then. I think, Miss Dobbs—”
“Did she ever say why she thought her son was alive?”
Browning stood up and walked toward the window. Maisie knew the woman’s desire to protect her reputation would prevent her from sending her from the house; after all, she might be well connected. “Mrs. Lawton said a mother knows, and he would have come to her. You heard about it a lot, sons coming home to their mothers for just a second; then the next thing you know, the telegram’s arrived. Happened to me, it did, so I knew what she meant. I thought I saw my Bernard walking down them steps there; then all of a sudden he was gone. Vanished. A week later the telegram arrived, telling me he’d been killed. That’s how I knew I had the sight.”
“I’m sorry—”
“So I knew what she meant. If he hadn’t come to her, just for a glimpse, then he must be alive.”
Maisie stood up, ready to leave. There was nothing for her here, except perhaps an impression of Agnes Lawton’s desperation. She imagined the woman making her way to Browning’s dark parlor—despite her attempts to cheer the exterior with flowers—and sitting while the fake spiritualist feigned communion with the dead, allowing her to believe her son was still alive. Even though she loathed such deceit, Maisie was filled with compassion. There was an immense sadness in Browning’s work, though the woman could not see the harm inherent in her claims.
“Do you have many visits from the bereaved nowadays?”
“Oh, I still get the odd one here and there, but not like it was during the war. I get a lot of young girls now wanting to know who they are going to marry, whether they’ll marry well, that sort of thing. I put it down to the talkies, you know. They all want to know if they’ll meet the likes of Douglas Fairbanks or Ronald Colman, or if they’ll be rich and live in a big house.” She looked up at Maisie. “Now, I notice you aren’t engaged, Miss Dobbs. I do think I see a tall man in your future, wears a hat—”
Maisie raised a hand. “Not me! I’ll be on my way, Mrs. Browning. Thank you for your time.”
And before Lillian Browning had even a chance to say goodbye, Maisie was gone.
T HE NEXT STOP was Camberwell and a Miss Darby. The small terraced house backed onto the railway line, with air acrid from the constant to-ing and fro-ing of steam trains belching in and out of the main London stations, the residue of raw boiler fuel from the Welsh coal mines lingering in the gardens. Maisie knocked at the door of number 5 Denton Street, and a small thin woman of about sixty opened the door. She held a handkerchief to her mouth and nose and only removed it to say quickly, “Yes?”
Maisie coughed. “Maisie Dobbs to see Miss Darby. If you have a moment.”
The woman nodded and stood aside, saying nothing until they were inside and walking toward the sitting room. “I tell you, there’s days I can’t even sit in my own garden. I put my washing out, and it’s all splattered with black spots. Mind you, always the same, it is. Always been like it ever since I first came to live here, but lately, since I went down with the flu in—oh, sorry, Miss Dobbs. Do take a seat.” The woman pointed to a wooden Windsor chair and pulled an identical chair alongside. She took Maisie’s hand in hers. “Now, then, has a dear one passed on?”
SEVEN
The visit to Miss Darby proceeded much as Maisie had anticipated. Though the woman’s compassion for her clients was obvious, Maisie detected no authentic ability to communicate with anything other than flesh and blood, which she did very well and to her advantage. Darby had taken care not to make promises that could not be kept and—from her account of their meetings—it would seem that Agnes Lawton gained nothing more than an hour or two’s comfort. Maisie left the house with a sense of frustration and pity: frustration that Agnes Lawton had not seen the fakery behind the claims, and pity for a woman
“Did she ever say why she thought her son was alive?”
Browning stood up and walked toward the window. Maisie knew the woman’s desire to protect her reputation would prevent her from sending her from the house; after all, she might be well connected. “Mrs. Lawton said a mother knows, and he would have come to her. You heard about it a lot, sons coming home to their mothers for just a second; then the next thing you know, the telegram’s arrived. Happened to me, it did, so I knew what she meant. I thought I saw my Bernard walking down them steps there; then all of a sudden he was gone. Vanished. A week later the telegram arrived, telling me he’d been killed. That’s how I knew I had the sight.”
“I’m sorry—”
“So I knew what she meant. If he hadn’t come to her, just for a glimpse, then he must be alive.”
Maisie stood up, ready to leave. There was nothing for her here, except perhaps an impression of Agnes Lawton’s desperation. She imagined the woman making her way to Browning’s dark parlor—despite her attempts to cheer the exterior with flowers—and sitting while the fake spiritualist feigned communion with the dead, allowing her to believe her son was still alive. Even though she loathed such deceit, Maisie was filled with compassion. There was an immense sadness in Browning’s work, though the woman could not see the harm inherent in her claims.
“Do you have many visits from the bereaved nowadays?”
“Oh, I still get the odd one here and there, but not like it was during the war. I get a lot of young girls now wanting to know who they are going to marry, whether they’ll marry well, that sort of thing. I put it down to the talkies, you know. They all want to know if they’ll meet the likes of Douglas Fairbanks or Ronald Colman, or if they’ll be rich and live in a big house.” She looked up at Maisie. “Now, I notice you aren’t engaged, Miss Dobbs. I do think I see a tall man in your future, wears a hat—”
Maisie raised a hand. “Not me! I’ll be on my way, Mrs. Browning. Thank you for your time.”
And before Lillian Browning had even a chance to say goodbye, Maisie was gone.
T HE NEXT STOP was Camberwell and a Miss Darby. The small terraced house backed onto the railway line, with air acrid from the constant to-ing and fro-ing of steam trains belching in and out of the main London stations, the residue of raw boiler fuel from the Welsh coal mines lingering in the gardens. Maisie knocked at the door of number 5 Denton Street, and a small thin woman of about sixty opened the door. She held a handkerchief to her mouth and nose and only removed it to say quickly, “Yes?”
Maisie coughed. “Maisie Dobbs to see Miss Darby. If you have a moment.”
The woman nodded and stood aside, saying nothing until they were inside and walking toward the sitting room. “I tell you, there’s days I can’t even sit in my own garden. I put my washing out, and it’s all splattered with black spots. Mind you, always the same, it is. Always been like it ever since I first came to live here, but lately, since I went down with the flu in—oh, sorry, Miss Dobbs. Do take a seat.” The woman pointed to a wooden Windsor chair and pulled an identical chair alongside. She took Maisie’s hand in hers. “Now, then, has a dear one passed on?”
SEVEN
The visit to Miss Darby proceeded much as Maisie had anticipated. Though the woman’s compassion for her clients was obvious, Maisie detected no authentic ability to communicate with anything other than flesh and blood, which she did very well and to her advantage. Darby had taken care not to make promises that could not be kept and—from her account of their meetings—it would seem that Agnes Lawton gained nothing more than an hour or two’s comfort. Maisie left the house with a sense of frustration and pity: frustration that Agnes Lawton had not seen the fakery behind the claims, and pity for a woman
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