The Mapping of Love and Death

ELEVEN

Mullen's been good to me. They're all pretty good to me. There's a bit of teasing here and here, but I get along fine with everyone-well, almost everyone. I don't know that Mullen and I would ever have become friends in civvy street, but here in France, and out there when we're working, Mullen has become my friend, and it's good to have a buddy-or a mate. As Mullen said, "You and me's mates." I told him that, when all this is over and I go out to California again, I'll need good men to work with me, and he said he'd come like a shot ("Couldn't keep me back, guv'nor," he said). The fact is that I've talked about my land so much now, I am sure Mullen knows every last inch of it, almost as if he'd been there himself. He's a good worker, a man to depend on. This war might have created soldiers of some and officers of others, but it also mixes people up, blends them together. I think Mullen might have been in a bit of trouble before the war, which is probably why he enlisted, and I reckon it's why he would like to hightail it out of Blighty when this whole thing is done. He's palled up to some of the officers, which is okay, whatever he wants to do, but some of the other lads don't seem to like it. They tell him off for sucking up. It doesn't hurt me-so long as we all do our jobs and get out of here, I don't mind what people do. I'm okay when there's no one around to get at me because he's got more pips on his shoulder.

Maisie turned the pages of Clifton's journal, once again cocooned within the quiet evening solitude of her flat. In the distance she could hear foghorns drone their song of warning along the river, their call like that of fairy-tale mermaids to boatmen navigating the sometimes treacherous waterway.

She wondered about Mullen and thought he was, perhaps, a man easily led, and probably by a yearning for a better life-after all, wasn't something better what most of a certain station wanted, if not for themselves, then for their children? But would Mullen have betrayed Michael Clifton's trust? If Mullen was the man who had attacked her-and without doubt evidence pointed in that direction-she did not sense that he could kill. The incident in the park seemed to have been an error; playing the memory back in her mind, as if it were a moving picture, she recalled the man turning to look back as she fell, a certain shock registered on his face, his eyes wide, as if in other circumstances he might be the first to come to her aid. And then he was gone, running away with his catch: her document case. What was he after? Indeed, if he was working for someone else, what did they think they would find? She had just left the hotel and her meeting with Thomas Libbert, so it was fair to assume that she had been observed entering and later exiting the hotel. Could Libbert be involved, perhaps informing a waiting Mullen that their quarry was on her way out? Had he instructed him to the effect that the old black case she carried must be obtained at all costs? Or was Mullen-a "tea boy" to more powerful men, according to Caldwell-working for someone else altogether? All in all, as she leafed through the journal, she thought Mullen might have been a likable rogue but a weak man, a man who would follow the scent of a quick shilling earned by dishonorable means.

There were times when Maisie wished she could simply pick up a telephone from her home and place a call to Maurice. He had always kept late hours, before this more recent illness, and there was a time when she knew he would have been sitting by the fire in his study, a glass of single-malt whiskey in his hand, a book or some papers in the other. When she had lived at Ebury Place, using the telephone at a late hour did not present a problem. Now to do such a thing necessitated a walk along the road to the kiosk-and Maurice would be in bed anyway. She wished it were otherwise, that she could lift the receiver and in a minute be talking to her mentor, telling him the story of her case and waiting for his advice, which always came in the shape of a question. How might it be if you look at the problem from this vantage point, Maisie? And even though she was not with him, at the end of the conversation she knew he would be smiling. That knowing smile would not be due to the fact that he had given her clues, but because he was aware that his questions had helped break down a wall so that she could see a door-and they both knew the knowledge she had in the palm of her hand had been there all the time; it had just taken a conversation with Maurice to enable her to recognize it.

Over the past two years, since the time of discord in their relationship, those telephone calls placed late at night had been few and far between, and more often because Maisie knew that Maurice missed his work to some degree, and-as he often said-could live vicariously through his former assistant as she journeyed thought the twists and turns of her cases. But now she would have been grateful for his counsel.

Maisie read on for a while, then made ready for bed. Before slipping between the bedclothes, she sat on a cushion already placed on the floor in her bedroom. She crossed her legs and closed her eyes in meditation. Though she tried to keep up with her practice, in recent weeks she had worked late and fallen asleep without first quieting the mind so the soul could be heard. But tonight, as she felt the day slip away and her consciousness descend to a place beyond her own immediate existence, she saw an image of Maurice standing before her. Her eyes were closed, yet she was aware of his presence, and felt his smile as he spoke. "You know the truth, Maisie. You know the truth, but you need the proof. The facts are there, Maisie, between the lines. The evidence is always between the lines, whether it is written or not. Look between the lines."

She remained sitting for a while, clearing her mind so that any nuggets of insight tucked away in her subconscious could come to the fore; then she opened her eyes, stood up, and returned to the dining table where Michael Clifton's journal and his lover's letters had been stacked. Many of the letters were difficult to read, so she had set them aside in favor of those whose pages had come apart with only the slightest slip of the finger along an adhesion. Now she went to the kitchen for a table knife and began to work on those letters where the paper was fused and the ink faint, despite her earlier attempts at careful drying. With a steady hand she divided pages joined by the years since Michael Clifton wrapped them in paper and waxed cloth, as if they were jewels to be cherished.

Priscilla, good morning to you!" Maisie twisted the telephone cord between her fingers as she greeted her friend.

"Heavens above, what on earth is the time? My toads are on their way to school, and I had just settled down to a quiet cup of coffee while I read this morning's dire warnings of the demise of the world, and there you are, bright and early and far too chipper." Priscilla paused. "I know, I bet Ben telephoned and you are over the moon."

"No. Well, Ben has telephoned, but that's not why I'm calling."

"You sound very bright."

"Am I usually so dour?"

"Not dour, just, well, let's say thoughtful. A bit less thinking and more having a bit of fun might not do you any harm."

"That's what you always say. In any case, I'm going to Brooklands on Saturday, for a motor racing meet."

"I never took Ben for the racing type."

"He probably isn't. I'm going with James Compton. He invited me last weekend."

"James Compton? Good lord, Maisie, that's not half bad."

"Just a friend, Pris. And probably not even that."

"Then why did he ask you?"

"I think he's lonely."

"Hmmmm." Priscilla paused, and Maisie heard her lift her cup to her lips to sip her coffee, which was always brewed strong, with hot milk added. She continued. "I've managed to pave the way for your introduction to Lady Petronella. Of course, you could have just picked up the telephone yourself, but as we both know, the path is often easier when trodden down earlier by those who are close to the subject."

"You sound like an old hand."

"I feel like one. Let me just grab my notebook-I have a 'Maisie' notebook now. Right, here we are: call her at this number-Mayfair five-three-two-oh-and make the arrangements with her butler, though I am told she often answers the telephone herself. Has them all over the house. She's very approachable, but at the same time no-nonsense, as you can imagine-you don't get things done in the way that she gets things done if you are wishy-washy."

"Anything else you can tell me about her?"

"Very active socially, as Julia said. She's quite the philanthropist and supports several mother-and-baby homes for wayward girls. Hmmm, wonder why no one ever mentions the wayward boys who put them there? Her two adored daughters are grown up, as you know, and she has the much younger son, to whom she is devoted. While not exactly the merry widow, she hasn't let the grass grow under her feet either."

"Thank you, Pris."

"Anything else?"

"Can I come round later, for tea perhaps?"

"Darling, you know you don't have to ask-you're family! I would love to see you-part of the joy of being back in London is having you in the same town, though frankly I never know where you are, with all your gallivanting around."

"See you this afternoon, then."

"Au revoir, Maisie."

Maisie had arrived at her desk early, and when Billy walked into the office, she was sitting at the table where the case map was pinned out, jotting notes on the length of paper. She stood back to see if any links or associations could be established where she might not have seen a connection before.

"Morning, Miss. I'm not late, am I?" He pulled up his sleeve to check the hour, always pleased with an opportunity to demonstrate that the timepiece she had bought for him was being used.

"No, I'm early, that's all."

"Cuppa the old char for you?"

"That would be nice, Billy. Then let's talk about Edward Clifton-and the shoe business he left behind."

Soon they were both seated alongside the table, mugs of tea in hand, and Maisie was ready to begin with a recap of information already gathered.

"I've found out a bit more about that Sydney Mullen." Billy flicked through several pages in his notebook until he found the entry he was looking for. "There we are. Right then, it turns out our Sydney might have got himself in over his head, as they say. As far as I can make out, he went about his business more or less like Caldwell told it; a bit of knowledge here, pass it on there, money changes hands with a contact; putting this person in touch with that one, being the middleman between people who would never have come across each other in the normal course of things."

"Something of an ambassador crook then."

"Ah," said Billy, "but no one plays fast and loose with Alfie Mantle."

"Mantle? From the Old Nichol?" Maisie raised her eyebrows. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn.

"Yes, him. Born in the Old Nichol at the Shoreditch end. They tore down the slum to build the Boundary Estate, but not before Alfie had stepped on the first rung of the ne'er-do-well ladder. You had to be light-fingered to survive in that terrible place, and Alfie was a right Artful Dodger; he moved up to running some rackets, careful all the time not to tread on anyone else's turf. If you know anything about Mantle, Miss, you'll know he was sharp. There'd be a slap on the back for everyone and lots of making nice conversation with the hounds doing business across the water and them others who had the West End by the tail. After the war, when a lot of blokes he wanted out of the way were a few feet underground, he went for bigger fish-and that's where Caldwell would know more from his Flying Squad mates."

"And Mullen was mixed up with him?"

"Here's how I reckon it happened: Mantle was once a bit of a loan shark, and he decided to spread his wings. Now, knowing he couldn't take on new business by working another man's manor, if you know what I mean, he decided to move up in the world, scout around for marks that were a bit better off-if someone wants money that bad, they don't care where it came from. So his blokes start watching the clubs and the hotels, they see who's spending money and who looks like they need a bit extra, and they make their move. Alfie Mantle had an in with more than a few of the more posh establishments, and as he moved up, so he looked more the part; he dresses in Savile Row suits, has his shirts and shoes handmade, and is loved by all who came from the Old Nichol. You'll hear people say, 'He's so good to his old mum.' Mantle looks after his own, but I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of him."

"So Mullen was one of his runners." Maisie paused. "But he didn't work exclusively for Mantle, did he?"

"Probably not-and that could have been where he went wrong. I reckon he was a go-between, like I said. Someone who puts this person in touch with that person, the sort of fella who's always got another train of thought going on, you know, wondering what he can make out of knowing you."

Maisie tapped her fingers on the desk, then looked up at her assistant. "I wonder-"

"What, Miss?"

Maisie shook her head. "Nothing. Just thinking. Thank you, Billy. This information has stirred up the river, no two ways about it. That was good work." She penned a series of dots on the edge of the case map, first an inward spiral, then outward. She sighed, then spoke again. "Now then, let's get back to Edward Clifton."

Billy picked up a colored crayon as Maisie began.

"So, Edward Clifton left home at, what, nineteen? He could see only more shoes and whale oil to soften the leather in his future, and fled to the promise of America."

"Lucky fella."

"It would seem so," said Maisie. "And while he didn't exactly land on his feet, it didn't take him long to establish a life for himself, though I imagine he had to conquer more than a few mountains before he could rest on his laurels."

"He married well," said Billy.

"Of that there's no doubt. But what about the family in England? They must have been shocked at the loss of a son and brother-if someone emigrates, it's tantamount to having them taken from you in death. You assume you'll never see them again. People cannot conceive of the distance-I know I can't. And when I think of James Compton sailing back and forth once or twice a year to and from Canada-it's a long way."

Billy sighed. "I wish me and Doreen and the boys could sail to Canada. I've never wished for anything more in my life-except in the war, when I didn't want to die over there in France, and when I've wished for Doreen to get better. Then there was wishing for Lizzie to live."

Maisie understood Billy's anxiety regarding his dream of emigrating to Canada, and realized the extent to which the story of Edward Clifton's journey as a young man must have added fuel to his desire to start anew in a land that held the promise of opportunity. It was as if Doreen's full recovery, together with accumulating enough money to gain a foothold on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, was his guiding light.

"I know how much you want to go, Billy. Doreen will get well in her own time, and while she's on the mend, you can make up the money you spent on the doctors." She smiled, hoping to inspire some optimism on his part, a sense that all would be well. "But in the meantime, we've got to get to the bottom of this case, so let's put our heads together. Now, where were we? Yes, the family Clifton left behind. Did you manage to find anything out about them?"

"I was talking to an old bloke who works in that big shoe shop down Regent Street," said Billy. "He remembered that when he was an errand boy for the shop, there was talk about young Edward Clifton, as he was then, leaving the country and the business behind him. There was a lot of wondering about what would happen to the company, being as he was the only heir. Apparently, his grandfather and father cut him off, and the family were forbidden to reply to any letters or telegrams; they said that nothing good would come of him, and good riddance."

"That's more or less what he told me. No wonder he sets a lot of stock in keeping his family together and happy."

"His sister-who was about twenty-one-stepped forward and began working with her father, and then she took over the business. Name of Veronica Clifton."

"Did you find out anything about her marriage?"

Billy nodded. "Yes. It was a bit unusual; she kept her maiden name, never became a missus until after her husband died-quite young he was, apparently. By that time the business was not doing very well, so she sold it and got herself hitched to a Mr. John Paynton. They say the strain of her brother leaving and then her having to step up in his place sent her to an early grave."

"Did she have any children, do you know?"

Billy shook his head. "I asked the old boy, and he didn't know. He said that even if she did, according to them who knew more about her, she wouldn't have publicized the fact, being as she had a company to run, and she didn't want anyone trying to take advantage of her just because she was a woman."

"Yes. Yes, I can see why she would make that decision."

"Do you, Miss? I can't say as I can see anything normal about their goings-on-'cept of course old Edward running off on a ship. Funny old world, ain't it?"

Maisie sighed. "Could you dig a bit deeper for me, find out about other family members, cousins, aunts and uncles by marriage? There might have been stepchildren, for example. Oh, and if you could plough through a bit more of your list of those women who wrote letters to the Cliftons, it would help. I'll attack mine this afternoon, though I may have an appointment with your Lady Petronella of the telephones. I should call her now."

As Maisie stood up to walk to her desk, the telephone began to ring.

"Funny how that always happens, ain't it, Miss? You mention the word call, and off it goes." Billy went back to his notes.

Maisie picked up the black Bakelite telephone receiver, but did not have a chance to greet the caller with either the number or her name before Frankie Dobbs began speaking.

"Maisie, love, can you hear me?" Frankie shouted in his usual manner, never quite believing that the miracle of modern telephony could connect him to his daughter, who was in an office over eighty miles away.

"Dad! Dad, is everything all right?" Maisie felt the skin at the base of her neck grow cold, along the still-livid scar that remained from wounds she'd suffered in the war. "Are you unwell? What's happened?"

"I just thought you would want to know-" She could hear her father breathing as if he had been running, and there was a rawness to his voice.

"Dad…Dad-take a deep breath, and sit down on that chair by the telephone. Have you been running?"

"I came back here as soon as I heard. As I said, I knew you'd want to know."

"As soon as you heard what, Dad?" Maisie felt her heart beat faster, and a pressure on her chest. She took a deep breath in an effort to radiate calm from the center of her body.

"Dr. Blanche has been taken into hospital. A clinic in Tunbridge Wells. For observation. Apparently his lungs are just filling up."

"I'll come straightaway-"

"No, you can't do that. No visitors. No one's allowed to see him, from what I've heard."

"I'll talk to Lady Rowan. And I'm coming down to Kent as soon as I can."

"He wouldn't want you to come rushing-"

"It wouldn't be the first time I've done something he wouldn't like. I'm on my way."

"You drive careful, Maisie. And-"

"Dad-rest. I don't want two of you in hospital. I'm hanging up the telephone now, Dad. All right? I'll be in touch again later. Have a cup of tea, sit down, and put your feet up. Everything will be all right."

"I'd better be off then. Take good care, my Maisie."

Maisie held on to the receiver, and pressed down the bar to disconnect the call. She began dialing again.

"That's bad news, Miss, ain't it? Is your dad all right?"

Maisie nodded. "It's Maurice."

The color drained from Billy's face.

The call was answered on the second ring, and Maisie did not wait for a greeting. "May I speak to Lady Rowan, please, Mr. Carter."

"I thought it would be you, Maisie," said the Comptons' butler.

"Do you know how he is?"

"Her Ladyship is more informed than I. I'll tell her you're on the line."

Maisie heard a series of clicks, then another before Lady Rowan picked up the receiver.

"Maisie. I was just about to telephone you, counter to instructions from dear Maurice. He didn't want to worry you."

"Didn't want to worry me? Oh, dear…how is he?"

"The nurse summoned the doctor early this morning, and he arranged for Maurice to be transferred into the clinic. According to Maurice's specific instructions in such an eventuality, Dr. Dene has been asked to attend him. The news I've heard so far is that, all being well, he should be out in a few days. He's had some difficulty breathing, as you know, and his health simply continued to get worse."

"He seems to have gone downhill so quickly, Lady Rowan." Maisie heard the catch in her voice, the fear revealed with each word. "I-I will be on my way to Tunbridge Wells as soon as I hang up this call."

"I knew you would insist upon coming, despite Maurice's entreaty that you not be informed of his condition. He said you were very busy and that you should not be concerned about an old gentleman. I took it upon myself to inform him that he had just spoken a load of codswallop, probably for the first time in his life."

Maisie smiled and shook her head, trying to fight back the tears.

"In any case, you won't need to drive. I would imagine James will be knocking at your office door within minutes, he-"

"James?"

"Yes. James. The James who is my son." Lady Rowan's sense of humor could verge on the sarcastic in the best of circumstances. "I telephoned him with the news and suggested he escort you to the clinic as soon as possible."

"You told James?"

"Yes. Haven't given him an order in years that he actually chose to act upon, so there was a certain pleasure attached to it."

Maisie said nothing, her thoughts too confused to second-guess the situation.

"Don't worry, Maisie. Maurice is a tough old sort. He's clearly in difficulty, but I am assured by the doctor that he will get over this setback."

At that moment the bell sounded, and Billy went to answer the front door.

"I think that's James now, Lady Rowan. Thank you."

"Not at all. Just hold on. I'm told he drives like me, but frankly, he's far too sensible."

Maisie grabbed her shoulder bag, and automatically reached for her case files. Then she stopped. Her case was important, without doubt, but it paled when set against the ill health of one so cherished. She left the files behind, collected her coat and hat, and ran to the door just as Billy was showing James into the office. Even in a hurry, Maisie noticed that he seemed every inch the successful businessman, and in that moment he reminded her of his father. His hair was combed with a side parting, and he wore a well-cut charcoal suit of fine wool with the ease of one who is used to working at the highest levels of commerce. He had one hand in his pocket as he walked into the room, and he smiled when he saw Maisie.

"So this is where you-Maisie, what on earth have you done to your face?"

"Not now, James. I want to see just how fast that Aston Whatever-it-is of yours can go."

"Right you are." He stepped aside, nodded to Billy, and followed Maisie downstairs, then to his motor car, which was parked in Fitzroy Street.

"I should get you there in about three-quarters of an hour, all being well with the traffic." James held the door for Maisie to take the passenger seat. He ran around to the driver's side, slipped into his seat, and started the engine, setting off towards Tottenham Court Road. For just a moment he looked sideways as a single tear slid across her cheekbone. She wiped it away with her fingers. James reached across and took her hand in his. "It'll be all right, Maisie. We'll get the best doctors, the best care. We'll do everything we can for him."

She nodded and, looking out at the London traffic, squeezed his hand in return.

The Mount Pleasant Clinic was situated on a hill just behind The Pantiles, where in days gone by travelers were drawn to the healing spa waters of Tunbridge Wells. As soon as James parked the motor car, Maisie opened the door and dashed into the clinic, almost colliding with Andrew Dene, who had also once been a protege of Maurice Blanche. Though not as close to their mentor as Maisie, Dene was still involved in the running of clinics for the poor that had been set up by Maurice over thirty years before, and he was now directing his medical care.

"Good Lord, Maisie, slow down. I really don't want to have to admit you with a broken skull-and what have you been doing to your face?"

"A fall. Andrew, I'm so glad you're here with him. How is he?"

"He'll be kept in for observation for a couple of days, just to make sure." He brushed back his unruly fringe, a habit that at once touched Maisie. Though she knew he was not one she wanted to spend her life with, she had great affection for Dene, and had missed his easygoing personality and ready humor. "I've given him a sedative, so he's asleep at the moment."

"Can I see him?"

At that moment, James Compton stepped forward, held out his hand, and introduced himself.

"Ah, Chelstone's son and heir. Weren't you in Canada?"

James nodded. "Back here now, and doubt I will be returning in the foreseeable future."

Maisie was aware that James had become tense. She suspected that Dene's comment was meant to lighten the atmosphere, but at the same time, it could be misinterpreted as a goad-and she wasn't entirely sure that it wasn't. She changed the subject.

"I understand congratulations are in order, Andrew?"

Dene blushed and grinned. "Yes. Abigail is expecting a baby-not long to go now, end of May, all being well."

"That's wonderful-I'm happy for you."

"Thank you. Yes, thank you." Dene cleared his throat and turned towards the door that led to the corridor of patients' private rooms. "Come this way." He continued walking, and addressed James as he opened the door for the visitors. "I expect you know Maurice quite well yourself, James. He's a great friend of your parents, isn't he?"

James stepped past Dene, responding as he walked alongside Maisie. "I've known him all my life. He's been an enormous help to me. I don't know what I might have done without him."

Maisie looked at James, her curiosity piqued by his candor.

The conversation continued, this time with James questioning Dene about Maurice's care, and whether a specialist should be called. Dene was an orthopedic surgeon now, and though it was known that he was trusted by Blanche-his mentor since boyhood-James did not show any reticence when querying whether a consultant in respiratory illnesses might attend Maurice.

"If you wish to bring someone in, I would be more than willing to make my notes and Maurice's medical history available," said Dene.

As they reached Maurice's room, Maisie looked through the glass window. Maurice was asleep, his head to one side. He seemed rested, though she also noticed equipment at the ready should breathing become difficult once more.

"What do you think, Maisie?" said James. "Shall I bring in someone from Harley Street? It would take only minutes and I could have a man on his way to Tunbridge Wells."

Maisie looked at Dene, then at James Compton, and shook her head before placing her hand on James' arm. "Andrew loves Maurice as much as I, and as much as you, James. Let's leave things as they are for now." She turned to Andrew. "You'll let us know if you think otherwise, Andrew?"

Dene nodded. "Of course." He reached for the door handle. "In you go, Maisie. I know I have no need to give you instructions."

She nodded, and entered the room. She heard the door close behind her as she walked towards the bed where Maurice was resting. His breath at first seemed easy, but she could hear the occasional rasping in his chest, a sound that reminded her of two pieces of wood being rubbed together. She leaned across the bed and rested her hand on Maurice's forehead. He did not stir, but continued to breathe with some difficulty, as if with each inward breath he was searching for more air to sustain him. In that moment, Maisie reflected on the time when he had cared for her in France.

Upon revisiting the site of the casualty clearing station where she had worked, now a cemetery for those who died when the unit came under enemy fire, Maisie had suffered a breakdown. It was Maurice who had looked after her until she regained consciousness, and Maurice who had brought much-needed healing when he directed her to face her past so she could move beyond the memories and the years of suffering. "Wound agape," he had said, "is when we find healing in the blood of the wound itself." And she understood, then, that to rise above the pain that still inflamed her heart, she had to face the dragons of her war, or she would forever be at their mercy. Now, in this clinic where Maurice was clinging to life, it was as if every lesson, every memory of him, was being brought back to her to see again in her mind's eye. He had offered balm for so many of her wounds, and for that she loved him as if she were his own.

Maisie rose from the chair, leaned across the bed, and kissed Maurice's forehead. She waited only a few seconds more before leaving the room and joining Andrew Dene and James Compton.

"Thank you, Andrew. I'm glad you're here. I'm relieved to know you're in charge of his care."

"It was in his instructions, actually. His doctor told me that he has everything planned for the future, right down to who should be summoned at whatever stage of his illness. And I was to be brought in if he was transferred to the clinic."

"Just like Maurice. Always one step ahead of everyone else." James took a calling card from his pocket and handed it to Dene, then shook hands with him. "I meant no offense when I asked about the consultant, and I hope you don't take it as such. We all love him so very much, don't we? Anyway, if you need anything-and I mean anything-with regard to his well-being, be in touch with me straightaway at this number."

Dene nodded. "Will do-thank you." He turned to Maisie, leaned forward, and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll see you again soon, Maisie. And don't worry, I will keep you posted. He should be going home on Saturday or Sunday, and if there's any change, I will telephone you."

Maisie nodded her thanks, at once unable to speak.

"And before you go, let me give you some ointment for that graze. It'll heal faster, and you don't want a scar, do you?'

Dene led the way to the consulting room, and as they walked along the corridor, James Compton put his arm around Maisie's shoulder, as if to protect her. Later, she would try to give words to the effect that the gesture had upon her, and had to admit that it made her feel as if she was protected, and safe.