvis, miss."

"Where are you from?"

"Taunton, miss." She began to sob.

Maisie Dobbs reached into the black bag and brought out a clean linen
handkerchief, which she placed on the table in front of the girl. Chalmers
waited for Maisie to take out a sheet of paper to write notes, but she
didn't; instead she simply continued with her questions as she finished
drying the girl's feet.

"How old are you, Avril?"

"Fourteen next April, I reckon."

Maisie smiled. "Tell me, why are you in London and not Taunton?"

Avril Jarvis sobbed continuously as Maisie folded the towel and sat next to
her again. But she did answer the question, along with every other question
put to her over the next hour, at which point Maisie said that was enough
for now; she would be taken care of and they would speak again tomorrow --
only Detective Inspector Stratton would have to hear her story too. Then,
adding fuel to the tale that Chalmers would tell the other policewomen
lodging in rooms upstairs at Vine Street, the Jarvis girl nodded and said,
"All right, then. Just so long as you'll be with me, miss."

"Yes. I'll be here. Don't worry. You can rest now, Avril."


Copyright © 2005 Jacqueline Winspear

Author
Jacqueline Winspear is the author of two previous Maisie Dobbs novels,
Maisie Dobbs and Birds of a Feather. A national bestseller and a New York
Times Notable Book, Maisie Dobbs was nominated for seven awards, including
the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Novel, and won the Agatha, Alex, and
Macavity Awards. Birds of a Feather won the 2004 Agatha Award and was
nominated for the Bruce Alexander Historical Mystery Award and the Dilys
Award. Originally from the United Kingdom, Winspear now lives in California.


For more information, please visit www.jacquelinewinspear.com