Douglas reached out to cover one hand with his own. “Go on, Andrew—please tell us how Tim is faring.”
“I will tell you now that, having examined him when I arrived, I took Tim into that theater not knowing if I would be able to bring him out alive. The operation was a long one—you know, you’ve been waiting—but he endured the anesthetic and the procedure.” He cleared his throat. “The fact is that the humerus bone in the left arm was shattered. He had sustained vascular damage and various connective tissue was all but lost. I am afraid devastation to the limb, together with the huge risk of spreading infection, meant that the arm could not be saved—I had to amputate just here.” With his finger he drew a line across his arm just below the shoulder.
Maisie heard both Priscilla and Douglas gasp.
Andrew Dene sighed. “I’m so very sorry—if I could have saved the arm, I would have. In the meantime, infection remains a great risk, but I have used something very new—a purified type of fungus known as Penicillium, though it’s now known as penicillin.”
“Fungus? You’ve put a fungus into my son?” said Priscilla.
“It’s terribly new, as I said—well, it’s new for use in the medical field—and I was fortunate to have been asked to contribute to research regarding its application in hospitals, as a tool to use against possible sepsis. It’s not available to most doctors yet, but I have great faith in it—and in my work so far it seems to far exceed the results we’ve had with the usual sulphur-based compounds.”
“When my arm was amputated, it was in France, at a casualty clearing station,” said Douglas. “I remember that terrible smell of sulphur.”
“But better than gangrene,” said Maisie.
“And I’ll never forget that smell,” added Priscilla. “It was the odor of death in the back of my ambulance.”
“If there is a saving grace, it is this,” said Dene, looking at Douglas. “Tim has a strong family, and a father who knows exactly how he is going to feel. He will require all your support and guidance as he emerges from this trauma.” He paused, drawing his attention to Maisie, then to Tim’s parents. “What Tim witnessed during the evacuation will remain with him forever—it’s something we cannot imagine, and those memories cannot be taken away. This is all more in Maisie’s line of work than mine—but he will have many mountains to climb, especially the weight of survival because his friend was killed. He will regain dexterity—as you know, Douglas, the other arm becomes stronger—but he will be forever changed.” Dene stood up, his shoulders rounded with fatigue. “I am a surgeon, and when operating I have to be dispassionate, seeing the body as a machine. It is my task to give the machine every chance of working properly again, though the cogs might look a little different. But I also know the difficulties involved in true recovery—and it can take a long time. Tim has an advantage I cannot prescribe—his spirit.”
“When can we see him?” asked Douglas.
“Not before tomorrow. My suggestion is that you all go home to Chelstone and get a very good night’s sleep, if you can. Tim will prevail—the fact that he came home, that he kept his wits about him when the pain would have felled a lesser man, is testament to his ability to endure.”
The sun was shining as George drove Priscilla and Douglas back to Hastings the following day, along with Tarquin, who had been told about his brother’s journey to Dunkirk, and what happened when he came home. Having waved them off, Maisie brought the Alvis around to the Comptons’ garage, where she parked it and left the keys on George’s work bench. She patted the bonnet, and closed the door behind her. It was not a great loss, the lack of a motor car to hand, though it might prove to be inconvenient. She hoped the day ahead would be a quiet one. Perhaps she would read to Anna, prepare Sunday lunch, and visit her in-laws, who were anxious for news of Tim.
Brenda was waving to her as she reached the path that led from the garage up to the Dower House.
“Telephone for you, Maisie,” she called out. “It’s your Mr. Beale, says it’s important.”
Maisie ran to the house, and picked up the telephone receiver.
“Billy—how are you?”
“All right, miss. What about Tim—did you find him?”
“Yes, we did. He’s home.” Maisie recounted the story of Tim’s arrival back in Rye, and the news of his operation.
There was silence on the line.
“Billy?”
“Yes, miss, just thinking about Tim and his mum and dad. I know this sounds a bit off, but I half envy them?”
Maisie nodded. “I think I know what you’re going to say, Billy.”
“I thought you would. I mean, it’s a terrible, terrible thing, but the boy has been to war now—so he’ll never be blaming himself for not going. And he did something not a lot of lads his age would’ve done. So, he’s lost his arm—but the fact of the matter is that now no one can send him anywhere to lose his life, can they? He can get on with it and make something of himself, like his father’s done.”
“Yes—yes, I believe you’re right.” Maisie paused. “But you called for another reason, Billy—what did you find out?”
“I think you had an inkling of this, or you wouldn’t have been so specific with what you wanted me to look into. It’s Teddy Wickham.”
“Go on,” said Maisie.
“His mum—maiden name was Doris Robertson. And there’s more.”
“Sally Coombes.”
“Right first time. She’s Jimmy and Doris Robertson’s sister.”
“And probably met her husband through Jimmy Robertson, because Phil Coombes was in the army with him.”
“What’s that you’re always saying, that line—didn’t you say Walter Scott wrote it? ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave . . .’”
“‘When first we practice to deceive.’”
“But why did—?”
“Not yet, Billy. Having dodgy relatives doesn’t make people criminals. We’ve a little way to go—as I said, they can stew in their juices. I think I understand this particular web, but I need more evidence.”
“All right, miss. See you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be back in the office late morning. I’ll tell you what I think we need to do then. We’ve time.”
Maisie replaced the telephone receiver, and thought for a moment, her hand remaining ready to make another call. She picked up the receiver and dialed.
“Chelstone Manor?”
“Hello, Simmonds—is Lord Julian in his study?”
“I have just taken him his morning coffee. Her Ladyship has departed for a walk with the dogs across to the stables. Shall I tell him you’d like to speak to him?”
“I’m going to come over to the house now, Simmonds. Please let him know I’m on my way.”
“Right you are—and may I say how glad we all were to hear that young Timothy Partridge is on home turf. It might have been better news, but at least he is home.”
“Yes, he’s home. That’s the most important thing. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
When Maisie entered the manor house library, Lord Julian was standing behind his desk looking out at the grounds. He turned as the door opened, and came toward her, his hands outstretched.
“Maisie, my dear—what a trial, seeing your dear friends go through such a terrible time, waiting for news of their son, and now this. We have come to enjoy their company. If there’s anything we can do . . .”
“Thank you so much,” said Maisie. “I think, though, it’s going to be a time of waiting and helping Tim through the coming weeks and months of recovery. I believe he will be spending a good deal of time here at Chelstone, along with his family.”
“Full house eh? We’re at capacity here too, what with the Canadian officers. Good group though, we’ve grown to enjoy having them here—the supper conversation has been very lively.” He motioned to Maisie to take the chair on the opposite side of his desk. “Coffee?”
“I’ll pour,” said Maisie. She topped up Lord Julian’s cup and served herself a half-cup of the thick black coffee from the silver pot bearing the Compton family crest, a coat of arms also engraved on the matching tray, milk jug and sugar bowl.