The Mapping of Love and Death

TWENTY

Maisie packed a few items of clothing into her leather case, together with a flask of tea for the journey, and set off in the MG. She would doubtless be stuck in London traffic, but would use her knowledge of the back streets to negotiate her way through the rush. She stopped at the telephone kiosk along the road from her flat and placed a telephone call to the Dorchester, asking to be put through to Dr. Charles Hayden.

"Maisie, what's going on? I knew you would call, but Teddy is trying to find out where Tommy's been taken. The consular people aren't being very helpful."

"I have some news. There have been two arrests today, one directly in connection with the death of Michael Clifton, and the attack on his parents."

"And Tommy's involved?"

"No, but his association with a known criminal came to light as part of the investigation. He became the pawn of a man with quite a degree of personal power. Let me explain-hold on a minute." She pressed more coins into the slot. "Charles, are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"Here's what happened. A man named Sydney Mullen was a member of Michael's cartography unit in France. He thought a lot of Michael, and they formed something of a friendship, to the point where Michael had even offered Mullen a job if he went to California. Mullen was wounded; if it hadn't been for Michael, he would have lost his life. In England once again, Mullen took up the threads of his former occupation, as a self-appointed go-between, putting various people in touch with each other based upon mutual need or want. Suffice it to say, some of these people weren't exactly the sort you'd want to mix with. He was involved with the man accused of killing Michael, and it is more than likely he perpetrated the attack on Mr. and Mrs. Clifton-I'll be able to explain more when I see you.

"But to your question regarding Thomas, at some point it appears that Mullen went out of his way to make a connection with him. Given his previous relationship with Michael, he knew there was a fortune out there that was Michael's. He'd seen sketches and maps drawn by Michael, who had told him about the oil and the value of his land. In short, Mullen wanted to keep his dream alive. I suspect that, initially, he'd heard about Thomas from Michael; men share confidences in the trenches they might never allow to pass their lips at home. Mullen made contact, possibly to see if there was a gain to be made. Soon he discovered Thomas Libbert's problem with money, that it slipped through his fingers with ease, that he wasn't quite the businessman he fancied himself to be, and on top of that he gambled-and lost-a lot of money." Maisie sighed, fatigue scratching at her eyes. "Mullen saw an opportunity to increase his personal value to a certain Alfred Mantle, a very powerful man who operates all sorts of nefarious businesses, and who is quite a dangerous character. In short, once introduced to Mantle by Mullen-and I should add that Mantle may be a crook, but he can pass for a gentleman, and he is of some considerable wealth-Thomas took advantage of Mantle's banking service; he was a loan shark, among other things. Thomas went from being a victim to an accessory to crime when he began referring other similarly compromised associates to Mantle, men he knew were in trouble following a loss of common sense at the card tables or the races. That's why he's of extreme interest to the Flying Squad, the Scotland Yard department responsible for gangs, armed robberies, and what you might call organized crime. Frankly, Thomas was naive, and didn't know that he'd opened a Pandora's box of problems for himself."

She paused. "I should add that Mullen was murdered, and in all likelihood by the man who took Michael's life, and not Mr. Mantle, though anyone who has dealings with that man is playing fast and loose with his own life. Mantle bears something of a resemblance to Michael's killer; not in looks, as such, but because Mantle observed men of a certain type, their bearing, the way they dressed, and so on, and then emulated them. With that presence, he broadened his base of acceptance, and power." She coughed, the air in the telephone kiosk catching in her throat. "And Mullen was like one of those performers at the circus, the ones who balance a series of plates on the end of bamboo sticks, then try to keep them spinning. But when you're in the service of much more powerful men, it's you who could end up in a hundred pieces-not the plate."

There was silence on the line.

"Charles, are you there?"

She could hear breathing, but no voice. Another couple of seconds passed before Charles Hayden responded.

"I'm shocked, Maisie. Absolutely shocked at this turn of events. Had I realized the danger I placed you in by recommending you to-"

"The truth always finds a way into the light. Sometimes it takes years, and sometimes it leads us on a path into danger. This is my work, Charles, though I'm glad the risk part is over."

"Will you be coming to see Edward? He's been released to a room here at the Dorchester. A nurse is with him, and I have taken responsibility for his care. I know he is anxious for word from you."

"This news will tell him almost all he needs to know. I have to go down to Kent on a matter of some personal urgency, but I expect to be back in later in the day tomorrow. Might I be able to see him in the evening?"

"As long as it's not too late."

"No, it won't be late, Charles. I have something to give to him, something very important."

"Maisie-thank you. If anyone could see through this mess, I knew it would be you."

"I'm not quite finished yet, Charles."

"Of course. Tomorrow then?"

"Indeed. Tomorrow."

Maisie ended the call and left the telephone kiosk. And as she started the MG and pulled away into traffic, she spoke aloud to herself. "No. No, I'm not quite finished yet."

She ran directly to The Dower House after greeting her father upon arrival at Chelstone. Andrew Dene came to her side as soon as Maurice's housekeeper announced her arrival.

"That was quick!"

Maisie half smiled. "What do you mean?"

"I only telephoned James Compton an hour ago. I knew he could pull strings, but he got you here pretty quickly."

"But I-I haven't heard from James. I was awake all last night, I kept thinking of Maurice and decided to come as soon as my work was finished today." She reached for his hand. "Andrew…Andrew, please-"

Dene reached for her and took her in his arms. "He's going, Maisie. I am so very sorry, I know-"

He led the way to the conservatory, which had been set up with all the necessary accoutrements of care for the acutely ill invalid. Maisie went to Maurice's bedside.

"Maurice, it's me, Maisie. I'm here."

She grasped his hand and felt his bony fingers clasp hers.

"I knew you would come."

"I should have been here earlier, I should have come this morning."

He turned towards her, his movements slow, deliberate. She could see the cracked skin around his lips, and eyes that still seemed all-seeing, despite being sunken in paper-thin gray skin.

"No, you shouldn't. You would just have been sitting in silence listening to a rattle in the chest of an old man."

"But you're not old, Maurice, you're only-"

He began to laugh, but coughed instead. Maisie reached for the glass of water at his bedside, and lifted his head to enable him to drink. He settled back on the pillow and began to speak again.

"It's a strange phenomenon, that we always think of people as being the same age as they were when we first met them. It has not always been easy for me to see the accomplished woman before me now, because I tend to see a young girl so thirsty for knowledge that she would risk her livelihood."

Maisie nodded, unable to speak.

"Will you tell me about today? It was today, wasn't it, that you brought your case to a close?"

"Almost," she whispered.

"Almost?" He paused, coughed once, then looked at her again. "Ah, yes, there is always that final speck of dust to be cleared, isn't there? And it can be so elusive."

"That's how I expect it to be."

"Then tell me about the case, the outcome."

"But, Maurice, you're not well. Surely-"

"Let us talk, Maisie, as if we were sitting by the fire, you and I. It would not be fair of you to keep the denouement from me. Imagine me as well, and please, go on."

Maisie felt hardly able to breathe, but she set forth the events of the day as if she were once again reporting to him, as she had in the days of her apprenticeship. When she brought the story to a close, Maurice, who had listened with closed eyes, nodded.

"You could not have hoped for a better conclusion, though the death of the man Mullen is regrettable. He seemed to be a most unlikely player in Whitting's game."

"He was one of those people who managed to get himself in a tangle that he just couldn't unravel," said Maisie. "He was a small-time crook who had found some sense of himself in the army, and discovered a skill in cartography. But it was difficult for him to find work after the war, and he still had the dream of a new beginning, which had been seeded by Michael Clifton. He'd seen Michael's drawings, his maps, and he thought he could still get there even after Michael was listed as missing." Maisie paused, wondering whether to cease her account. Maurice raised his hand for her to continue.

"I suspect Mullen had uncovered Whitting's connection to the Clifton name, and realized that, if they were in league, and in possession of documents of title, a will in favor of Whitting could be forged. A story of long-lost cousins finding each other on the battlefield would have been quite compelling. Whitting and Mullen sought to find Michael's wartime love, rightly assuming she might know something about the papers they needed. As time went on, Mullen became desperate-I am sure Whitting was putting pressure on him-so when Mullen went to the hotel room to see what he could find and was disturbed by the Cliftons, he panicked. Once the attack had taken place, he was a liability to Whitting. As we know, the Mullens of this world are opportunists, speculators of a type. He would have kept his contacts separate, so there would have been no blurring of gains from association with Whitting and Libbert, for example."

"And Libbert himself?"

"I don't think of Libbert as evil, as conniving as Whitting. I think he's a weak man, a man who was trying to be every bit as clever, witty, and accomplished as the Cliftons. He was married to Anna, but wanted to have something of that Clifton ease with each other and life itself. Yet I suspect everything he tried turned to dust in his fingers-yes, he worked for the family corporation, but any power was due to his wife's name rather than his ability. Probably if he and Anna had lived at some distance from her family, he could have been his own man."

"People who do not have the resources of character to draw upon are easy prey for the trickster-and they become lesser tricksters themselves."

"The family are strong, they will recover," said Maisie.

Maurice nodded. "And that final speck of dust?"

Maisie was quiet for several moments, during which Maurice turned to look at her again.

"There is no completely satisfactory conclusion. I have wondered if I should leave well enough alone," said Maisie.

"That path is always available to you."

"I know."

Maurice coughed again, his frail body seemingly racked with pain at each convulsion in his lungs. Maisie held a bowl to his mouth as Dene came to his side and supported him. She drenched a cloth in cold water from a bowl set to one side, and pressed it to his brow and neck. He struggled to breathe for another moment, then lay back against the pillows as the coughing finally subsided.

"I'm not finished yet. There is more to say." Maurice's voice was barely more than a whisper.

Dene held Maurice's wrist to take his pulse, then listened to his chest with a stethoscope. He looked at Maisie and shook his head.

"Maurice, you need to rest now," said Maisie. "Close your eyes, and I will remain here at your side."

Again she felt the force of his will as he took her hand.

"No. Stay and listen. Sit and talk. Until I am dead, I am alive."

Dene and Maisie exchanged glances, before he nodded and left the room.

"Good." Maurice's voice reflected pain in his throat. "I love Andrew, he is a fine doctor-he was born a doctor. To my advantage, he fortunately remains a little scared of me."

Maisie half laughed. "I think he's scared of me, too."

"I don't doubt he is."

Maurice tried to laugh with her, but coughed once more before speaking again.

"Maisie, I would like us to talk about you."

"Oh, Maurice, I-"

"But I want to." He reached for her hand. "And at this time in my life, I will claim the last word on everything. Now, let us speak of the past and the future." His chest lifted as he struggled to take a longer breath. "I was not going to speak of this, but I want to now. I have decided it is only right and fair. I prepared a letter for you that is currently in the hands of my solicitor. It speaks of my regard for you and deepest respect for your many talents. I do not have the energy to say more, but it sets out my intentions for your future. It was presumptuous, I know, but I was your teacher, so I am asserting my claim on your ear when I have something to say. I want you to know that you can always say no to any request, any offer that comes your way, even if that offer has been instigated by me. There have been developments in the more personal aspects of your life, and those might run counter to any future offers of employment. I counsel you to consider your responsibility to your heart before you consider honoring my memory."

"Maurice, I don't know what you mean."

"You will."

"Oh, I do wish people wouldn't talk in riddles. I feel as if I am constantly at work."

Maurice coughed again.

"You must rest, please, Maurice," urged Maisie.

"Life is a riddle, my dear. It is filled with clues along the way, with messages we struggle to understand. You've been working on the case of a cartographer; you should know that all maps are drawn in hindsight. And hindsight, if interpreted with care, is what brings us wisdom. I simply wanted to be assured that you know you have a choice. You must not do anything simply because I have said you have the ability to take on my work."

Maisie could see the deep fatigue in his body, could feel his spirit begin to flag. He had spoken to her with an energy that reminded her of a river bearing down strong across rocks before it diminishes to a trickle and then runs dry.

"Maurice."

"Yes?"

"I have loved you as if you were my father, though that has never stopped me loving my father."

"I know. And you are as my daughter."

She squeezed his hand, and felt the light pressure of his fingers in return.

"And I think you should know that I am seeing James Compton."

With his eyes closed, the corners of Maurice's mouth lifted into a smile.

"He's been there a long time. I'm glad you're finally seeing him."

Maisie remained with Maurice. Andrew Dene joined her vigil, then left to go home to his wife, who was nearing the end of her term. As day's light faded, she was joined by Lady Rowan and Lord Julian, and by James, all of whom stayed for just a while, knowing there was little time left, and the bond between teacher and pupil was so deep that Maisie would not leave. Only her father waited with her, sitting in a chair by the window and nodding off as the night wore on. He would be there, come morning.

As the sun began to filter a red-gold light between the trees and crows cawed the dawn chorus into life to welcome a new day, Maurice breathed his last; not with the deep rattle of death in his throat, but with the ease of one who is sleeping too long. Maisie, her head resting on a corner of the bed, did not look up into his open eyes, but felt her own hot tears flood across the cold, still hand she held to her cheek.

Maisie remained at Chelstone for several days. She broke word of Maurice's death to Billy, who could barely believe the news.

"I know he was getting on, Miss, but I always thought he would pull through."

"We all hoped against the odds that he would."

Maisie's head was heavy with grief, as Billy understood too well.

"Don't you worry, Miss, I'll hold the fort. I'll see you when I see you, and rest assured, there's plenty for me to be getting on with here."

Caldwell extended his condolences and said that Detective Chief Inspector Stratton would doubtless be in touch, as would others from the Yard.

"He was well liked, here, was Dr. Blanche. He was one of the best to have at a murder, in his day. Told you what you needed to know to get on with your job after just a quick gander at the body-and he did it with manners. That's what I liked about him."

"Thank you, Inspector Caldwell. I'm glad he's remembered."

"Never forgotten. In any case, you just come in when you're back in London. We've got the confessions we needed, and we've enough to get going on without your account of the events leading up to Whitting's arrest."

Andrew Dene had arrived soon after Maisie summoned him. He issued the death certificate and completed the formalities pertaining to Maurice's passing, and remained with Maisie as arrangements were made for the undertaker to come to the house. Frankie Dobbs waited in the conservatory.

"He was a good man, Maisie. No side to him, no looking down his nose at the likes of me-and he was an important man, was Maurice. So, if it's all the same to everyone, I'll just sit here until they've taken him."

Maisie nodded, and went about her business. Lord Julian had already assumed the task of making the formal announcements, and when there seemed to be little for her to do, Maisie walked through the house to Maurice's study. To her surprise, there was a fire in the grate, so she took her place in the wing chair at the side of the hearth where she would sit to talk with Maurice. How many times had they been together in this room, going through strands of evidence in a given case, or-as Maurice often liked to do-speaking of Maisie's future?

There was a soft knock at the door, and the housekeeper entered, pushing a trolley. "It's gone lunchtime, so I thought I'd bring you a little something."

"That's very thoughtful of you. Thank you, Mrs. Bromley. Did you light the fire?"

"Yes, Miss Dobbs. I knew you'd want to come to his study, and I didn't want it all cold in here for you." She rolled the trolley so that it was adjacent to Maisie's chair.

"Oh-" Maisie saw that on the trolley was a decanter of single-malt whiskey, and one of sherry. A wedge of Stilton cheese was flanked by a fan of plain biscuits, and two plates, table napkins, and knives were set to one side. It was Maurice's favorite late-evening repast.

Mrs. Bromley poured a glass of sherry for Maisie, then passed the malt whiskey decanter to her. She smiled and poured a good measure into Maurice's crystal glass.

"Won't you have one with me? A toast to him?"

"I think I will, Miss Dobbs." The housekeeper reached down to the second tier of the trolley, brought out another sherry glass, and smiled.

Maisie stood up and clinked her glass with the housekeeper's, then they both reached to touch Maurice's glass with their own.

"I'll miss you, Maurice," said Maisie.

Mrs. Bromley pressed her lips together and nodded. "Yes, sir, Dr. Blanche. You'll be missed."

Maisie spent only a short time with James at Chelstone. Lady Rowan had known Maurice since girlhood, and though she was taking his loss in her stride, she wanted to be in close proximity to her husband and son. For her part, Maisie felt her emotions too close to the surface to spend long hours with James. A deep sadness lay across her heart like a heavy gray blanket, and was weighted by memories of the conversation over tea with Lady Rowan, which had unsettled her. She knew she had to consider not only her own feelings, but the vulnerability of a man who had been, as Maurice observed, "in crisis."

Before returning to London, Maisie placed a telephone call to the home of Ella Casterman, and once again the lady of the house was the first to answer.

"Ah, Miss Dobbs-may I call you Maisie?" She did not wait for a reply. "Maisie, yes, I would be delighted to see you. Do come for morning coffee on Tuesday. See you then."

Maisie replaced the receiver and finished packing the small leather case that was a gift from Andrew Dene, who had once hoped to marry her. The small room in her father's house had cocooned her since Maurice's death, and now she wondered how she would ever walk out into the garden without looking up the hill towards The Dower House in all its grandeur, and the conservatory where Maurice would take breakfast looking across the land. She supposed the house would be sold, and new people would move in-how would she bear hearing voices other than his in the rose garden? And what if they removed his precious roses altogether? After all, not everyone liked roses.

James came to the Groom's Cottage to see her off on her journey back to London.

"James, may I come to your office tomorrow? I need to collect the parcel I left in your safe."

"Of course. I've been as good as my word-your belongings are as safe as houses." He ran his fingers through his hair.

Maisie smiled. "I've been so busy since Maurice-"

He put his arms around her. "It's all right, Maisie. I understand. More than you think."

She nodded. "Thank you-I'll see you tomorrow then, about three o'clock?"

He held her to him, kissed her once on the cheek, and then drew back. "I'd better be going back to the house; it's my turn to get ready to drive back to town. Take care."

Maisie watched James Compton walk along the lane towards the drive up to Chelstone Manor, hands in pockets, shoulders stooped. She wasn't the only one grieving the loss of Maurice Blanche.

Clad in her black day dress, black shoes, and black cloche, Maisie felt as if she was standing out in stark relief as she entered the bright, golden morning tones of Ella Casterman's mansion.

"Lady Casterman is in her rooms, but has asked me to show you into the library," said the butler.

Maisie had always felt at home in a library. She loved walking past rows of books, reading titles, taking down a book that piqued her interest, and opening the pages. She had seen libraries where the books were hardly touched, the spines of every text cracking with an unopened newness. And there were other libraries where each book seemed to have been read time and time again. Ella Casterman kept Maisie waiting for some moments, giving her an opportunity to peruse the shelves upon shelves of books. Books on philosophy and history might well have been the choice of an earlier reader, for although well-thumbed, the stiff pages did not yield easily, so must have not been read for many a year. Novels had been read and re-read, as Maisie could see by the frayed edges of cover and pages, and torn dust jackets. She suspected the Casterman girls had been lovers of romance-perhaps a reading preference shared with their mother.

A section of books on explorers, on travel, on distant lands appeared to have been used with some frequency. A series of new acquisitions had been added, and when she looked around at the oak table in the center of the room, a cluster of books on geographical subjects were open at various pages, and a notebook set alongside them. She smiled. The explorer was Christopher Casterman.

Close to the window, which looked out to a garden resplendent with the colors of spring, Maisie found another well-used collection, and thought she had found Ella Casterman's true literary love-poetry. Maisie took down book after book, each one well thumbed, each one with slips of paper here and there noting a favorite line, a verse that touched the heart. It was when she found a shelf of books by Elizabeth Barrett Browning that she stopped. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books until she found the collection she was looking for. It came as no surprise that, as she took the book in her hands, it fell open to one page in particular.

THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD

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…

"Ah, there you are. I am so sorry to keep you, but I was speaking with my daughter. All being well, I will be a grandmother before the week's end."

"Congratulations, Lady Casterman."

"Ella, please. Do call me Ella." She turned as the butler entered, carrying a tray with a coffeepot, hot milk jug, two cups, and some arrowroot biscuits. "Ah, just the ticket. Let's sit down, Maisie."

A few moments later the women were seated, each with a cup of coffee. Maisie had already placed the book of poetry on the table in front of her.

"I see you are a fellow reader. What have you found?" Ella Casterman set her cup on the low table and reached for the book. "I knew you would love Elizabeth-I have adored her poetry since I was a girl and feel that we are on Christian name terms."

"Yes, I can see that-you have quite a collection there," said Maisie.

"Here, let me read you one of my favorites." She turned the pages.

"Oh, I think I know which one it is." Maisie reached for the book. "May I?"

The poem was easy to find. Maisie held the book open as she faced Ella Casterman, and recited the verse.

"Ah, you were already familiar with her work." The woman blushed.

Maisie shook her head. "No, and-in truth-I think you know why I know this poem, Ella. I first discovered it written on a scrap of paper and tucked into the back of Michael Clifton's journal."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about. Do explain. Michael Clifton?"

Maisie set the book on the table, once more, then reached out and took her hostess' hand. "Please, Ella. I know. I know about your affair with Michael Clifton."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Ella Casterman stood up and began to pace. "This is really…really…" At once she bent over from the waist as if in pain, and the tears came so quickly that Maisie thought she might collapse and went to her aid.

"Come, please sit down," said Maisie, her voice soft.

The woman continued to weep for some moments, then sat back on the chesterfield.

"I thought you might find out the truth. As soon as I met you-it's your eyes, Maisie, they seem to just go right through a person."

"Ella, you've harbored this secret-and the fear that goes with it-for so long. Would you like to tell me about it?"

"Do I have your word that it will not go beyond these walls and this conversation?"

"I keep many secrets, Ella. It's part of my job."

She nodded, reached for her now-cool coffee, and took a few sips before placing the cup back on the tray.

"How did you meet Michael Clifton?" asked Maisie.

"I-I first saw him in Paris with one of my nurses. They seemed to be having so much fun together, so much joy. There wasn't much that was uplifting in the hospital, though of course everyone did their best to put on a sunny face for the wounded. But it seemed there was this frenetic desire among the young people, when they were away from it all, to just get out there and enjoy life for what it was-fleeting, at best. I did as much as I could for my nurses, you know, and I thought they should have some lightness when they were on leave. And as I told you before, I tried to ensure they didn't get themselves into any difficult situations."

Maisie nodded. "Of course."

"But…" She looked down at the handkerchief bundled in her hands. "I also harbored some envy. Oh, dear, I know that sounds just dreadful, and I really wasn't myself. You see, I was married when I was quite young, and my husband, my dear, precious husband, was so much older than I. It seemed of no concern for such a long time, and we had two beautiful daughters to whom we were both devoted. But time marched on, and we went through a troublesome interlude-or perhaps I should say that I went through the troublesome interlude."

Once again, Maisie did not offer any interruption, but leaned forward to pour more coffee for herself and Ella Casterman, who sighed, then went on.

"I was only thirty-six or so. I was as fit as a fiddle, had more energy than I knew what to do with, and I was married to a man who suddenly seemed so much older. He no longer wanted to be in company and seemed to retreat to his library or to his club on many occasions. My love for him had not waned, rather it had become…it's hard to explain, but it wanted for fresh air. I wanted a breath of fresh air."

As if to underline her words, she walked to the windows and opened them wide, returning to continue her story only when she had taken several deep breaths.

"I was very active with charitable work, and of course you know about my nursing unit. You could say my husband, not wanting for wealth, indulged me, though my work was always with the best of intentions. I went across to France as often as I could. I wanted to play as big a part as possible in the day-to-day running of the hospital, and I made a commitment to personally support my staff." She looked at Maisie as if to underline that she would not draw back from telling her story.

"It was by chance that I saw them. I had accompanied a small group to Paris on leave and stopped for a cup of coffee in one of those lovely cafes they have there-have you been to Paris, Miss Dobbs?"

Maisie nodded. "Yes. I love the city, it's quite beautiful."

"Then you know it has its own intoxicating qualities. I watched them, the young couple, and-oh, dear, I know this sounds quite awful-but I was at once envious. I wanted to know that young love, that…effervescence of the heart. You see, though I had been in love with my husband when we married, because he was much older, his love was more measured, not youthful. In truth, he wanted an heir, and I was of an age, but of course we had two girls." She reached for her coffee, sipped, and placed the cup on the tray. "Later I heard, through the unit's grapevine, that the girl-Elizabeth Peterson-had brought an end to the affair. Youthful exuberance followed by a fear of what might come around the corner. Very sad."

"Yes, I suppose it is."

Ella Casterman looked at Maisie, her head to one side. "Ah, you know."

"Yes, I know."

"I'd better finish my story, before I lose courage. When I returned to Paris, I made a point of staying in the same area. I went to the same cafes as I had before, and though I would not admit it to myself in the looking glass, I was hoping to bump into that young American. I imagined us sitting together over coffee with hot milk, dipping our croissants and laughing over shared jokes. It did not occur to me what I might do if the imaginings became real. But they did. I was at the cafe, the one where I had seen him with my young nurse, and there he was. But there was no joy in his face; in fact, he was absently stirring his coffee and staring at the cup. I went over, introduced myself, and sat at his table. He seemed happy to have company-he was clearly homesick. We talked and talked, and soon he confided that he had recently seen his brother-in-law, who had frequently caused him much concern over his financial dealings. I suggested I should treat him to supper that evening, to take his mind off unpalatable matters before he returned to his unit, and I to mine. Suffice it to say, I remained in Paris for several days, until it was time for him to leave. We were inseparable, and it was as if the years just melted away-friends had often said that I looked like my daughters' older sister, not their mother, and for once I felt like it. And my heart was lifted out of the mire of age that I was stuck in at home, and the terrible sadness of the war. We both knew it could not go on forever, though perhaps I knew that more than Michael; but there were intimacies shared that I would never have wanted my husband to know about."

Ella Casterman spoke with a calm forcefulness, as if to bolster her resolve and not draw back from the truth.

"Michael Clifton and I were lovers. I was some twelve years older than him and I was a married woman, but for four short days we knew love and we experienced the joys that come with a new deep attachment."

"Then?"

"When I was expecting my daughters, on both occasions I knew the very moment I was with child. The very moment. Shortly after leaving Michael I felt those same sensations within my whole body-and indeed, before more proof was needed, the usual indisposition followed. In short, I was as sick as a dog. As soon as I could, I returned home and assumed relations with my husband. Almost nine months later our son was born."

"Michael's son."

"Yes. Michael's son. Of that I have no doubt."

"And your husband never knew?"

"If he suspected, he never said."

"So the secret remains with you."

"As it will with you, Miss Dobbs."

Maisie nodded. "Michael's parents are in London. Let me tell you what has happened to them, and to their family since they last saw their son." She recounted the story of Michael Clifton's death and the subsequent events since discovery of his remains by a farmer in France.

"I had no idea he came from such wealth. And I never connected Clifton's Shoes with Michael Clifton. I mean, he spoke of his property in a valley in America, but I imagined a smallholding, a farm, that sort of thing."

"He loved land, loved exploring. Rather like Christopher, if that collection of books is anything to go by."

"Will you keep the secret, Maisie? I have much to protect. I have a son who is still more boy than man, and there is also the question of his inheritance."

"I will not reveal any details of our conversation; however, I do hope that one day Christopher might know more about the man who was his true father. I think Michael deserves such respect." Maisie reached into her bag. "Here you are-the address of Edward and Martha Clifton in Boston. They are getting on, especially Edward, and I think their years are numbered, especially following the attack. You must do what you feel is right."

The woman who had been Michael Clifton's lover took the piece of paper, folded it and placed it within the pages of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poems. She turned to Maisie.

"Truth, not cruel to a friend."