The Mapping of Love and Death

SIXTEEN

James, I think I ought to confess to you that I know precious little about motor racing. Nothing, in fact." Maisie smiled as she spoke, relaxed in James Compton's company as he drove them out of London towards Surrey.

"Well, first of all, Brooklands is famous for being the first motor racing track in the world. Absolutely purpose-built for the business in 1907." He grinned, ready to tease. "And I must say, I'm glad to have found something that you don't know and I do, Maisie Dobbs!"

"You're right. The only racing I have any familiarity with is horse racing."

James changed gear to negotiate a bend, then increased speed as the road straightened. "Then you're more than halfway there. Almost everything about racing motor cars has been based on horse racing, so the language will be familiar-the grandstand, the track, the paddock where the drivers assemble. It's all a bit like a day at Newmarket-but faster."

"How fast?" Maisie realized that James was increasing speed as he spoke. "As fast as you?"

"Oh, dear-point taken." He slowed down. "But to be perfectly honest, I couldn't drive anywhere near as fast as the racers at Brooklands, even though I might dream about it. At the end of March, Tim Birkin-rather famous driver, was in the Flying Corps in the war; his real name is Henry, but he's been known as Tim since he was a boy-anyway, he was putting his Bentley through its paces, doing practice laps, and was clocked at 137.9 miles per hour. That's a new record over the distance. Mind you, one of the other chaps-Malcolm Campbell-recently secured a new land speed record in the USA, at Daytona. He was just three seconds shy of 254 miles per hour. Beggars belief, doesn't it?"

"It's terrifying." Maisie held on to her seat.

"At the very least you'd put your neck out trying to follow him." He looked out at the countryside as he spoke. "Actually, I learned to fly at Brooklands."

"At the speeds you've just mentioned, I would have thought staying on the ground presented quite a problem."

"Oh, very funny!" said James, and they both laughed again. Then James explained. "There was already a flying school at Brooklands, and then before the war, Tommy Sopwith came in with his own flying school and aircraft manufacturing concern. So it came as no surprise when the owner, Hugh Locke-King, offered Brooklands to the War Office for whatever purpose they saw fit-and the Royal Flying Corps moved in on August 5, 1914. They took it over lock, stock, and barrel." He sighed. "And from the time I arrived, I had six weeks to become a qualified Royal Flying Corps pilot."

"Six weeks?" Maisie was thoughtful. "And if I remember correctly, the average life of an aviator after arriving in France was three weeks-it wasn't exactly a secret statistic. So you knew that from the time you arrived at Brooklands to begin training, you had nine weeks of life, unless you were one of the lucky ones."

"But you've forgotten something." James slowed as they approached the entrance to Brooklands. "We were all no more than boys-eighteen, nineteen, twenty, for the most part-and we only thought of this big game in the sky and getting back at the Hun. It was a very serious game, though. You don't have any real conception of the possibility of your own death, not at that age. If I look at myself, all I cared about was flying. Bit like Priscilla's boys, only older. Then of course, you come down to earth with a bump if you're hit." He paused. "No, that bump comes when you fly over your own chaps in the trenches, and you see them going over the top straight into the machine guns. Not a scrap of innocence remains after that."

They were silent as James negotiated his way to park the motor car. He switched off the engine and turned to Maisie.

"Do you know what's so comfortable, talking about the war with you? I mean, it's not as if one wants to talk about it much, but when I mention it to you, I know that you know. We had very different wars, Maisie, but I-I don't have to explain anything."

Maisie nodded. Yes, she had experienced the same feeling, a sense of comfort that someone else understood. And as an image of Ella Casterman came into her mind's eye, she realized she'd had almost the same conversation earlier in the week.

It's so refreshing to speak to someone who knows.

James cleared his throat. "We should get going."

"What are we going to see today? Is there a special race-something like the motoring equivalent of the Derby, or the Grand National? You haven't told me."

"Maisie Dobbs, on this, your inaugural visit to a motor racing track-and I promise, there will be more-you'll be seeing some of the very best drivers in the world competing for the British Empire Trophy. There are fifty-mile heats for each engine capacity, and of course, for my money the big motor heat is the one to watch. John Cobb will be driving the Delage, then there's Birkin of course, and Jack Dunfee, and George Eyston in his Packard. Very exciting stuff!"

James stepped out of the motor car, then came around to open the passenger door for Maisie. He held her hand as she alighted from the vehicle and did not let go. As they walked towards the bank where they would stand to watch the races, he crooked his elbow so that she could put her arm through his. They wove their way past parked vehicles, some surrounded by friends having a picnic, their collars drawn up against a chill breeze while they helped themselves to treats from a hamper set in an open boot. There seemed to be plenty of flasks of hot tea to hand, possibly laced with brandy to bolster their stamina for watching the day's events.

"I'm glad you wore those stout shoes, Maisie. It can get a bit muddy up on the bank there, but it really is the best place from which to watch a race. Oh, I should have asked-do you want to place a bet? It's all part of the fun, if you want to."

"I have no idea what-or who-I would bet upon. I'm just happy to watch, James."

"But we should go down to the enclosure for a while, just to soak up the atmosphere; we can come back to the bank before the races. You'll find it's just like a horse race down there."

The day was lifting her spirits. James seemed to be having a good time, and though they had exchanged affections, neither had referred in conversation to the increasing closeness between them. For her part, Maisie realized that she had no immediate wish to embark upon a dialogue about yesterday, tomorrow, or the future. She simply wanted to enjoy today. But she could not avoid thinking about what he had said earlier-"and I promise, there will be more." She blushed when she thought of more todays with James Compton.

The tic-tac men were already busy taking bets, and James had been accurate in his description of the atmosphere. Excitement grew as the race times drew nearer, with spectators lining up to place their bets. James stopped to talk to people he knew, introducing Maisie to each person in turn, most of whom seemed to be in groups. And each time they moved on, it was as if she could feel the hot breath of speculation at her neck as they left a mumble of conversation behind them. She wondered what they might be saying to each other, these acquaintances of James Compton, son and heir of Lord Julian Compton.

"Who do you think she is, that woman with James?"

"Haven't heard of her before, have you?"

"Wasn't she at that party…?"

"Didn't he break off an engagement…?"

"It could be one of his little maids-don't you remember, there was that rumor, in the war…"

She shook her head.

"Is everything all right?" James stopped and looked at Maisie.

"Oh, nothing, I just thought I had something in my eye and rubbed it-it's gone now, though."

James put his arm around her shoulder and laughed. "Come on, let's get a drink, then go back up to the bank."

Soon James and Maisie were standing at the top of a steep banked incline that would challenge the drivers as they came around one of the most testing bends at the Brooklands motor racing track. Spectators were huddled several rows deep, and all were straining to claim a good view. Maisie could not see the track very well, but found herself carried along with the growing excitement. The cheers, ooohs, and ahhhs of the crowd, along with the smell of motor oil and petrol, infused the Surrey air with mounting expectation, and it was the big car heat that crowned the race card.

"John Cobb's leading," said James, giving Maisie a second-by-second account. "Oh, now it's Eyston-that's something, the Panhard he's driving." He gasped. "Birkin's dropped back-looks like a tire-and Eyston's still in the lead. It's bound to be Eyston-look at that man drive! Cobb's coming in second, and yes, it looks like Birkin's third. What a race, what a race, Maisie." He laughed and kissed her on the cheek.

Following an aerobatic display organized to excite the spectators, a race of the finishers in each of the separate heats brought an end to the day's events, and the infectious thrill of the crowd had left Maisie feeling as if she had run each of the races herself in her bare feet.

As they walked back down to the enclosure, James suggested a hot beverage before they left Surrey for Chelstone. The crowd was dispersing in different directions, and as they entered the enclosure, James again nodded or waved to people he knew, but did not stop to talk. As the crowd began to thin, Maisie overheard a conversation between two men, one of whom, she thought, had not realized that the noise in the enclosure had lessened, so his words were louder than he might have expected.

"Bad luck, old chap. Lost rather a bit there, didn't you? Never mind. At least the pater-in-law has more where that came from." The voice seemed somewhat affected to Maisie, reminding her of a music hall performer emulating someone of a higher station.

She looked around, wondering how the other party to the conversation might reply, and then quickly turned back, so that she was not recognized.

"I'd better be on my way back to London now. My brother-in-law will be waiting for me at the Dorchester."

It was Thomas Libbert. And he had just lost "rather a bit."

Following a back-and-forth recounting of the day's racing, and a series of questions from James regarding Maisie's enjoyment of her first visit to Brooklands, they did not speak for a while during the drive down to Chelstone. Maisie once again felt a comfort in the silence, as she reflected upon the chance sighting of Libbert and the conversation she had overheard, which served to confirm her suspicion that he had been reckless with the family's company finances for some time. She planned to read sections of Michael Clifton's journal again, for she was sure Libbert had visited Michael in Paris to ask for financial help. It was clear that Libbert's wife, Anna, was the sister to whom Michael was closest, and from what she had read already, it seemed that Michael was intent upon protecting Anna and her children at all costs. She wondered about a will. Had Michael left his estate to Anna, as Thomas Libbert assumed? Could that be at the root of his interest, or was there something else? She was sure of one thing: Libbert was very interested in discovering the whereabouts of a final will and testament.

James cleared his throat. "About Khan."

"Yes, about Khan." Maisie turned to James. Dusk dimmed the light in the motor car as James drove, and she knew he had chosen this moment to talk about their chance meeting at Khan's home because she could see only his silhouette.

"I wanted you to know why I was there, seeing him."

"You don't have to, you know. It really is all right if you don't tell me."

"But I want to. I want you to know why I was there." James cleared his throat again, as if the words were stuck and could barely be spoken. "I haven't been well, not really, for a long time. I-I mean, I am well in my body-very fit, actually. But I knew I had to sort myself out. The truth is, at first I didn't realize I knew that, but I was talking to Maurice one day and I began telling him all sorts of things, and-you know, there's something about Maurice that makes you want to just tell him everything as soon as you sit down."

"I know," said Maisie. "It's his way."

"That must be where you got it from." James sighed, then continued. "I know this sounds mad, but I felt as if I was shedding a skin, a bit like a snake, and I told Maurice that very thing. He agreed with me and pointed out that when a snake sheds its skin, it's in fact very vulnerable, not least due to the fact that it can't see. So he suggested I spend time with Khan."

"Because Khan could teach you that seeing is not something you necessarily do with your eyes."

James slowed the motor car and pulled onto a grass verge. There were no other vehicles on the road, and they were in silence until James continued. "You see, you know. You've spent so much time with him."

"Since I was about fourteen."

James nodded. "Seeing Khan has helped me to…I don't know how to explain it. He's helped me to feel as if I'm…I'm…as if I'm all there again. After the war, after all that happened, I felt as if parts of me were missing, and I now know that it wasn't all the war, because part of me had been missing since Emily died. I'm not very good at all this, talking about these things, but it's as if I now know more about who I am and what I want in my life, rather than just being swept back and forth."

"I understand, James, really I do."

"I know you do."

They were silent for a few moments before James reached across and took Maisie's hand.

"And I know that I want to spend more time with you, Maisie. If that's all right with you."

Maisie nodded, though James could not see her gesture. "Yes, James. I'd like that too."

"And I don't want to do it in secret either. I will not hide my affection or my regard for you from my mother and father, or from anyone else, for that matter."

Maisie did not reply. Was she prepared for such a thing? That Lady Rowan, Carter, her father-Maurice-might know of the fondness between James and herself? She had never set out to be an example of social climbing, nor would she want her feelings for James to be interpreted as such. Perhaps she should nip this liaison in the bud, before it had time to bloom in full view of all who might judge if it began to fade.

"I know we've both loved before, Maisie. I am not a monk, nor have I wanted for the company of women. But will you take a chance on me? And please, be honest with me."

Maisie knew she must be honest, for in opening his soul to her, James had touched her heart.

"James, I want to be by myself to think things over. Let's go for a walk tomorrow morning-you can call for me at my father's house after breakfast, if that's all right. I want to really think about what you're saying, and what it will mean for me. You see…" She faltered, not sure of her ground. "You see, I am not as brave as Enid, you know. I never was. And I do care what people think, what they say, when it's about me. I've worked hard, James, and I don't want there to be any misunderstanding, especially-and I have to say this-with your mother, who has been one of my most ardent supporters over the years."

"Enid was a long time ago, Maisie. I was no more than a boy when we fell in love, and I am now a man in middle age. I have come to terms with all that happened between us, and the others since then. But I understand your reticence. I'm just glad it's not on account of me, of everything I've just told you."

Maisie shook her head. "Oh, no, James. Far, far from it."

"And don't worry about my mother. I think she would be delighted to know that we were seeing more of each other. She is enormously proud of you."

"That's not the same as seeing us walking out together."

"I know, but-"

Maisie rested her hand on his. "Let's talk again in the morning, James. It's been a lovely day, hasn't it? Now I want to go back to Chelstone to see Maurice."

Maisie could hear the dog barking as she walked along the path leading to her father's cottage, and before she could reach for the handle, the door opened and she was greeted by both Frankie Dobbs and Jook, the gypsy dog Maisie had brought home the previous year.

"There you are! I knew James Compton was bringing you home, so I've been worried. They say he drives like a madman."

Maisie kissed her father on the cheek and bent down to make a fuss of Jook.

"Don't believe everything you hear, Dad. He was the perfect gentleman and a capable driver-probably doesn't drive as fast as me, and definitely not as fast as Lady Rowan."

"That's all right, then. Come on, I've got a nice soup going in the kitchen."

Later, Maisie and her father sat at the kitchen table, soup plates filled with piping hot broth in front of them, along with slices of fresh crusty bread cut into deep "doorstep" slices. They talked of the estate's news, then of Maurice, who had returned in an ambulance just a few hours earlier.

"I'll go up to see him tomorrow morning," said Maisie, buttering a slice of bread.

"I wouldn't go too early, being as he's only just come home," said Frankie.

Maisie shook her head. "No, it won't be. I'm going for a walk with James." She looked up at her father.

Frankie sighed, rested his spoon in the bowl, and sat back in his chair. "I've never been one to interfere, Maisie, you know that. You're as old now as your mother, God rest her soul, when she was going back and forth to the hospital. And you're a grown woman, not a girl. But-"

"But?"

"Hear me out, Maisie." He leaned forward. "But are you sure walking out with that James Compton is the right thing to do? I mean, there's been talk, you know."

Maisie felt color rush to her cheeks. "Dad, if I had listened to talk, I might still be shoveling coal in the morning in a grand house in London."

"Now then-everyone in that house was proud of you, of what you've made of yourself."

"So why are they talking now?"

"Because no one wants to see you hurt. Not with Simon gone last year."

Neither spoke for some moments, then Maisie broke the silence.

"Simon had been gone for years, Dad. Years. And I will be all right-I won't make an idiot of myself. But I enjoy his company, Dad. He's a good man."

"I hope he is, Maisie."

Later, in her small bedroom with the low beams and diamond-paned casement windows, Maisie lay in bed and considered James Compton. She was no expert in love, and she knew she had floundered when it came to personal relationships with men. After Simon was wounded in 1917, returning home to live in a hospital for men whose minds had been sacrificed to war, she had not even looked at a man until she returned to Girton College to complete her education. Then there had been occasional evenings out, the odd accepted invitation to lunch or even a party. There had been a time when she'd had what Priscilla might have called a "fling," but she had neither confided in her friend nor considered the matter again. There was nothing to touch her heart anyway, just a passing comfort; and such moments of warmth, even if temporary, were balm for the wounds in her heart. But she was different now. She had grown up, and she knew she was, as James had said, "all there again." And she liked being with someone who knew how that felt.

It was late morning by the time Maisie left the cottage by the back door and walked up to The Dower House to see Maurice. Mrs. Bromley had brought a note earlier, suggesting that before lunch would be the best time to visit.

"Maurice." Maisie went to her old mentor's bedside, took his hand, and kissed his forehead. "You have worried us all."

She tried not to reveal how his pallor concerned her still, how the hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes told all she needed to know about his state of health. But he seemed to have more energy than during their last visit, though she knew he would tire soon.

"Andrew told me that you came to the clinic-such a long way to see an old man not at all present with the world."

"You were ill, Maurice, and your respiration was compromised by fluid in your lungs. How are you feeling now?"

"Well enough. Andrew would not have allowed me to return to my home had he not been satisfied regarding my condition."

"Oh yes he would-if you'd bullied him."

"You underestimate Andrew Dene."

"No, I don't-but he was your pupil too, and would let you have the last word."

"I am well enough, Maisie. Now, come on, sit down next to me. First, tell me about your work, about progress on the case of the young mapmaker."

She shook her head. "I'm waiting, Maurice."

"Waiting?"

"For some of the dust to clear." She recounted the events of the past week, taking care to give as much detail as possible.

Maurice was silent, nodding his head, and then closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again.

"So what are you waiting for, my dear, if you know who must be brought to book for the death of Michael Clifton, and for the attack on his parents?"

"I'm not quite ready. I have a feeling we will locate the woman with whom Michael was involved very soon. And I'm waiting for more proof. I have to be sure."

"And then?"

Maisie looked down at her hands, and rubbed the back of one hand with the palm of the other. "I don't know…there are people to consider, people whose lives will be changed. I'd like to see if I can avoid too much damage."

"I suspected that might be the case." Maurice sighed, then went on. "Of course, such an impact might be the best thing. The truth always finds a way, Maisie, in some manner or form. You cannot deliberately change the course of the river without causing a flood or drought somewhere else."

"But everything changes when you unearth the past," said Maisie.

"That's not necessarily a bad thing, is it? You bring old events and choices to the surface, and you change the vista-but spring will come, the soil will seed itself, that flood or drought will abate, and life goes on in that new landscape."

Maisie nodded, but said nothing, so Maurice continued.

"The past was unearthed when Michael Clifton's remains were brought up from the battlefield where his life was taken."

"And you don't mean the battlefields of France, do you, Maurice."

Maurice smiled and began to cough, allowing Maisie to lean him forward and rub his back. When the coughing had diminished, she poured water for him and held it to his lips. Soon he was settled and answered her question.

"No, I don't. Life's battlefields are just as violent. Michael was caught in another offensive, wasn't he?"

Maisie nodded.

"Then it is your job to be an advocate for truth, Maisie."

"I've kept quiet about a few things in my time."

"So have I. But never a killer."

"No. Never a killer."

Maisie had decided earlier in the day that she would travel back to London by train on Sunday evening. James did not have to be at his office early on Monday, and in any case wanted to spend the evening with his parents.

As the train rocked from side to side, Maisie looked out into the darkness and thought about the chain of events since she left the house on Saturday morning. On the one hand, she deliberated about the case of Michael Clifton and his family, and on the other, there was her relationship with James Compton. He had called for her on Sunday morning, as they had planned, and after a brief conversation with her father about the horses, they walked to the gate at the bottom of Frankie Dobbs' garden, then across the fields to the woodlands below.

With primroses, shiny egg-yolk-yellow celandines, and delicate white wood anemones underfoot, they followed an old path down to the stream that ran through a woodland of hazel, hornbeam, oak, and beech, and soon the pungent aroma of the wild garlic that grew alongside Kentish streams was released with every step taken. The place where James stopped, a benign meander in the rushing water overlooked by the lichen-covered remains of a broken beech tree, was marked by a chill in the air that caused Maisie to pull her woolen cardigan close around her body.

"This is where it happened," said Maisie.

James nodded. "Yes. It's not like it was then." He pointed to the high side of the meander. "There were logs across there, which created a large swimming hole here. I mean, it wasn't much of a swim, but that's what we called it." He indicated the beech tree. "And that's where the limb came down. As you can see, we're not that far from the house, and on the day it happened, my parents were taking a walk together. It was their habit to walk alone sometimes, just the two of them. They heard my screams."

Maisie sat down on an old moss-covered log. "Do you come back to this place often, James?"

He shook his head. "No. Never, in fact. But I knew I would find it with no trouble."

She nodded. "Yes. The tragedy seems to have lingered in the air."

He sat down beside her. "I don't know what to feel, actually. It all seems so innocent here, in its way."

"There is healing for you in this place, James. The kind of healing that is to be found in the wound itself."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean. I'll think about it though."

They both laughed, and James cleared his throat.

"I wonder, have you thought about what I said yesterday, about…you and me?"

Maisie nodded. "Yes, I have." She looked at him. "Yes, I have, James. I've enjoyed your company. I'd like to…to spend more time with you."

James nodded, gazed at the old beech tree, and took her hand in his. Then he turned and kissed her. "We'll have good times, Maisie. We've both got some catching up to do, haven't we?"

She reached towards him and touched his face. "Let's just enjoy today, James. Tomorrow's ground is a bit too soft for me yet."

James Compton stood up, took her hand, and pulled her to him. "Shall we go back now?"

"Yes, let's. Maurice will be ready to see me soon."

James turned and stepped back onto the path, and just before she joined him, Maisie reached down to pick a single primrose, and threw it onto the water at the base of the beech tree. She watched the bubbling current catch the solitary bloom and carry it along until she could see it no more.

"Coming?" James called back to her.

She turned and smiled, feeling the color rush to her cheeks and a swell of anticipation. "Yes, I'm coming! Wait for me, James."