The Mapping of Love and Death

SIX

Maisie arrived at the office with the intention of clearing a few items of correspondence before she embarked upon the drive down to Chelstone. Spring showers had blown across London earlier in the morning, and now gray-tinged cumulus clouds moved heavily across the sky in such a way that the odd patch of blue allowed the sun to filter through, though such moments were fleeting. She turned on the gas fire low, then set to work, but had been reading through some notes for only a few moments when the telephone rang.

"Fitzroy-"

"Miss Dobbs, Detective Inspector Caldwell. I said I would be in touch about the Cliftons."

"Oh, Detective Inspector, how kind of you to remember." Maisie's eyes widened, registering her surprise that Caldwell had kept his word. "May I visit Mr. Clifton?"

"This morning at ten-I'll meet you outside the main entrance to the hospital, it's as good a place as any. By the time you get to his ward, you'll have about ten minutes with him."

"Do you have word on Mrs. Clifton's progress?"

"Or lack thereof, Miss Dobbs-she's not changed since we last spoke. Still in a deep coma. The doctors are hoping that her son's presence, when he arrives, might give her the jolt she needs to regain consciousness. Now then, see you at ten."

"Right you are, Inspector."

Caldwell ended the conversation without a formal "Good-bye," just "See you at ten." Instead Maisie heard only a blunt click as the receiver was hung up, and a long monotonous tone signifying the line was clear for another call. She replaced the black telephone receiver and checked the hour on the mantelpiece clock. There would be little time to finish odds and ends in the office if she were to be at St. George's Hospital at the specified hour.

Maisie had been to St. George's Hospital at Hyde Park Corner on several occasions. The main hospital had been built on the site of Lanesborough House-itself constructed in the early 1700s, when it would have been situated among fields instead of a burgeoning metropolis-and was also home to what was considered to be the best medical school in the country. Until recently, Maurice had been an occasional lecturer on the subject of medical jurisprudence, and in her younger days Maisie had attended lectures there. Though she was not a student of the school, a word from Maurice gained entry to selected lectures for the bright Cambridge graduate.

There was a certain austerity about the building, as if the stone itself would have no truck with nonsense, and the only important thing was to advance medical knowledge of the human body and how to make it well when sick. As Maisie paced back and forth at the allotted meeting place, an Invicta police vehicle swung round and came to a halt, at which point the passenger door opened, and Caldwell stepped out onto the curb.

"Good, you're on time."

"I do not think I have ever been late for an appointment with Scotland Yard."

"Hmmph!" Caldwell paused to touch the brim of his hat and lost no time in instructing Maisie to follow him.

With a brisk walk, he led Maisie along the street and in through an entrance she was not familiar with, then down freshly mopped corridors, up stairs and more corridors, until they reached the room where Edward Clifton was recovering from his injuries. A solitary police constable was on duty outside, and as they arrived, a nurse left the room holding a kidney bowl filled with soiled bandages.

"Ugh," uttered Caldwell. "Doesn't that make you want to heave?"

Maisie registered her surprise; Caldwell must have seen his fair share of deceased persons while working for what the press termed the "Murder Squad." "No, not really," she said. "I was once a nurse. There's not much I have to turn away from."

"It's not that I mind them dead. I just can't stand the mess when they're alive and bloody." Caldwell shook his head and approached the constable. "Ten minutes for this lady. And make sure it's ten, all right?"

"Yes, sir." The constable stood to attention when Maisie entered the room, and nodded as she passed him.

"You'll not be in the room with me, Inspector?"

"No, I'll wait. I've already spoken to the doctor, but I want to be here if the nurses need to come in or if the doctor returns. I trust you'll apprise me of any facts you manage to extract from the victim."

Maisie nodded. It seemed that, like her assistant, Detective Inspector Caldwell did not care to risk feeling queasy if he could possibly help it, though it also occurred to her that he assumed she would come out empty-handed. She entered the room, walked to the bed where Edward Clifton lay back on several pillows positioned to keep his head stable, and stood at his side. Slowly he opened his eyes and focused on her face. His head was bound with bandages, as were his palms. The skin under his eyes was black and smudged, and seemed almost blistered as the wounds on his head drained. And though Maisie had seen many much more serious wounds in the war and had stood for hours on floors thick with the blood of the dying, her eyes smarted when she thought of someone inflicting such injuries upon an elderly man who had come to London to discover the truth about the death of his beloved son.

"The police said I could see you for a moment or two, Mr. Clifton."

He nodded, licked his lips, and then spoke in a cracked voice. "Do you think the police will find out who did this?"

"I know they are working on it-and so am I."

"Thank you. I suppose-" He coughed, and winced as the pain reverberated through his body. "I suppose you want to ask me a few questions, or however the saying goes."

"If you don't mind."

Clifton nodded again.

"And I know you've probably been asked these same questions before, so forgive my repetition," said Maisie. "Can you tell me if you recollect anything about the person who attacked you?"

He paused before answering the question. "That's an interesting thought-the police asked me if I remembered anything about the man."

"We need to cast the net wide before dragging it back to the boat to inspect the catch."

He sighed. "I've tried to remember, but it's a blur-I just remember the movement, the struggle, hearing Martha scream, as if she were trying to stop someone attacking me. Then everything went black."

"Yes, I see." She looked at Clifton and wanted to lay her hand on his, as she would with Maurice or her father. Instead she went on. "I know this is terribly difficult for you, Mr. Clifton. I can see you are weary and in pain, and I would not ask you to press on if it were not important. Do you think you can cast your mind back a bit?"

"I know it's important. I'll try."

"I'll be quick. Now, what do you remember before you returned to your room? Let's start with when you left to go out."

"Oh, I don't know, I can't-"

She reached out and touched his arm. "Mr. Clifton, close your eyes for a moment-not tight, but just allow your eyelids to touch." Maisie paused as Clifton followed her instructions. "Now, imagine you and Mrs. Clifton are leaving your room, see it as if you were at the picture house-what happened next?"

"I-I locked the door. Yes, and I can remember Martha asking if I was warm enough because I looked cold-always worrying, my Martha."

"Go on."

"We went downstairs, through the lobby."

"Let's linger there for a while. Look around, who was there?"

Clifton nodded. "Well, there was a darker gentleman-looked like a Spaniard-signing the register. Martha said she thought he must feel the cold, if he came from somewhere warm." He coughed and winced as the pain reverberated from his chest to his head, but struggled to continue. "She remarked on the flowers in a vase. Lovely flowers, with big blooms. She thought they must have been brought in from your Channel Islands."

Maisie said nothing, though she found herself closing her eyes as if she, too, could conjure the scene being brought forth from Edward Clifton's deepest memory.

"There's a boy struggling with a woman's luggage, and she's talking in a loud accent-reckon she was from New York. Martha whispered that it was embarrassing to come from the same country." He laughed. "And I said, 'It's your country, my love!'" He wiped his eyes with the backs of his fingers, and flinched at the feel of bandages.

"Do you want to stop, Mr. Clifton?"

"No, no." He paused and took a deep breath. "Now, where was I? Yes, there was the man to the left. I remember him. Very correct. Very English, as if he was in the Guards. Wore an open-neck shirt and a-" He held his hand to his neck. "I've forgotten what you call them here? Cravat. Yes, he was wearing a cravat. At his neck. Shoes polished. I remember him because of the way he looked at Martha, and I thought to myself, Look at her, sixty-eight and she can still draw a guy's attention."

"Can you tell me about his hair, his eyes-can you remember?"

"Darkish graying hair, silver at the sides. Then I heard the couple arguing, near the door, so I looked away."

"Arguing?"

"Don't know what about. They didn't look as if they belonged, if you know what I mean. And it wasn't so much the woman as the man. I remember thinking he looked like someone you wouldn't want to meet on a dark night with those broad shoulders, but he looked as if he could do with a good meal all the same. She didn't want him to come into the hotel, and was trying to pull him away; then one of the hotel clerks took care of it, told them to leave, I reckon. It was all done very quietly. Can't say as I remember much after that." He opened his eyes. "Except, when they'd gone, Tommy-he's our son-in-law-called out to us. He'd just come down to the lobby. He wanted to know when we'd be back." Clifton touched his head.

"Do you have a headache?"

"Starting to." He closed his eyes again.

"Then let's stop, Mr. Clifton. You've been very kind to see me, and I cannot thank you enough for trying so hard to remember. Perhaps when you feel well enough-"

Maisie leaned forward to check Clifton's pulse. He was already asleep. She stood up and lifted the chair to one side so as not to scrape the legs against the floor, then tiptoed towards the door. It was Clifton's voice, speaking low but with a forced strength, that stopped her.

"Find whoever did this to Martha, Miss Dobbs. And find the man who murdered my son."

"I will, Mr. Clifton. Don't worry, I'll find them."

On the drive down to Chelstone, Maisie barely noticed the landscape around her, and at times realized that she could not remember driving past some of the usual landmarks on the journey. In her mind she was playing and replaying the scene described by Edward Clifton. Of course, each of the people he described seeing-the man with the cravat, the man with a dark complexion, the arguing couple, and Thomas Libbert-could be completely innocent. But someone had gained entrance to the Cliftons' room, and had been so intent that his or her identity remain secret that he or she had left the couple for dead before escaping. It was clear that the person was looking for something specific, and it was possible that the very item being sought was in the hands of either the police or Maisie. Could the letters from women who had responded to the Cliftons' advertisement have inspired the attack? Or perhaps Michael Clifton's personal effects? Somewhere there was something of great value to another person-what was it, and where was it? And who wanted it so much that they would kill to have it?

Stalled in her quest until Monday, Maisie planned to spend time with her father, and Maurice. As her thoughts transferred to her ailing mentor, Maisie's eyes filled with tears. She had known him for so long, and had it not been for Maurice Blanche, she might never have walked through the doors that had been opened for her time and time again. It was as if, the moment they were introduced when she was still only thirteen years of age, he had led her to a table heaped with knowledge-only there never seemed to be a point at which her hunger to learn was sated. He had shown her a path that, in her wildest imaginings, she might never have found alone, had offered her counsel when she returned from war wounded in both body and spirit; and he had chosen her to become his trusted assistant, and taught her so much.

A recent estrangement in their relationship had been healed, and though she felt strength in her independence, she was also glad that he was still there to offer advice, to hold up the looking glass to her innermost thoughts so that she could see that what was already within her had merit and worth. If her father was her rock, then Maurice Blanche was the witness to her journey, and for that she accorded him great affection.

Maisie's thoughts came back to the present as she reduced speed to turn in to the entrance to Chelstone Manor. To her left was The Dower House, Maurice's residence, which he had bought years before when the old Dowager Lady Compton, Lord Julian's mother, died. Once she had passed The Dower House, Maisie would turn off the carriage sweep that led to the manor and into a downward-sloping lane to the left, at the end of which was her father's cottage. The gardens of the two houses bordered each other, and Maisie would often take the path from her father's garden up to The Dower House. The conservatory where Maurice spent warm days overlooked the gardens, and Maisie knew her old mentor would be aware of her arrival at Chelstone, and would be awaiting her visit.

As she passed The Dower House, Maisie saw James Compton's Aston Martin move from its place at the front of the mansion and begin to make its way towards the gates. She sped up enough to turn into the lane before she had to pull over to make way for his motor car, which would likely necessitate a conversation. She still hadn't worked out what she might say to him. "Funny seeing you at Khan's house" did not seem quite right, though her curiosity regarding his visit had not diminished in any way. No, it was best not to linger.

Maisie sat with her father at the kitchen table, and breathed an audible sigh.

"All right, love?"

"Yes, Dad. Just a bit weary, to tell you the truth. I had to visit a very poorly man at St. George's Hospital this morning." She was aware that she rarely spoke of her work with her father, conscious that he would worry about her safety and well-being.

"What was wrong with him?"

Maisie paused before answering the question. She was sorry she had mentioned the visit to see Edward Clifton. The lie came easily. "He'd suffered a fall, and he is an important witness."

Frankie Dobbs was not easily fooled, but took his daughter at her word. "Nasty that, a fall. I remember when I came a cropper in the stables a couple of years ago, I felt more sorry for you than meself. It's always the ones who are left waiting who suffer the most, the people anxious for news. Terrible thing, having to wait to find out if they're all right."

Maisie knew her father spoke from the heart, from his memories of waiting, of hoping her mother would get well again, then watching her die. He waited once more, years later in the war, when Maisie sailed for France with a contingent of nurses, and he waited for her to regain her strength and health when she came home wounded.

"Which reminds me," added Frankie. "I saw Mrs. Bromley today, and she said Maurice was very much looking forward to your visit. You could pop over now, before they put him to bed."

Before they put him to bed. Maisie felt the swell of ache press down on her chest, her heart beat faster, and she thought she might not be able to breathe. Before they put him to bed. Maurice was failing, and she could no more bear to think of life without his presence than she could imagine being without her father's love and companionship, both always waiting for her at Chelstone.

"Yes, you're right. I'll go up now and see if he's well enough for me to sit with him for a while."

Maisie kissed her father on the cheek. "I'll put that pheasant in the oven before I go-we'll have a tasty supper tonight, Dad."

Mrs. Bromley opened the door before Maisie could set her hand upon the bellpull. "Miss Dobbs, how lovely to see you. Dr. Blanche saw you coming up the path and sent me to the door-he might be weary, but he still doesn't miss a trick! Come along into the conservatory. It's still quite warm in there."

The housekeeper spoke to Maurice as she entered the conservatory. "She's here, Dr. Blanche. Shall I bring a pot of tea?"

Maurice waved his hand. "No, I think a schooner of cream sherry would be more to Miss Dobbs' liking-and a malt whiskey for me, if you would be so kind."

"But the doctor said-"

"I am the doctor. Some dry biscuits would go down very well too, I think, and perhaps a little Stilton. Thank you very much!"

Maisie smiled, but did not speak until Mrs. Bromley left the room. "I think you just pulled rank on the doctor-and he wasn't even here!"

"So be it. I have earned all the rank I want to pull, so let that be a lesson to you when you are in your dotage." He began to laugh, but the breath caught in his chest and he started to cough. Maisie reached for a glass and filled it with water from a jug, but Maurice raised a hand. "It will pass. Please. It will pass."

The housekeeper returned, pushing a wooden trolley set with two decanters, crystal glasses, a plate of plain water biscuits, and a wedge of the pungent blue-veined cheese Maurice favored. With a reminder to Maurice to have no more than one glass, she left the room.

"A decent pour for us both, if you would be so kind, Maisie."

Maurice took a sip of the single-malt whiskey and closed his eyes. "I have always believed in the medicinal properties of this particular eighteen-year-old distillation."

"I won't argue with you, Maurice, even though I am inclined to agree with your doctor."

"So am I, Maisie, but that this stage of my life it does me a power of good to flout rules." He paused, lifted the amber liquid towards the setting sun, and turned to Maisie. "And what about you?'

"About me? Well, this morning I went to see Edward-"

"I'm not talking about work, Maisie. It's your life I'm interested in."

"My life? But my work-"

"Your work is not your life."

"But…" Maisie faltered. "But your work was most of your life."

"Granted, it might have seemed like that, but there was more. My life here, my life in Paris, my garden, my friends, associations. How about you?"

"Well, I…there's my friend Priscilla, and her children." Maisie took a sip from the schooner she had half filled with cream sherry. "What do you want to know, Maurice?"

Maurice Blanche rested his glass on the trolley, then looked at his hands, turning them over, frowning and smiling in equal measure. "They say the face tells all there is to know about a life, but I personally believe much can be deduced from the hands. There are lines and scars, bumps and calluses; indeed, the hands are both the sketch and the final work of art."

Maisie looked at her hands. She had always been somewhat embarrassed by them. They were hands that told a story of hard manual labor when she was a child, hands that had scrubbed floors, had polished heavy oaken furniture. Later, they had soothed the sick, and had rested on the foreheads of the dying. She realized that she had no recollection of her hands as a schoolgirl, and she was uncomfortable with the conversation's direction.

"I saw Khan this week."

Maurice smiled, aware of the change in topic. "How is my dear friend?"

"We sat together for a while. He seems old, yet at the same time, he seems not to have aged since I was a girl." Maisie paused for just a few seconds to take a sip of sherry. "And you will never guess who I saw there."

"I think I can."

"This one might stump you, Maurice."

"Might it have been James Compton?'

Maisie's widened eyes underlined her surprise. "How did you know?"

Maurice again waited before speaking, as if gauging his words with care. "Now, Maisie, you know better. I have to observe that, in personal matters, you do not have the breadth of vision that is at your disposal in your work. You have made a decision about James, that he is a certain kind of person, and that-given his character, as you have interpreted it-he is not worthy, perhaps, of an audience with someone you hold in the highest regard."

"I just didn't think he was the type." Maisie felt her neck grow hot, and knew how her words sounded.

"Again, you know better."

"You're right, I do. I'm sorry. But James Compton-"

"Is a lonely man in crisis, and if I were to commend anyone to your good graces, it would be him."

"I feel as if I had just been reprimanded by my teacher."

"You have."

Maisie looked at Maurice, and they both began to laugh, though Maurice soon held up his hand as the unforgiving cough claimed him. She poured a glass of water and helped steady him as he held the glass to his lips.

"I asked for that, didn't I?" said Maisie. "I am guilty of allowing my past memories of James to color my view of him, which I concede is wrong."

"James has floundered for some time, though as we know he has always found a certain peace of mind in Canada. But now he is back here, and to be once again-and likely forever-in a place where you never quite fit is like experiencing the worst of times once more."

"Never quite fit?"

"No. James Compton is his mother's son, his father's heir, and a man of his generation of young men. On the one hand, his mother has always enjoyed flying in the face of what was expected of her, and on the other, his father is a businessman with barely an equal, a man who has served his country without question when called to do so. Julian is a man of compassion, but he does not suffer fools gladly. And then there was the England that James came home to-and a young man who has been wounded in body and spirit, one who was seeking both solace and joy, found easy consolation in the antics of his peers. But that behavior gnawed at him, Maisie. He grew to hate himself before he went back to Canada. And now he is here again, and though he is a man of some accomplishment, showing every sign of being his father's worthy successor now that he has taken over the highest position in the everyday running of the Compton Corporation, his is not an easy journey."

"I can see your point, Maurice, but there are starving people in lines for food in London-and theirs is not an easy journey either."

Maurice took another sip of the whiskey, wincing as he swallowed. "A little compassion for James, Maisie, might not go amiss."

Maisie nodded, but said nothing in return.

"Have you made progress with your case?"

She was thoughtful before replying. "Yes, yes, I think I have. Lord Julian gave me the name of a man to contact, and he in turn suggested others, one of whom I went to visit. Usually any connections initially effected by Lord Julian are without question, yet this time I…I can't say-there's just something about him."

"Remember, Julian does not know all contacts personally-he just has an extraordinary roster of names at his disposal, not only through his commercial interests but also through his work for the government during the war. I am sure he could find out more about this man, if you wished to inquire."

"Yes, yes, of course."

A knock on the door, followed by Mrs. Bromley and the nurse entering the room, brought the conversation to an end.

"Here come the Furies!" Maurice shook his head and reached for Maisie's hands with his own. His eyes met hers, and she was pained to see the milky patina of age and sickness. "Remember your childhood, Maisie. Remember being at Ebury Place, and here at Chelstone. Remember being different and having to make your way in a world for which there was no set of directions. Remember that next time you try to avoid conversation with James Compton."

"But-"

"I've always loved sitting in this conservatory, Maisie. Have you never looked out across the estate from here? You can see the gardens, the carriage sweep. I can see down the slope to your father's house, across the lawns, right up to the entrance to the mansion. Indeed, if I am situated in a certain place, I can even view the stableyard and the paddocks-I take great joy in seeing your father with the young horses, or instructing the grooms when they exercise the hunters. I miss nothing, so the sound of an MG's engine accelerating when James Compton is leaving the manor would attract my attention."

Maisie smiled. "Guilty as charged." She took his right hand, kissed the liver-marked skin, and felt the web of veins touch her lips. "Good night, Maurice."

"Good night, my dear."