The Mapping of Love and Death

FOURTEEN

Maisie prepared a simple evening meal of soused mackerel and vegetables, with a slice of bread and jam for pudding. In general, she did not mind a solitary repast, often taken on a tray while she sat in one of the armchairs, a fork in one hand and a book in the other. And she was under no illusions regarding the significance of the book, whether a novel or some work of reference. As she turned the pages, the characters or the subject matter became her company, a distraction so that the absence of a dining companion-someone with whom to share the ups and downs of her day, from the surprising to the mundane-was not so immediate. Guests to her home were few, and after such a visit, during which a linen cloth would be laid on the dining table and cutlery and glasses set for two, the vacuum left by the departing visitor seemed to echo along the hallway and into the walls. It was at those times, when her aloneness took on a darker hue, that she almost wished there would be no more guests, for then there would be no chasm of emptiness for her to negotiate when they were gone.

This evening, though, as soon as she had finished supper and the glass, plate, and cutlery were washed, dried, and put away, Maisie sat at the dining table in front of Michael Clifton's letters and journal, which she had opened at the beginning and was reading once more. She found herself smiling at certain excerpts-his mimicry of his soldiers' accents, which, when written out phonetically, were certainly humorous. A listing of new words learned along the way had led him to observe, "And I thought they'd be speaking the same language. I might as well have joined up with the French."

I don't know where the idea came from that the English are subdued. The boys-the mates-I've met aren't afraid to let you know exactly what they're thinking. Mind you, they all keep quiet when the inspecting officer makes the rounds of the billets and says, "Any complaints?" That's a stupid question, when you've got "cooties" running along the seams of your shirt and driving you crazy. If you say, "Well, sir, I do have a complaint," you're likely to find yourself up on some kind of disciplinary action. And as for cooties, they're the nasty little bugs that get into everything. I'd never heard that word before. I think Dad must have lost his native language by the time I was born.

Here are a few words I've learned. The Tommy calls his rifle his "barndook," I think because it's harder to say than "rifle"-that's a limey thing too. And I've started liking the thick sludge they call "char." It's tea, but the way they brew it! "Go on, mate, it'll put 'airs on your chest!" they'll say. It's more likely to cut off the blood supply to your throat! I really don't mind Oxo, a sort of beef cube that when dissolved in hot water makes a fortifying drink-the boys' mothers send them out because the advertising says that Oxo is "British to the Backbone."

Another one: gum boots-rubber boots to keep your feet dry in the trenches, should you be one of the lucky lads to get a pair (the rest of us just get wrinkled feet that you have to rub with rum, otherwise they'll drop off when you most need them). And the lads have all sorts of nicknames for the different bombs-the hairbrush (looks like one), the Minnie (Minnewerfer, a German trench mortar, you don't hear it until it hits you), a fifteen-pounder (one of ours, thank God!), five nine (one of theirs), and the one the Germans hate-the four-point-five. There are so many of them, I could write a dictionary of British warfare! But here's a name I like-the "housewife"-Tommy calls it a "hussif." It's a little needlework kit, so you can fix your own uniform, otherwise that guy with the pips will be all over you like a rash of cooties if you're so much as missing a button-and it doesn't matter if you lost it while narrowly avoiding being hit by a Minnie!

Maisie smiled as she read more of Michael Clifton's impressions of the men who were serving alongside him, and could see that these early entries had been made before he had received his promotion to junior officer. But although she was drawn in by the young American's observations of life among the Tommies, she was more interested in the unfolding of his love affair with the woman known as Tennie. She went over paragraphs she'd read before, then came to a place where the pages had fused and she had not attempted to pry them loose earlier because she thought they might tear. It seemed that only layers of mold were holding them together. Once again, she used her Victorinox knife-Caldwell had sent a man over to the office to return the gift from her father-to work on the pages, taking care to protect the handwriting as far as she could. Soon the task was accomplished, with only a few words here and there missing.

I don't know how I managed to swing another short leave in Paris, but here I am, and it is perfect. Even more perfect than it was before, and I thought I came here to walk down memory lane with my head low, but instead…who would have known the outcome. I don't know how this will end, but I know that right now, in this place, I am a man who is on top of the world, yet on the edge of the precipice.

Maisie frowned. She picked up the letters and identified the point at which, according to letters from "Tennie," the courtship had ended. Then why was Michael Clifton so happy at what she thought must be a later date? Had there been further correspondence from the unknown woman that had since been mislaid? Were they reunited in Paris? Perhaps there was another letter he'd kept close to heart and that had been lost in battle, or mulched down into the earth along with skin and bone? After so many years, when human remains were discovered, she knew they really were remains. Had Michael's lover changed her mind? Was there news from her that elated him? Here was a man experiencing a joyous hiatus away from war, and at the same time he could see ahead, down into an event he called "the precipice," which she took to be his return to the battlefield. Indeed, as she turned the pages, she realized that this was Michael Clifton's last journal entry-what she had assumed would be the next page of writing was a combination of mold and ink that had soaked through the paper.

I am a man who is on top of the world.

But why?

Maisie looked back and forth through the journal and letters, scanning over excerpts again and again. She ached each time she read of the affection between Michael and his English nurse, and recognized that feeling of joy juxtaposed with a sense of despair waiting in the wings. Had she not felt the same when she was with Simon on leave? It was as if the thrill of the moment, that being together, was intensified, framed by the knowledge that their emotions were distilled in an almost make-believe hiatus from the war. Soon they would be there again, among the dead and dying, and the intimacy so dearly cherished would be like a dream gone before morning.

She rubbed her forehead, closed the journal, and set it down on the table, but as she did so, she noticed a loose page opposite the back cover that had slipped free. She reached forward, opened the book, and saw that it was not a page, but a folded sheet of paper. Using her knife, she teased the sheet apart and set it down to reveal a single curl of black hair. She picked up the hair to examine it, then placed it on top of the journal while she read the note, which had faded into invisibility in several places. It was a poem fragment.

What's the best thing in the world?

June-rose,

Truth, not cruel to a friend;

Pleasure, not in haste to end;

Beauty,

Love, when, so, you're loved again.

– Something out of it, I think.

Though Maisie enjoyed verse, so many other aspects of her studies had demanded attention that she immersed herself in poetry only to the extent necessary to pass an exam or gain a respectable mark on a paper. She knew that to discover any significance in the curl's wrapping, she would have to take the fragment of verse to someone who knew poetry and see if knowledge of its author might help her in some way. She had no idea who might assist her, but there was something about the words that remained with her, that nagged at her to take notice. Pleasure, not in haste to end. She picked up the lock of hair, turning it between thumb and finger. Love, when, so, you're loved again.

Later, after she'd put away the letters and journal, first taking care to replace the poem and single black curl, she turned off the lights and made ready for bed. And try as she might to banish all thoughts of the day so that she could meditate before sleeping, the words echoed in her mind so that, eventually, when she at last went to bed, she drifted to sleep knowing that this was one poem, or fragment thereof, that she would not forget:

Love, when, so, you're loved again.

When Maisie first bought her MG, she had taken the opportunity to drive everywhere. She loved the freedom to go where she wanted, when she wanted, and when she traveled outside London the open road ahead beckoned, along with the promise held in the journey itself. But now, often frustrated by slow-moving London traffic, she drove to work only when her day demanded an excursion outside the metropolitan area, or she had to visit a place not reached by the transport services. For the most part, within the capital the bus, tram, and tube served her well, and in particular, she had always enjoyed traveling by bus. She would step aboard, make her way up the winding stairs to the top deck, and from that vantage point look down upon the world as it went about its business. The bus passed houses where people were getting ready for their day: a husband kissed his wife on the cheek as he stepped out on his way to work, briefcase in hand and bowler hat in place; a woman opened the door of her ground floor flat clutching a worn kimono around her as she let the cat in from a night on the prowl and collected the milk from the doorstep; and in another house, she saw children being made ready for school by a uniformed nanny. As the bus drew nearer the shops of Oxford Street, already clerks and assistants were walking and running purposefully towards their day's toil. And she could see the moving throng as it formed into tributaries and streams, running ever onward towards the ocean of commerce, a day's work and a day's pay. Each of the people had a life and, if they were fortunate, family who loved them and who they loved in return-perhaps a wife at home, a babe in the nursery, an aging parent who needed help, brothers and sisters. It was as if she had been looking down upon a landscape of human activity, a charting of everyday endeavor. As she considered, not for the first time, the part she played in the grand scheme, a question came to mind, almost as if Maurice had prompted her. Was she forging ahead in a stream of her own making, or was she allowing herself to be carried out by a riptide, ever onward towards…what?

Mornin', Miss!" Billy was already at his desk when Maisie arrived at the office. "You've been a bit busy, haven't you? How was Dr. Blanche? Any improvement?" He stood up, ready to take her rain coat.

"I have been rather busy, Billy-and I am afraid I haven't yet made a dent in my list of female letter writers."

"Want me to crack it open?"

Maisie nodded. "Yes, I do. In the meantime, Dr. Blanche is not at all well, but I am assured by Dr. Dene that-"

"Dr. Dene?"

"Yes, Billy. Dr. Dene is close to Maurice, as you know, and Maurice gave instructions that he should attend him should a deterioration in his health lead to him being admitted into hospital care." She paused. "It was all right, Billy. It was nice to see him-his wife is expecting a child, so they are very happy."

Billy nodded. He was not one to pry, nor would it have been proper to do so, but he knew that once upon a time Maisie and Dene had been close.

"So, what did Dr. Dene say? Will Dr. Blanche be better soon?"

"He thought Maurice would be home by Saturday afternoon. I'll go down to Chelstone in the evening, and hopefully see him on Sunday." Maisie flicked through the post as she was speaking, but looked up as Billy sat down again. "Oh, and I'm still planning to drop in to see Doreen this afternoon-is that all right?"

"She's looking forward to it, Miss." Billy began placing mugs on a tray, ready to make tea. "And I'd like to know what you think, Miss. Whether you reckon she's getting better."

"She's going back for her outpatient appointments, isn't she?"

He nodded. "Never misses, so far. But I…I still worry."

"I'm sure you do, Billy. Remember, you've all been through so much, and recovery is a long road to travel. You can expect some stumbles while she-and you and the boys-feel your feet. Everything's changed now, but you'll see that, at some point, her progress should speed up. She'll gain ground, and you'll realize you can't remember the last bad day."

Billy shrugged. "From your lips to God's ears, as the saying goes."

Maisie smiled. "Think how far you've all come. Now then, let's have a cup of tea and see where we are before I have to go off to see Ben Sutton and his friend with the cine film."

They discussed the Clifton case while sitting in front of the case map.

"So, what you're saying, Miss, is that when Mr. and Mrs. Clifton came down into the hotel foyer, before they went back upstairs to their rooms and were attacked, there were six people there who stood out, and two of them might've been acquainted, but the Cliftons didn't know that?" Billy tapped the map with his pencil.

"Yes. It's rather a leap, but yesterday I saw Thomas Libbert, who was in the foyer on the day of the attack. He got into a taxi-cab with a man who-even though I didn't get the best view of him-appeared to be wearing a cravat and had the look of a military type. If you remember, when I asked Mr. Clifton to try to envision coming down to the foyer, he said he recalled a man with a cravat. And then there was the man and woman who were having an argument-could that man have been Mullen? Or was it someone else? And if it was Mullen, who was the woman? And did Mullen know Libbert?"

"There's a lot of ifs in there, Miss. And I hate to say this, but a lot of blokes wear them cravats when they're not wearing ties, and as for having that military bearing, well, look how many men were in the army in the war. All that 'chin up, chest out' lark gets trained into you."

"What we do is peppered with 'ifs' all the time. If it wasn't for the 'ifs' we would take more steps backward than forward." Maisie sighed. "And this case is beginning to feel a bit like that." She stood up, walked around the table, leaned against the window frame, and looked out at the square. "Then there's this fragment of verse-at least, that's what I think it is. I'll stop at the library to see if someone can tell me whether it's from a well-known poet, or perhaps it was something Michael Clifton's ladylove penned while on night duty in a freezing cold ward."

"That's definitely more up your alley, Miss. Never been one for your verse, unless it's rhyming slang, of course."

Maisie laughed, and shook her head. "Billy, you're a diamond. Now then, I had better be on my way. You'll look into the rest of our list?"

"It's as good as done. I'll stick to the ones in London today."

Maisie arrived early for her appointment with Ben Sutton at his friend's house in Notting Hill, which gave her an opportunity to look around the area. Priscilla had informed her that as far as she knew, Henry Gilbert had inherited the red-brick terrace house, and now rented out the upper two floors to students, which seemed to fit Maisie's brief observation of the comings and goings of several people who might have been described as "bohemian" in certain circles-a man wearing a coat of Edwardian vintage with a bright yellow scarf, and a woman with very short hair and equally short skirt, even though, as far as Maisie knew, the very fashionable women had allowed their skirt lengths to fall once more.

She watched Ben Sutton arrive in a taxi-cab. He ran up the steps and knocked at the door, which was opened some moments later by a young man with an open-necked shirt, his sleeves rolled up. He was wiping his hands with a cloth, and smiled at Sutton as if they had met before.

Maisie suspected that it was time to cross the road and knock at the door.

"There you are, on the dot! Just as I expected you would be." Ben Sutton stepped back so that Maisie could cross the threshold, then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek as if he had known her for more than one evening. "Henry's waiting for us in his studio. He has a sort of complex of rooms downstairs in what used to be cellars-completely purpose-built for his work. Perfect for running cine film. Follow me."

Sutton led her down a staircase, then along a dark corridor and into what was a surprisingly large room. She looked around and, when she became accustomed to the light, could see that there had been reconstruction to provide a spacious studio, and behind her a smaller room with what she took to be a film library and a glass window with a hatch through which the lens of a projector extended. There was another door at the opposite end of the room, which was closed. A dozen quite comfortable-looking chairs were positioned in two semicircular rows; the experience would be somewhat more pleasing than a visit to the cinema-at least one would be able to view the cine film with a few friends, rather than half of London, most of whom always seemed to be sneezing.

"The door leads out into another couple of rooms, one where Henry and his assistants do their editing and such like, though of course, they do a lot of this sort of thing at the studios in Twickenham."

"I see," replied Maisie, though she really did not see at all. "I should confess, my knowledge of film stops at the odd trip to the cinema, and in viewing X-rays."

Sutton laughed at the same time as the door opened and two men entered, one carrying a series of large round canisters. "Ah, Henry, here's Miss Dobbs."

"Delighted to meet you, Miss Dobbs-Maisie, isn't it?"

"Thank you for agreeing to show me your cine film, Henry-and yes, it's Maisie."

"This is my assistant, Roland Marshall." He turned to introduce the young man who had opened the door for Sutton. He nodded his head, his burden too heavy to allow him to extend his hand.

Henry Gilbert was not quite six feet tall and wore his hair short, Maisie suspected, so as not to draw attention to a growing bald patch. His movements were precise and quick, and she had no trouble envisioning him working on the front line, filming soldiers going about the business of war.

"Now then, let's get the show running. I have a lot of film, Miss Dobbs, so I wondered, do you have any specific interests? The veterinary corps, for example."

"Well, yes-do you have anything on cartographers in the war? Or mapmaking? I know it's a bit obscure, but I thought you might have something-especially as, from what I've been given to understand, you may have been in France at the same time as my friend's son. He was a cartographer."

"You may be in luck-I spent quite some time filming cartographers," said Gilbert. "I didn't want to come back with hours of film of basically the same thing, so I chose several different areas of work: the men who operated the big guns, the veterinary corps, and the cartographers. Of course, I have some film with soldiers in the trenches, the wounded being brought back, but for the most part I wanted to draw attention to the fact that there is more to war than Tommies with guns. And the cartographers took extraordinary risks, all for information-as we all know, a war is never won without information."

Maisie held her breath, hardly able to believe her good fortune. "Henry, do you remember the soldiers you met? I mean, did you spend sufficient time with them to have made some sort of acquaintance?"

"Yes and no. Of course there was a lot of joshing, the lads beaming into the camera, pulling faces-after all, many of them weren't much more than boys. And we took our meals with them, slept alongside the men while we were filming them, so of course, there are those that one remembers. But I am sure you will appreciate that, in my job, there has to be a level of dispassionate observation-the cinematographer's protection-otherwise it would be impossible. You see, very often the men on the other side of my lens were dead within days of their images being immortalized on cine film. But you can always try me-do you have a name?"

"This cartographer might stand out-he was an American, and-"

"An American, you say?" Gilbert interrupted Maisie and, without looking at his assistant, motioned for him to put the metal containers down on a table set against the side wall. "You're right, that is unusual. There couldn't have been two of them in the British army-could there?"

Maisie shook her head. "I doubt it."

"Good, then we can cut out a lot of time, because I know exactly where to look for that film." He went over to the canisters, but continued talking. "We were out in the field for some time and, as I said, I filmed several cartography units in northern France through into Belgium."

Maisie continued talking while he searched through the canisters. "What was the cine film used for, and what will you do with it all?" she asked.

"Some of it was used for newsreels in the war-you know, the 'Jolly old Britain's winning the war' sort of propaganda. Helped everyone to buck up when things were looking bad." He picked out two canisters and passed them to his assistant. "Load these, start with this one, and call when you're ready." He turned his attention back to Maisie. "The business of filming is changing rapidly, you know, and in Britain we're at the forefront of a new genre in the craft. It's called the documentary; a sort of hybrid between documenting an event or moment in time, and then blending it with a story, so it's a bit more entertaining. That's what I want to do with this film"-he waved his hand across the canisters-"though I've a few other things on my plate at the moment, and one has to earn one's money."

"So, may I ask, is there anything you remember about the American cartographer?" asked Maisie.

Gilbert rubbed his chin. "Martin-Michael-Mitch? Somebody-or-other beginning with M, wasn't it? Anyway, I just remember he was a very approachable chap, very mannerly, always answered a question with 'sir,' and not because he was in the army. You had the sense that he was brought up to be respectful. Not that the others weren't, but he was a young man of his type-I've been to the east coast of America, you know, and he was a real Bostonian, though he was interested when I told him I'd been to California." He smiled. "I'd forgotten all that, to tell you the truth. Now that I come to talk about it, the details are coming back. I met so many young men, you see-of course, I was not so old myself, but I wasn't able to join up. Given my profession, you'd be surprised to note that the reason was my shortsightedness. I told you about the cinematographer's protection-well, I remember being told that the entire unit, which would include your American, was listed as missing not long after we shot the film. The thing is that I couldn't help but remember him, and not just because of his accent. He was a happy-go-lucky sort, one of those who have a perennial hail-fellow-well-met approach to everyone they meet."

The assistant raised his voice to let them know the film was ready to run. Gilbert held out his hand to seats close to the middle of the room, and when Sutton had taken a place beside Maisie, the wall lights were extinguished. The screen in front of them seemed to splutter into life, and a series of numbers counted down until a rough board was shown. It read: "France, cartographers," along with a date that Maisie could not discern. The screen became black for a moment, until a grainy image flickered into life, of men carrying equipment across the mud and through barbed wire. The film rendered their movements jerky, unstable, and as they set up their tools, Maisie thought they looked rather like doomed marionettes, and though she could not tell whether it was a fair day or foul, the gray cloudless background gave the impression of cold, a day when the wet damp of France in wartime could bore into the bone. She shivered.

The camera came closer, and the men looked up and were brought into greater focus. There was a moment of camaraderie, when they stood with arms about each other's shoulders, like a rugby team preparing for the season's photograph. Then the cameraman must have drawn back, because they continued with their work again, squinting through an eyeglass, one man making notes while another took measurements. Again the camera moved in closer, then seemed to sweep across the landscape. In the background, the projector whirled and chattered as the film continued. Maisie half closed her eyes in a squint, searching for a face she knew.

The camera came back to the unit, and once again moved closer to the men. At that moment, one of the men began laughing, and it seemed he elbowed his comrade in a playful gesture. The other soldier laughed, and gave him a shove, and the first soldier, who Maisie could now see was an officer, pushed back his helmet to rub his forehead.

"Can you stop there?" Maisie called out.

"Stop!" Gilbert's voice carried well, and the film stopped mid-frame. "Run it back to the soldier moving his helmet."

The stick figures moved backward at speed, then the frame was frozen for a moment and began running again.

"There!"

"Stop!"

"Is that the American you remember, Henry?"

Gilbert nodded. "Yes, that's him."

Maisie waited a moment, trying to match the image on the screen with the photograph she had already seen.

"Shall we continue?"

She nodded. "Yes, thank you. Go on."

Henry called out to his assistant, and the cine film began rolling again, and soon it was clear that during the filming, shellfire was coming closer, as the earth seemed to explode in the background. The camera had caught the men hurrying to pack up their equipment before running for cover, and as their movements became faster, so the images became almost unwatchable; in that moment, the men seemed like clowns at the circus, running back and forth in an attempt to protect their equipment and themselves. The screen changed to black, and the countdown of numbers signaled the end of the reel.

"There's another with that same unit, Maisie. Want to watch it?"

"Of course, yes."

Ben, Maisie, and Henry Gilbert were silent while they waited, and soon the assistant called out once more that the film was about to start. A series of numbers filled the screen, then nothing but black, then a board with the date and location. This time the men of the unit were outside what seemed to be a farmhouse or a barn. With stilted movements, they were checking kit and preparing their packs for another expedition onto the battlefield. Maisie wished she could lip-read so that she might know what they were saying to each other, and she wondered whether their conversation was about the job at hand, a night out in the village, or their last leave. There was another second of black screen, and when it cleared, the camera had been brought in closer, and this time Maisie could see Michael Clifton clearly. He was laughing with the man next to him. The camera pulled back, and another man, an officer, came into view. The man was carrying a baton under his arm, and seemed to walk in that same matchstick-man manner, but he was evidently a more senior officer. He appeared to be taking the men to task, then looked around and came towards the camera, waving his baton. The screen went black, followed by a series of numbers.

"Do you remember that last incident?" Maisie turned in her chair as Gilbert stepped towards the light switch.

"I do indeed. Can't remember the man's name, but he was a bit of a killjoy. Waved his stick at me and threatened to put my camera into the mud. He should have tried it! Anyway, you don't forget those incidents. Mind you, they're not that unusual in my line of work, but rather unsettling when it's a man in a uniform threatening you."

She stood up and smiled, holding out her hand. "Thank you so much for your valuable time, Henry. It was kind of you to do this."

"I owe Ben a favor or two," said Gilbert, as he shook her hand. "So this helped me pay down my debt."

They turned to leave, and as the trio made their way to the front door, Maisie turned to Gilbert. "I know you said that you don't remember everyone, but you must have become somewhat familiar with that unit; you mentioned that for a short time you lived alongside some of the soldiers you filmed."

"As I said, you try not to get too close, for the sake of objectivity. But yes, I sort of took to that little group, though the American is the one who sticks out most."

"Do you recall any conversations between the men?"

"That would be a tall order, Maisie," Sutton interjected.

"I know, but-"

"The boys teased the American, but he could give it back to them, and it was all in good heart, from what I can recall. There was one sapper who mentioned that he-the American-was a man of some extensive property, out in California. And he teased him about his girl-she'd broken it off, but he was convinced the American wasn't wanting for female company when he was on leave. He'd not long returned from a few days away. Mind you, a handsome young fellow like that-can't imagine him spending much time alone when he was off duty." He laughed. "Anyway, as I said, it was all a long time ago now. I might have it wrong, and it could have been the other way around-you know, the other fellow on leave, that sort of thing. I'm really interested in the image in front of the camera, not the subject's private life."

Maisie nodded.

After more good-byes, and some final conversation, Maisie and Sutton left and stood outside the house.

"Ready for a bite to eat?"

"Ben." Maisie smiled. "Would you forgive me if I decline your offer of lunch? It's a bit early for me in any case-that didn't take as long as I thought, and I have so much to do today. Watching your friend's films has given me a lot of food for thought."

Sutton nodded. "I'll hold you to our lunch another time-or perhaps you'd come with me to the theater, and supper afterward?"

"What a lovely idea, thank you. And I do appreciate your understanding, especially as it was so good of you to cash in a favor on my behalf. Oh, and Ben, may I trust you to keep what we have seen today to yourself-just for a while."

"I'll not tell a soul, and I'll make sure Henry knows too. And cashing in the favor was my pleasure, Maisie." He smiled. "There weren't that many men doing what Henry was doing out in France, so I had an idea you might be in luck with his film. Serendipity, eh?" He smiled. "Anyway, I hope I'll see you again soon. May I walk you to the tube, madam?"

They said good-bye at the underground station, and Maisie waved as she made her way down the steps and around a corner out of view. She waited a few moments until she was sure Sutton had left, then retraced her steps to Henry Gilbert's house and knocked on the door. When his assistant opened the door, Maisie asked if she could see Mr. Gilbert for just a moment.

"Maisie, back so soon! What can I do for you-did you leave something behind?" Gilbert took off a pair of spectacles as he walked towards her.

"I am sorry to bother you, but I have one quick question-do you mind?"

"Of course not. Fire away!"

"Is it possible to make a photograph of part of your cine film? I am sure there are appropriate words to describe this, but what I'd like is a picture from the last few seconds on that final piece we watched; something I can hold in my hand to study."

"You mean the nasty ogre rushing at my camera?"

"Yes, that's it."

"It's not a simple task, but it can be done."

"I would be most willing to pay for your time."

"First things first. I'll have the frame printed and sent to you. Roland here can take down the details."

Maisie smiled. "Thank you very much." She paused. "And if we could keep this between ourselves, I would appreciate it."

Gilbert smiled. "Absolutely. We don't want Ben to know you want a picture of another man, do we?"

Maisie blushed. "No, we don't."

Later, as she left the house for the second time, Maisie could not recall any part of the conversation with Ben Sutton either before they viewed the film, or on the way to the underground station. In fact, she could barely remember any interaction with him at all. But an image continued to flash into her mind's eye, of a man brandishing a baton as he reached towards the camera that was filming his every move.