Free Pardonable Lie by Jacqueline Winspear Page B

false step and…. She tapped the table again. She was to meet Priscilla at the Strand Palace at one o’clock. There was just enough time to go to Khan. He is the one to whom I have turned, Maisie, in times of spiritual darkness . She would go now, before the cloud she felt looming ahead came any closer.

    T HE LARGE HOUSE in Hampstead had not changed since she first entered it as a young girl, brought by Maurice Blanche to meet Dr. Basil Khan on what he described as an educational visit . It was from Khan that Maisie learned that seeing was not necessarily something one did with the eyes; there was a depth of vision to be gained from stillness, a vision that had stood her in good stead ever since. And it was to Khan that Maurice brought Maisie again, in the early days of her return from France in 1917, so that his insight, calm, and healing presence might bring peace to a young woman wounded in body and spirit. He had not failed her but simply asked her to tell her story again and again and again, and in the telling she had begun the journey of ridding herself of death’s ugly stench, a clinging vapor she thought had laid claim to her senses forever.
    A young man in a white cotton robe answered the door and bowed to Maisie, bidding her to enter the spacious yet plain hexagonal hallway.
    “I have come to see him—if I may?”
    “I shall ask. It is Miss Dobbs, is it not?”
    “Yes. Thank you.”
    The young man bowed, his hands pressed together in front of his chest, and left the room.
    Maisie walked to the bay window that looked out across the garden at the front of the house. A dense privet hedge obscured a view of the road, offering privacy from the curiosity of passersby. There were two statues in the garden, which was fragrant with flowers and shrubs not immediately familiar to Maisie. One statue had been brought from Ceylon. It was of the Buddha, sitting with legs crossed. Rose petals had been left at the base of the statue and around the neck. The other, perhaps surprisingly, was of St. Francis. At the foot of this statue, a small feeding platform for birds had been placed. Maisie smiled as a thrush settled on one of St. Francis’s arms before hopping down for a repast of bread crumbs.
    Khan’s students came from all over the world, accommodated in the many rooms of the large house. In addition to the young men and women who stayed for months at a time, Khan held daily audiences with others who sought his counsel. Those who came represented a broad spectrum of influence, be they men of politics, commerce, or the cloth; it was from such sources that bills for upkeep of the house and property were paid—though the material needs of its occupants were few.
    The young man entered again, and Maisie was led to Khan’s rooms. The reception room was much as she remembered it as a girl, though today the floor-to-ceiling windows were closed and the white curtains did not billow majestically as they had on that first visit. She removed her shoes before entering the spartan room. Khan sat cross-legged on cushions, positioned so he faced outward, to the natural light. Maisie moved toward him, and as she came closer he turned. She took the wizened clawlike hand extended to her and leaned forward to brush her lips against his forehead.
    “I am glad you are in my house again, Maisie Dobbs.”
    “And I too, Khan.”
    “You have only a short time, no doubt.”
    “Yes.”
    Khan nodded as Maisie silently knelt on a cushion close to him and then sat with her legs to the side. She rested one hand on the floor and smiled at Khan, and though he could not see her, he turned to her once more and smiled. As he faced the window again, Maisie saw a single fly land on his forehead and crawl to his ear and then his nose before flying away into the room. Khan did not even flinch. She knew she would have to speak first, and that her words must be from the heart.
    “I am afraid, Khan.”
    He nodded.
    “I have been asked to take on a case