The Mapping of Love and Death

FIFTEEN

Maisie stopped at a pie and mash shop on her way to Shoreditch, and had a large helping of meat pie with mashed potato and gravy, followed by a cup of strong tea. It was the sort of place she rather liked to frequent; the service was quick and the repast plain yet hearty, better described as fodder than as food. Though she never stayed long, she liked to watch the customers coming and going, an assortment of men and women, all of whom were working class and valued a good meal. And as Maisie would not bother to cook a meat pie just for herself, and she rarely stopped for a proper lunch, the break was a welcome one-even though the Clifton case remained uppermost in her mind.

She was thinking about lies. About the many times in the course of her work she had been lied to. It was a hazard of her occupation. She rarely missed a lie, seldom overlooked the sense of doubt that assailed her when she had been offered less than the truth. Indeed, she thought it was the presence of doubt-rather than certainty, perhaps-that led to cracking open many a case. Doubt. Was it an emotion? A sense? Or was it just a short, stubby word to describe a response that could diminish a person in a finger snap? When she felt doubt, she asked more questions of herself, though she also knew those questions were no guarantee that her attention would be pointed in the right direction. There's a lot of ifs. Yes, Billy had it right, there were a lot of ifs. What if. Without that question, she would not have decided to make a detour back towards the British Library. What if a librarian could identify the verse she'd found tucked into Michael Clifton's journal? And would such information have any meaning, any relevance to her search for the truth about Michael Clifton's death and the attack on his parents? As she walked along, she planned to spend only a short time in the reading room, which might allow her the opportunity to drop into Bourne and Hollingsworth on Oxford Street before dashing over to Shoreditch. She wanted to go to the shoe department to see if someone there remembered something of the Clifton story. It was an important London shop, so the buyer might have more detailed knowledge about the company in its final years than Billy had managed to uncover, or he might have remembered something after being questioned. She thought she could accomplish those two things and still be in Shoreditch at a reasonable hour.

The reading room of the British Library was pin-drop quiet. A librarian might tiptoe across the floor to replace a book on the shelves, or a reader might begin to cough, then look around and mouth "Sorry" to the person alongside who had looked up, scowling at the interruption. Patrons moved deliberately-whether turning pages or taking notes-as if in a manner of respect, reminding Maisie of churchgoers at evensong. She slipped into a vacant seat, took out an index card and pencil, and closed her eyes, trying to envisage the words written on the notepaper tucked inside Michael Clifton's journal. She crossed out a line, then another word, and when she was satisfied, wrote the partial verse without error on another index card, then approached the librarian's desk.

"I wonder if you could help me," she whispered.

The librarian nodded, and leaned towards her.

"I have a fragment of verse, which I think is part of a longer poem. I know this is rather a shot in the dark, but do you recognize it?"

The man took the card, looked at the words, and shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not." He looked around.

"Do you have a librarian who is more of a poetry buff?" She hoped she had not insulted him, but he seemed to have taken no offense.

"I'm more of a history man, myself." He turned both ways. "I was looking for old Mrs. Hancock. She comes in almost every day-she's had a reader's ticket for years and generally settles down with the newspaper before taking up a book of poetry. She's getting on, but can still remember many, many poetical works off by heart." He picked up the index card. "Let me see if she's over there. She sometimes drops off for the odd forty winks, poor dear. Do you mind waiting?"

Maisie shook her head. "Not at all." She stepped back as the librarian turned and walked out into the room, then circled the desks searching for Mrs. Hancock. She lost sight of him; then a moment or two later, he was walking towards the stacks with an elderly woman who was using her walking stick to point up to one of the shelves. Maisie smiled, for the woman seemed to enjoy giving orders to the man in charge. She watched as he reached for a book, then handed it to the woman, who sat down at the closest vacant seat and turned the pages, squinting as she brought the book so close to her eyes, it was touching her nose. A moment or two elapsed before she discovered what she was looking for and lifted up the open book for the librarian to read. Her smile was that of one well satisfied with herself, and Maisie was glad she had made the inquiry, for the woman seemed to stand straighter, as if in being asked to share her expertise, she had received a validation of worth.

The librarian returned with the book held open.

"Mrs. Hancock to the rescue!" The librarian kept his voice low, despite his enthusiasm for a task successfully completed. "It's a poem called 'The Best Thing in the World.'" He passed the book to Maisie.

"Thank you very much." She took the open book and walked to a desk, careful to make as little noise as possible. She took out another index card and her pencil, and sat down ready to transcribe the poem.

What's the best thing in the world?

June-rose, by May-dew impearled;

Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;

Truth, not cruel to a friend;

Pleasure, not in haste to end;

Beauty, not self-decked and curled

Till its pride is over-plain;

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

What's the best thing in the world?

– Something out of it, I think.

Maisie read the words over twice and sat back in her chair, still engaged by the poem and what it might have meant to Michael Clifton. Sighing, she flipped the book over to look at the spine. It was from a collection of poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She sat for a moment longer, then closed the book, collected her bag from alongside her chair, and returned to the librarian.

"Thank you," she whispered, as she set the book down in front of him.

He nodded in response, and as Maisie walked out of the reading room, she glanced back to see Mrs. Hancock watching her. She raised her hand and nodded acknowledgment, and the woman waved in return, her smile puffed with importance.

Maisie checked the time on the way out of the library. Much as she wanted to try to find someone, somewhere, who could tell her more about the demise of Clifton's Shoes, she had promised to visit Doreen Beale, and knew she should be on her way to Shoreditch. In any case, if she was to be honest with herself, what she truly wanted was not so much new information, but to see if one of her what-ifs might be true.

To an outsider, the journey from the west end of London to the east end might have seemed like leaving a full buffet dinner with the finest china, for bread and water at a rough-hewn table. The houses on many streets were still without running water, so women gathered at the communal pump to fill their buckets and kettles, then huffed and puffed their way home carrying their burden. But despite such inequities, and a level of poverty that threatened to grind the soul to dust, there was a spirit here that Maisie understood, a language in which she was fluent, and a camaraderie among the likes of the women at the pump that underlined a certain resilience borne of want. And though the communities encompassed within London's boroughs still retained something of their respective tribal forefathers, there were common threads of experience between the people of Lambeth, where Maisie was born and brought up, and Shoreditch, with the most distinct being poverty.

The people who lived on Billy's street had done their best to rise above the grayness of life in the East End. Most of the children playing in the street had no shoes and were clad in hand-me-down clothes that were ill fitting and worn. Though the Beales made ends meet and ensured their children wore clean, if not new, clothes, they were among those who just couldn't make the leap to a better standard of living somewhere else. For Billy there was a comfort to be had from living in the surroundings of his childhood, with his elderly mother nearby, yet Maisie knew that such comfort could not be confused with contentment. The desire to get away burned within Billy Beale, so the plans had to be grand plans, and the destination not to a better borough in London, but to a land some three thousand miles away.

Having drawn long looks as she walked from the bus stop-a well-turned-out woman such as Maisie was rare on the streets of Shoreditch-she arrived at Billy's house and made her way to the front door. Looking in, she saw Doreen sitting in a chair by the window. She appeared to have fallen asleep while keeping vigil, her deceased daughter's ragged toy lamb held close to her chest, as if she had been breathing in the scent of a childhood gone. Maisie knocked lightly at the door. Standing alongside the window, she could see Doreen waken, rub her eyes, and rest her head on the back of the armchair as she regained full consciousness. Maisie knocked again, and this time Billy's wife pushed the toy behind her chair, stood up, came to the window, and waved to her before leaving the room to come to the door.

"I'm sorry, Miss Dobbs, I must have dozed off when the boys went round to their nan's for tea." She stood aside for Maisie to enter the narrow passageway.

"You deserve a nap, Doreen, what with Billy and Bobby keeping you busy."

Doreen smiled as she stepped aside for Maisie to enter the narrow passageway. "Please go on into the parlor, Miss Dobbs, and I'll put the kettle on."

The Beales' house was typical of many small terraced houses in their area, but atypical in that only one family lived there, though Doreen's sister and her family had resided for some time in the house while her husband looked for work in London. The parlor was a small, square room with a fireplace, a picture rail about a foot from the ceiling, and two armchairs that had seen better days. It was a room hardly used by the family, who made the kitchen the center of their home life, keeping the parlor for Sundays, Christmas, and the odd special occasion. Maisie's visit was a special occasion.

"Here we are, Miss Dobbs. Nice cup of tea does you good, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does-and I am gasping."

Maisie regarded Doreen as she set the tray on a table positioned along the back wall and proceeded to pour two cups. Just before Doreen was sent away to a psychiatric hospital, some four months earlier, she had lost a good deal of weight and was run down in mind, body, and spirit. The usually meticulous woman had relinquished care of both herself and her children, and had demonstrated a temper never before revealed. The grief at losing her youngest child, a daughter who was dear to everyone whose life she touched, had dragged Doreen into a cavern of darkness that she had neither the strength nor the will to escape. Now she seemed as if she was on her way back to being her old self. She'd regained some weight, and her skirt and blouse were plain, but laundered and pressed.

"How are you keeping?"

"I'm doing much better, Miss Dobbs. Dr. Masters helped me with, you know, how to get on without Lizzie. And now I'm back on the mend, so we'll be all right, me and Billy and the boys. Yes, we'll be all right." She passed a cup of tea to Maisie with two hands, but still managed to spill some in the saucer. "Oh, I am sorry, here-"

"Not to worry. I'm always doing the very same thing. That's why I get Billy to serve tea to our clients when they visit!" The lie came easily. "Pour yourself a cup and sit down with me, Doreen."

Doreen Beale brought a second cup of tea, again held with two hands, and sat in the chair in which Maisie had seen her sleeping.

"Are you managing, Doreen?" Maisie thought there was no point in any conversational subterfuge, for she had visited Doreen when she was in hospital, and had seen her after she had been subjected to a violent procedure. Maisie had subsquently pulled strings to have the woman transferred to another, more humane psychiatric institution.

Doreen nodded. "Like I said, Miss Dobbs, I'm doing better. I'm taking in some needlework again, and I'm managing to finish a dress or alteration without forgetting about it. Billy's mother comes around every morning after the children go to school, and we have a chat and she helps me. I know it's not right, a woman of that age helping the likes of me, but she's very good. She makes sure I eat some of her broth. I don't always feel like eating, you see, so I forget, and she reminds me. Yes. I'm getting better."

The neat hair pulled back in a bun and a trace of color in her cheeks, were further evidence of a slow recovery. Maisie remembered her visit at Christmas, when the usually meticulous Doreen-the want of money had never stopped her caring for her appearance-wore clothes in need of repair and laundering; her complexion had been rough and gaunt, and her hair ill-kempt.

"Are you getting out, Doreen? You could do with some fresh air, you know."

"That's hard to find here in Shoreditch, Miss Dobbs. I'm a Sussex girl, you know, I didn't come up to London until I married Billy. I don't know that the air ever feels fresh to me."

The conversation went on for another fifteen minutes or so, and when Maisie announced it was time to go, she carried the two teacups into the kitchen while Doreen took the tray with teapot and milk. The kitchen, though small, was spotless, and while they continued talking, Maisie picked up a tea towel and dried the crockery as Doreen placed each washed item on the draining board. She put the things away in a cupboard, and while she was still talking to Maisie-about the boys, about Billy's dream of going to live in Canada-Maisie noticed her wiping down every surface in the kitchen time and again. Then she washed her already clean hands once more, shook them dry, and wiped the draining boards for the umpteenth time to absorb droplets of water.

"That was a lovely cup of tea, Doreen. It's a treat to see you looking so well."

"Thank you, Miss Dobbs."

"Let Billy know when you're up to taking on more work. I'm fed up with the blinds in my flat and would like some curtains. I don't think I'd trust anyone else to make them for me, so when you're ready-"

"I've got a few things to finish, but in about a fortnight I reckon I could take them on."

The two women exchanged pleasantries at the door, and soon Maisie was on a bus traveling away from Shoreditch. Throughout the journey, which took her along the narrow streets of the City and then in the direction of Fitzroy Square, her deliberations were firmly on the Beales and their future. Doreen's behavior had revealed a tendency towards obsession, which was not unusual in a case such as hers. It gave her a sense of control over her environment and what happened in her life. Maisie wondered if she should say something, or whether certain fixations might diminish as Doreen grew stronger. Billy's fierce pride had recently been put aside so many times to accept help from Maisie, and there was only so much more she could do. She had not the resources to offer more money, but she felt it incumbent upon herself to provide support where she could, so that at the very least, Billy knew that someone cared enough to help them find a way through their barren desert of despair to something approaching a better way of life.

The shank of the afternoon was giving way to dusk as Maisie ran from the bus stop on Tottenham Court Road, and when she entered the square from Fitzroy Street, she could see a light on in the first-floor office. The business week extended until Saturday afternoon, and in their line of endeavor, it was not unusual to work on a Sunday, but she was still surprised to see that Billy had not left for home at this time on a Friday. It was as she walked closer to the front door that she saw the reason-a chauffeured motor car was parked outside, indicating that visitors had arrived and were waiting for her.

As she reached the top of the staircase, the door to the office opened, and Billy stepped out onto the landing.

"I heard the front door go, Miss."

"Who do we have the pleasure of seeing so late in the day?"

"It's Mr. Clifton-the son, that is. And his friend, Dr. Charles Hayden."

"Oh, Charles-" She opened the door and entered the room.

Billy had offered the men chairs in front of Maisie's desk, and as she walked in, her cheeks flushed, they came to their feet.

"Charles, how lovely to see you again."

"Maisie!" He took her hands in his own and kissed her on the cheek in greeting.

Charles Hayden was tall, with broad shoulders, and if he carried any extra weight, it served only to make him seem more of a contented man, happy in his family and a success in his profession. His ready smile made Maisie feel as if she were part of an inner circle. While still holding her hands, he turned to Teddy Clifton.

"Teddy, I met this young lady when she was just-what was it, Maisie? Eighteen years of age?"

Maisie smiled and gently pulled her hands away so that she could welcome her guest.

"Mr. Clifton, it is such a pleasure to meet you, though I wish with all my heart that the circumstances were less tragic."

"Thank you, ma'am. Charles has told me a lot about you."

"What news of your parents?"

"My father is much better. Charles examined him today and went through some tests-the doctors accommodated us-so we are pleased with his progress. My mother has regained consciousness, but it will be a few more days before we know what sort of lasting damage there might be."

"I'm optimistic, though," added Hayden.

"And I feel better knowing Charles is over here now-not that there's anything wrong with your doctors."

"I understand, Mr. Clifton." Maisie pulled her chair from behind her desk so that the coming conversation might be more open, less businesslike. Maurice had often cautioned her that the desk could be seen as barrier to honest dialogue, and if she had control of the situation, and if the circumstances warranted it, she should never let the desk come between herself and her clients, or anyone she was interviewing. It was one of many nuggets of advice she had taken to heart.

"Have you had tea?"

"Mr. Beale has filled us with tea and-what do you call those things? Biscuits?" Charles Hayden laughed as he asked the question.

"'No better than hardtack.' That's what you said once, when we were all in France." She took her seat and invited Billy to bring his chair over to join them. "My assistant has been actively helping me with this case," she explained to the men.

Maisie did not know how much Charles Hayden had brought Teddy Clifton into his confidence regarding his suspicions upon reading the postmortem report on Michael Clifton's remains. She looked at Hayden and nodded, a signal that she wanted him to begin their meeting.

"Maisie, I have talked to Teddy about my thoughts on the postmortem report. I didn't say much in my letter but I suspect you might have come to a few conclusions yourself-Edward intended to show you the report."

"Yes, he brought it to my attention." She looked at Clifton, then Hayden. "And though you did not color my assessment of what was indicated there, I believe we can set our cards on the table and see a match."

"Go on, Maisie." Charles Hayden nodded to her to continue.

She concentrated her attention on Clifton. "It is my belief that your brother's life was taken deliberately prior to the shelling that killed other members of the cartography unit and led to further wounds to his body. They were in a former German dugout, and it was quite sophisticated, with separate rooms, if you will; there were bunks and so on. This was no ordinary tunnel or hole in the ground-the Germans were excellent engineers. The men could all have been at rest when Michael's life was taken, and it would not be a stretch to suggest that they might not have discovered his body prior to the shelling. It is a question that cannot be readily answered."

Maisie could see that Teddy was familiar with the story, for he showed no shock at the news, but brought his hand to his mouth for a few seconds.

"Do you think the killer perished in the shelling?" The weariness brought on by travel across the Atlantic and arrival in Southampton, along with the shock of seeing his parents in hospital, was evident in Clifton's demeanor; his shoulders were rounded, and his voice cracked with tiredness.

Maisie shook her head. "I couldn't say, Mr. Clifton, but if I were to hazard a guess, I would say no. No, I don't believe he was killed. I can think of several circumstances wherein the killer could have taken your brother's life and then been on his way. Of course, he may himself have lost his life to war at a later date-but no, I don't think so." She paused. "There's the distinct possibility of a connection between Michael's death and the attack on your parents. I do not think they are isolated events."

Clifton blew out his cheeks as he nodded. "I know what Charles here thinks, but how do you think Michael was killed?" He put the question to Maisie.

"I believe his life was taken by a single blow to the back of his head. The weapon was likely one of his own pieces of equipment-a theodolite, for example. And I think your parents were attacked in the same way. They had your brother's tools with them in their room-I can imagine your mother, for example, putting certain items out, to remind her of your brother."

"Yes. Yes, that's just the sort of thing she would do. How do you know?"

Maisie shrugged. "She struck me as the sort of woman who decorates her home with pictures of family, with the trophies of childhood accomplishment, and probably went as far as to frame a school tie, or whatever would have the same significance in America."

Clifton's eyes widened, and he looked at Hayden again. "Can you believe this, Charles?" He turned back to Maisie. "Mother actually had our football jerseys put into frames. We laughed like crazy, but she said we'd appreciate it one day." He paused, then became serious once more. "So you think the killer is on the loose. Are my folks still at risk? We've seen Detective Inspector Caldwell and he is keeping a guard on their rooms."

"In my estimation, the risk to your parents is minimal, but at the same time, it would be foolhardy to discontinue guarding them."

"Why?"

"I believe the man who attacked your parents is himself dead. But in my line of work, Mr. Clifton, one soon realizes that the true killer is sometimes not the person who takes the life of the victim."

"What do you mean?"

"While there are similarities between the murder of your brother and the attack on your parents, I have a feeling that your brother died following one single blow. Your parents' attack seemed more frenzied, one borne of fear. I think the perpetrator was disturbed while searching for something he wanted-or that someone else wanted-and picked up the first thing that came to hand when he was disturbed by your parents' return to their room. He might not have wanted to kill anyone."

Teddy Clifton nodded. He was about to ask another question, when Charles Hayden interjected.

"Maisie." He leaned forward and touched her cheek. "How the heck did you get this?"

"I thought I'd managed to cover it up."

"Come on, I'm a doctor. It's my job to see these things. How did that happen?"

"A man pushed me onto the ground. He had just stolen my document case."

"Did they catch him?"

"His body was discovered later, in the rooms he rented."

"Was he important to the case?" asked Clifton.

"Yes, I believe he was. Of course, I could be wrong, but I think he was the man who almost killed your parents. And I don't think he intended to do anything of the sort."