The Mapping of Love and Death

NINETEEN

Maisie's first task the following morning was to make the appointment she hoped would lead to an arrest. At noon she left the office in Fitzroy Square to meet Detective Inspector Caldwell, as arranged during their meeting the previous afternoon. Billy walked her to her motor car.

"You reckon you'll be all right, Miss?"

"I'll have a lorry-load of burly policemen at my back. In any case, don't worry about me."

"What do I say if Viscount Compton calls here for you?"

Maisie looked at her assistant, her head to one side. "What made you say that?"

Billy shrugged. "I dunno, Miss. It's just the sort of thing that might happen, ain't it? I mean, there's you going off into your no-man's-land, and it'll be just my luck that if anyone's bound to get on the old dog and bone and put me on the spot, it's him."

"Why him?"

"Well, Miss, it's obvious he's taken a shine to you, and he won't want to know you're putting yourself in danger, will he?"

"Let's assume my life is far from being in danger, and I am just going about my work. If he telephones, tell him I am out-which is exactly what I am-and that I'm having tea with Lady Rowan this afternoon at half past three." She took her keys from her shoulder bag. "That should give him plenty to think about."

"Take care, Miss."

"Don't worry, Billy, I will be perfectly safe. And I will telephone you as soon as I can after the police have completed the arrest-I won't keep you waiting for news."

Maisie arrived at the designated meeting place-at the end of a street of grand terraced homes in Hampstead-and waited for the black Invicta police vehicle to arrive. She envisioned the conversation that would soon take place with Peter Whitting, running back through her planned lines as if she were rehearsing a play, and hoping her words would draw him out. He was a man whose anger seemed parasitic, as if it were eating away at him from a place deep inside his being. She knew the only way to achieve the confession she needed was to goad him.

A tap on the window interrupted her thoughts, causing her to start.

"Detective Inspector-did you park around the corner?"

"Better to be out of sight."

"Yes, of course." She stepped from her MG. "Ready?"

"My men are getting into position, so let's go along to the house."

"And Major Temple?"

"Military police have been briefed, and he should have been taken for questioning half an hour ago."

"Thomas Libbert?"

Caldwell looked at his watch. "Should be being picked up about now by the Flying Squad boys. I spoke to your old friend Detective Chief Inspector Stratton, now of Special Branch. He has contacts where I need them-at the American embassy-and we'll be questioning Libbert in the presence of a consular representative who also happens to be a lawyer trained here in England. As you will appreciate, because the man is the citizen of another country, there are certain channels to be respected."

"Yes, of course. So, we're ready to go then?"

"When you are."

Maisie nodded. "Good. Let's get on with it."

"And hope we're right."

Maisie turned to Caldwell. "I'll accept full responsibility if you're unable to bring charges, and-"

"Yes, I know all that, Miss Dobbs. Against my better judgment, I am confident that we won't need to do anything of the sort. Shall we?" He paused. "And one final word before the balloon goes up: As much as I can't abide a screaming woman, I expect you to let us have it with both lungs if that man poses a threat to you at any time."

She laughed. "I've a confession-he can do that simply by looking at me. Come on, let's get this over and done with."

Maisie walked up the steps and pulled the bell handle. A wait of one minute seemed to take an hour, but soon the butler answered the door.

"Ah, Miss Dobbs, on time again-"

Caldwell stepped in front of Maisie, and held out a search warrant. "If you don't mind, Mr. Dawson, my men will accompany you into the kitchen, Miss Dobbs will find her way from here."

Two policemen flanked the butler, who was now florid of face and stuttering his complaints as they moved him towards the stairs that led to the kitchens. Two additional policemen preceded them to ensure the cook was prevented from leaving.

"All right?" asked Caldwell.

Maisie nodded.

Caldwell and his assistant followed her up the stairs towards Peter Whitting's room, the makeshift battlefield where all manner of conflagrations and skirmishes were fought and refought day after day. At the door between artists' renditions of the battles of Trafalgar and Marston Moor, Maisie made a fist with her hand and knocked.

"Come!"

She nodded to Caldwell, opened the door, and stepped into the room, taking care to leave the door ajar as she entered alone.

"Why, Miss Dobbs, isn't Dawson with you? I apologize for our lack of manners." Whitting looked up from the table, where a mock Flanders battlefield had been set up, with model houses, forests, and armies laid out and ready to be moved at any moment, dependent upon the outcome of Whitting's alternative opening salvos.

"He said he would bring tea and suggested that, as I know my way and you were expecting me, I should come straight up."

"He's probably had to check on the cook. She's turned out some less than palatable dishes in recent days."

"That might explain it." Maisie smiled. "Thank you for seeing me, Major Whitting."

He held out his hand towards one of the two chairs alongside the fireplace, and as soon as he sat down opposite Maisie, the calico cat stepped out from under the table and crawled up onto his lap.

"What can I do for you this time, Miss Dobbs?"

Maisie drew breath and began speaking, knowing she would have to inspire an eruption of anger in Whitting, who was now stroking his purring cat. She hoped his fuse was as short as she expected it to be.

"I am here in search of the truth."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"First of all, may we talk about Michael Clifton?"

"Is that the American you were asking about when you came here before?"

"Yes, and-"

"I told you, I don't bloody know him."

Maisie could see that Whitting's increased tension had provoked the calico into extending her claws and sinking them into the trouser fabric at his knee. Whitting did not lift the cat's paws as she turned towards Maisie, yawning to reveal needle-like teeth.

Maisie sighed. "The thing is, Major, I think you do know him. He is your cousin by birth, though he probably wasn't aware of the connection until the day you took his life. Is that not so?"

"Leave my house now, woman." Whitting did not shout, his temper as measured as his reaction to the cat's outstretched claws. "You are a pest, a nasty pest, and I don't have to-"

The cat made a low screeching growl as Whitting stood up, brushing her off his lap to the floor. She ran under the table. Maisie was already on her feet.

"I'll leave when you've told the truth. Michael Clifton was your cousin, wasn't he?"

"How the hell do you know?" Whitting snapped.

Maisie could not breathe with ease. He hadn't said enough yet. In temper he had revealed only part of the truth. She saw the throbbing vein at his right temple, and pressed her luck.

"It's what I do. I find things out, and I know your mother was Edward Clifton's sister, and her life was changed forever by his emigration to America."

"Emigration? Ha! Running away, more like. He was a yellow-bellied coward who took off to the other side of the world because he couldn't face his responsibilities. Changed forever, my eye! I was still a boy when it killed her."

"Is that why you took Michael's life?"

"What? Do you think I am going to stand here in my own home and take this from a bit of a girl playing with fire?"

"But you did, didn't you, Major? You heard that he had land, that the land was worth money, and you saw a chance to get something back from the Cliftons-your family had been left virtually penniless by the collapse of Clifton's Shoes."

"Get out of my house!"

Maisie remained calm. "Not yet, Major. I haven't finished yet. With Michael gone-and because he was a chatty sort, Lance Corporal Mullen had passed on information on the holdings owned by Michael and his wealth held in trust-you thought you could stake a claim on his property right under the noses of the Cliftons."

Color rushed to Whitting's face as anger enveloped him, and as he stood over Maisie, he held up his hand as if to strike. "And so bloody well what. So what? You can't make it stick, can you?" He brought his hand to his side, his fists still clenched. "Dear sweet Michael Clifton, brought up in the lap of luxury with a dozen silver spoons hanging out of his mouth. Big, kind Michael, who missed his family. Do you have any idea of the suffering-suffering-I saw in my family? My mother and father pained themselves trying to make a go of the business. And my mother worked. Worked. While that American woman probably did no more than go to her lunches and sit in her big house in Boston. And my mother kept her maiden name because 'a Clifton has to take care of Clifton's Shoes.' She was like an untrained captain on a sinking ship, and she didn't want me to go down with it."

Maisie felt Whitting's volatility, but knew she had to push him further. "So why did you kill Michael?"

He mumbled a response as sweat drenched his brow. She raised her voice in an attempt to press him again.

"I asked you a question. Why did you kill Michael Clifton?"

Whitting snapped. "I killed him because he wouldn't believe a word I said. Wouldn't have it that his father was a coward." He wiped a hand across his brow. "And because he was just so smug. I had watched him for weeks after I was put in charge of the area-and yes, I engineered the posting after seeing his name on a list of cartography units. From the moment I arrived in France, as far as I could, I kept my eyes on his every move, and when I couldn't stand it anymore, I went to see him down in the dugout. He pushed me, Miss Dobbs. Pushed me into it. He wouldn't accept his father's culpability in my parents' early deaths and in the ruination of my childhood. The army was the only place for me to go." He gasped for breath, as if all air had escaped his lungs. "But he wouldn't have it. Precious Michael Clifton wouldn't have any of it. He showed no respect for my position and just turned away from me. And to be frank with you, Miss Dobbs, I lost my temper with him."

"So that's when you hit him with an item of equipment-perhaps the theodolite."

"How do you know?"

"I read the postmortem report and saw the inconsistencies. His skull was smashed by something with the heft of a theodolite. You must have left shortly before the shelling began, shelling that took the lives of the other men in his unit."

"They were all resting, so I knew I had time before he was found."

"Time to give your friend, Major-then Lieutenant-Temple, orders to direct shellfire towards the location of the dugout, an action difficult to prove considering the melee, and given that the enemy was also sending over a good deal of ordnance."

"You think you're so damn clever, don't you? Well, I'm not sorry, you know. And you can't prove a thing."

"Oh, but she can, and so can I." Caldwell strode into the room, followed by his assistant and two uniformed policemen. He held the search warrant in his hand and stood in front of Whitting. "And when we get down to the Yard, you can tell us exactly how pally you and Major Temple really were and how you got Mullen-your little helper in this bloody mess-into so much trouble. I am charging you with the murder of Michael Clifton, and the attempted murder of Mr. and Mrs. Edward Clifton of Boston, the United States of America. You might as well confess to the killing of one Sydney Mullen, and you can also throw in attempted theft for good measure."

"You stupid little man. You and this woman here cannot prove a thing."

"Can't we? Major Temple is blowing his horn as if it's reveille down there in Chatham." He nodded to his assistant. "Read him the caution, if you don't mind. Oh," he said, turning back to Whitting, "and I think we might be able to add a certain young officer by the name of Jeremy Lockwood to the list of men who've stood in your way-he rumbled you, didn't he? Worked out what you were up to, so he had to go. Another death blamed on the enemy?"

Whitting's face distorted as he began to weep. "You just don't know what it was like, do you? She adored her brother, wouldn't have a word said against him. She said he had to make his way in the world, and if he didn't want to run the company, well, that was up to him. But I knew he was a coward. A soft, work-shy coward, that's what Edward Clifton was." He choked back tears and tried to garner some composure as he addressed Maisie while being handcuffed.

"It seems I underestimated you, Miss Dobbs."

"You should never underestimate the power of the moving picture, Major Whitting."

And as Whitting was led away by two police constables, and Caldwell and his assistant stood outside the door to discuss a search of the premises, Maisie sat down on the armchair; and in her mind's eye saw once again the image of Peter Whitting running towards Henry Gilbert's camera, his baton held high, his eyes filled with nothing but anger and hatred. She was only barely aware of the calico cat climbing onto her lap and extending its claws in delight as it kneaded the fabric of her skirt.

Billy?" Maisie used the telephone on Whitting's desk.

"Oh, Miss, I can breathe again. I don't know how many cups of tea I've knocked back, but I couldn't sit still for the waiting."

"We're almost there. Whitting confessed, and is in police custody. There will have to be a formal interrogation and signed confession for anything to really stick, but Caldwell thinks we're on solid ground."

"He was all right, then, Caldwell?"

"I'm sure we'll have our ups and downs when we cross paths again, but as we thought, he seems much easier to get along with now he's been promoted."

"What about the others?"

"Temple is in the custody of military police. Whitting had been his superior officer in the war, and it seemed he idolized him. He kept Whitting informed of everything Michael Clifton did, where he went-even on leave-and I think between them they made Michael's life a bit of a misery, nitpicking him for the slightest infraction. Of course, Whitting was at the HQ, but found plenty of excuses to go out to the units. And Temple was only too willing to cover for him-until today. I am sure Whitting called Temple to alert him to the fact that I would be in contact. And though Temple wasn't involved in the murders, he knew when to look after his commanding officer."

"And I suppose Whitting followed Michael to Paris, in the war."

"Yes, that's what happened, I'm sure." Maisie sighed.

"You all right, Miss?"

"I just wonder about the death of Michael Clifton. I have a feeling that, while Whitting considered Clifton's demise to be part of a plan, he might not have struck him had he not completely lost his temper. Whitting appeared to me to be a man who lived by a code of personal control, who had surmounted the grief of loss, but who was on the edge. Because of the degree of that control, the line separating it from personal anarchy was narrow. But after Michael was dead, it was easy to abandon the body-possibly rolling it into a blanket as if the dead man were asleep-and leave the dugout. There had been intermittent shelling, so all he had to do was use his chain of command to ensure the area where the dugout was situated came under intense fire. We must remember, though, that the dots may link up to reveal a different story, but one with the same outcome."

"No, I reckon you're right, Miss. But what about that other officer?"

"Jeremy Lockwood? I think that might be more troubling in terms of proof, but Whitting may help us there. Caldwell will no doubt exercise an element of brinkmanship and refer to evidence in order to obtain a signed confession. I suspect Lockwood was a naive but observant junior officer who realized that Whitting had ulterior motives in his interaction with Clifton and brought it up in one way or another. Death by sniper is easy camouflage."

"So now what?"

Maisie sighed again. "You may be swimming in tea, Billy, but I'm dying for a cup." She looked at the clock on Whitting's desk. "So I'm off to see Lady Rowan at Fortnum's.'

"Going from one extreme to the other, eh, Miss?"

"To tell you the truth, I think I might be going from a battle charge straight into the lion's den." She paused. "Were there any telephone calls for me?"

"One from Mrs. Partridge, and one from Viscount Compton."

"Oh, did he leave a message?"

"I said what you told me to-that you were out, but that you were having tea with Lady Rowan."

"What did he say?"

"Well, he didn't really. Sort of went all quiet, and then said, 'Thank you, very good,' and rang off."

"That's encouraging." Maisie spoke the words under her breath.

"Sorry, Miss, what did you say?"

"Nothing, Billy. Did Mrs. Partridge leave a message?"

"Just that you call her 'soonest,' as she doesn't quite know what to say to Mr. Sutton."

"That's nothing I want to sort out at the moment. Look, I'd better go or I'll be late for Lady Rowan."

"See you tomorrow, Miss."

"Um, Billy-be prepared to hold the fort tomorrow. I think I might pack my case and go down to Chelstone after tea. I need to see Maurice-I couldn't get him out of my mind all day. Even while I was with Whitting, I felt as if he were looking over my shoulder."

"Right you are, Miss. I've got plenty to get on with-but, Miss, is it all right if I come in a bit late tomorrow? I've got to go with Doreen to the hospital."

"Of course. Is it time for her checkup?"

"Yes. Yes, that's right."

"Oh, here comes Caldwell, I'd better go. 'Bye, Billy."

"'Bye, Miss."

I think we've got everything sewn up here. You're free to leave, Miss Dobbs." Caldwell extended his hand as Maisie stood up from the desk and collected her shoulder bag. "That was good police work, Miss Dobbs. I would've liked to have known earlier what you were up to, but on the other hand-though I hate to admit it-I can see why you wanted to get to the bottom of it all first. Stroke of luck, wasn't it, you seeing the cine film."

"We all need that serendipitous moment, don't we, Inspector?"

"Whatever you call it, I'm glad it happened. A couple of my men have been to see Henry Gilbert, and we now have the film in our possession so that we can prove association between Whitting and Clifton. The bloke wasn't very pleased, mind, said it was important to get it back for a-what did he call that thing? Oh yes, the documentary he was making. Personally, I'd rather see the likes of Louise Brooks at the cinema myself."

"Inspector, I think I will be driving to Kent later today. May I come to the Yard tomorrow afternoon to make my statement?"

"I'll make an exception for you."

"Thank you, I appreciate it." She smiled at Caldwell. "You sailed a bit close to the wind there, when you insinuated that Temple was 'singing like a canary.'"

"Well, it's true military police have him in for questioning, and one of my men is with them, but as you pointed out yesterday, Temple would probably be shocked to know the outcome of some of the orders he received from Whitting. And thankfully, he's talking about those orders, including Whitting's instructions to report even the most minor fault on Michael Clifton's part during the war. It won't do any harm to let Whitting think that Temple has more knowledge than he has, and for him to assume we are in possession of that information. I have no doubt we'll get the full confession we're after, sooner rather than later."

"And what about Libbert?"

"More or less as planned, though my opposite number in the Flying Squad is a bit put out at having to play by the rules because of the embassy. We want Libbert in connection with his relationship with Mullen, the Flying Squad want him because he was a player in Alfie Mantle's game, and the Americans want him home where he can't embarrass them." He gave what Maisie now recognized to be his signature shrug and sigh. "In terms of the law, it could be said he was a victim first, but all the same, he might be encouraged to go back home as soon as we're all done with him and can get him onto a ship."

"Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive."

Caldwell rolled his eyes, though he smiled at Maisie. "I'll be in touch."

Maisie spotted Lady Rowan Compton almost as soon as she walked into the tearoom at Fortnum and Mason. She was sitting at a table alongside the window, looking out at the street below. Maisie could see she was tense, sitting on the edge of her chair, her hands clasped around a warming cup of tea. As usual, she was dressed with understated elegance, wearing a pale beige skirt and light tweed jacket, set off by a flash of color in the cobalt blue silk blouse worn underneath her ensemble. It was a blue reflected in the feather set into the side of a navy blue hat pinned atop hair that had once been copper red, but was now toned with striking thick strands of gray.

Taking a deep breath, Maisie joined the woman who had discovered her reading in the library at two in the morning when she was thirteen years of age-a mistake on Maisie's part that would change the course of her life.

"Lady Rowan. I am so sorry to keep you. I was detained at an appointment."

Lady Rowan beamed a broad smile at Maisie and grasped her left hand in both her own. "I was about to get worried, my dear. I know what a stickler you are for punctuality-just like Maurice." She turned to summon a waitress, while Maisie seated herself in the facing chair.

Lady Rowan ordered another pot of tea, a plate of sandwiches, and scones with fresh clotted cream.

"You seem tired, Maisie. Was it a very troubling day?"

Maisie nodded. "A case was brought more or less to an end today, though I have yet to brief my client on my findings and the outcome-which will cause added grief to a very close family."

"They have each other, Maisie-that's a blessing when tragedy strikes." Lady Rowan looked out of the window again, then back at Maisie. She half laughed and went on. "That was a fortuitous turn of phrase, all things considered."

"Was it?"

"James told us that you know about our darling Emily."

"I am so sorry, Lady Rowan, I had no idea-"

Lady Rowan reached forward as if to take her hand again, then drew back. "But there was no reason why you should have known. Carter and Mrs. Crawford knew, but they were sworn never to talk about it to the staff. And the staff who were with us at the time all knew and were also charged with not gossiping about it, and to be perfectly honest, it seemed that, after the tears abated, no one wanted to discuss it again anyway. Though for us-Julian, James, and me-the challenge has never been greater." She shrugged, as if to shake off an untoward thought. "Losing Emily has made us all who we are."

Maisie sipped her tea, knowing that any words at all might sound trite.

Lady Rowan once more grasped her cup of piping hot tea in both hands. "I suppose I felt as if we all had to live two lives, one for ourselves, and one for dear Emily. She was such a lovely girl, you know."

"James told me. He adored her."

"Of course they could argue. I once saw their nanny take them each by the scruff of the neck and all but throw them into the garden. 'Sort yourselves out before you come in again!' she admonished them. So they set off down to the woods to play, and I daresay they forgot what the row was about in the first place."

"Lady Rowan, if you wanted to ensure my confidence, please be assured that I would never speak of Emily's passing. James entrusted me with his memories of her, and I will honor such trust."

"You, perhaps as much as his father and I, and of course, Maurice, know how much James has struggled since the war to-I don't know how to put it-'regain something of his old self' might fit the bill." Lady Rowan set down her cup. "I'm usually very good at getting straight to the point, but today all backbone seems to have abandoned me. Oh, blast, I'll just get on with it." She looked directly at Maisie. "James had a chat with Lord Julian and myself on Sunday evening. He told me that he has a great affection for you, and that you are, in effect, a courting couple."

Maisie nodded. The lump in her throat prevented her from speaking.

"Of course, I will make no bones about it, my mother-in-law, the Dowager Lady Jane Compton, would have had you both sent to islands as far apart as possible, but times have changed. Not much, but they have changed, and Lord Julian and I, having lost a daughter, do not intend to lose a son. I have my concerns, but you have our blessing."

Maisie felt her color become flushed. "And what are your concerns, Lady Rowan?"

The older woman shook her head. "Not what you think. You are not an Enid, and you are not sixteen-James was sent away in a bid to stop that affair. Now I have my voice, I will be frank. My reticence has nothing to do with one's station in life, or your father's situation as my employee-in fact, as we both know, he is more of a trusted friend to whom I can have a good old chat about my horses. So, no, that's not it."

"But-"

"Let me finish." She sighed. "Maisie, in the course of the next year or so your life could change in ways you might never have imagined-in fact, that's true of us all, really." Another sigh. "The truth is, I believe you are very good for my son. I have seen something of the old James in recent days. I lost part of him when Emily died, and I lost a lot more during the war. Do you know he put on a gramophone record and had me dancing with him on Sunday? He hasn't done that in years. I have my son back and I don't want to lose him again. And I fear I will if your courtship comes to an end at a time when you are both deeply invested in the outcome. You are, after all, a very independent young woman, Maisie. Such accomplishments are not easily relinquished, and the obvious conclusion to an affair of the heart always requires compromise. I should not admit this, but I found it difficult myself. I was a most head-strong young woman, but my mountains were never as steep as yours."

Maisie was silent as she looked out of the window, her eyes following the snaking lines of traffic moving in and out of Piccadilly.

"Lady Rowan, do I take it that you are asking me to end my relationship with James sooner rather than later?"

"That seems awfully brutal, doesn't it? But it is close to the truth. If you can see some longevity to the liaison, then you have our blessing. There will be talk, but we are all adults, and frankly, there's more to worry about in this world. When you have endured tragedy, the things that seemed so important to the maintenance of a way of life do not have the same significance. Maurice knew that, which is why he dragged me off to the East End to see his first clinic for the poor-and I have been a supporter of his clinics ever since. But if it is not to be, if you are just testing the water with James, then I ask you to draw back. Release him. We might lose him for a while, but we won't have to see our son drowning in despair."

"I understand, Lady Rowan. Do not worry, I will do what is right and good."

"I knew I could trust your integrity, Maisie." She smiled. "Now, tell me about that friend of yours-Priscilla. She sounds so much fun-how are her boys?"

The two women exchanged news for a while longer, and discussed the health of Maurice Blanche. Maisie informed Lady Rowan that she would be driving down to Chelstone that evening, and was invited to tea the following day, should she remain at her father's house. Soon they both declared that time was marching on, and they should be on their way.

"It was lovely to see you, my dear." Lady Rowan pressed her hand to Maisie's shoulder and smiled as they bid each other farewell. "Know that I remain your greatest supporter."

Maisie walked to the street where she had parked, wondering whether her fledgling courtship with James really did have the blessing of his parents-if it was good and true. And she supposed that, because her life had changed so much over the years, then more of the same might be expected, and Lady Rowan was fearful of the impact of such changes on Maisie and, ultimately, her son. Such thoughts occupied her as she opened the door of her motor car and took her seat. But as she drove away, she recalled a scene from her past when, while working as a maid at Ebury Place, she watched from the threshold of a door left ajar as James and Lady Rowan danced together. James had returned to the London mansion following his aviator's training, just before being sent to France. He was wearing the uniform of a junior officer in the Royal Air Corps and was singing at the top of his voice as he steered his mother around the floor.

He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease,

That daring young man on the flying trapeze.

His movements were graceful, all girls he could please,

And my love he purloined away.