The Mapping of Love and Death (15 page)
Read The Mapping of Love and Death Online
Authors: Jacqueline Winspear
“Tuffie, how many times do I have to tell you—”
He turned to Maisie, his smile wide and with no trace of embarrassment. “Do forgive me, madam. That entrance did nothing to support my claim to be the gentleman my mother always hoped I would be.”
Maisie laughed. “You’re forgiven, young man, though I suspect your ear might be in for a chewing when I depart.”
Ella nodded. “It will indeed. Do run along, darling, and change out of those clothes—you reek of river.”
Christopher Casterman nodded, with a grin and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He bowed to Maisie, kissed his mother on the cheek, and was gone, slamming the door behind him.
“If you ever have a son, be advised, that age represents the best of times and the worst of times. I am sure we will all come through it in one piece, though I am not sure about every door in the house, or indeed the bathroom floor.”
Maisie smiled. “I think I’m getting on a bit to worry about that.”
“Nonsense! I was thirty-seven when Tuffie was born. Elizabeth Barrett Browning was forty-three when she had her first child, and she was not only far from being a picture of health, but also rather fond of opiates.”
“Well, anyway…” Maisie held out her hand. “You were most kind to allow me so much of your time. With your family and your charitable work, you are a busy woman.”
“And about to be busier—we have a new baby due soon, my first grandchild.”
“Many congratulations, Ella.”
“Do let me know if I can be of further assistance.”
“I will. Most certainly.”
A
s Maisie walked towards the bus stop, in her mind she replayed different stages of her conversation with Lady Petronella Casterman as if she were reading chapters in a book. She would go back over a sentence, a look, a gesture in response to a question, a comment. And when she saw a bench, she sat down and took out her index cards to
make notes while the memory was still fresh in her mind. She liked Petronella—
Ella, to her friends
—and found herself drawn to the woman’s honesty when questions were put to her. She was sure she had a solid family life, with children she loved and who loved her. When she recalled the photographs atop the piano, it was clear that they all resembled their mother more than their father. Yes, Ella had responded with straight answers throughout their meeting. But then, it was also true that Maisie had drawn back from asking two or three questions that occurred to her, because she thought she already had the answers.
“
You know the truth, Maisie. You know the truth, but you need the proof
.”
Maurice’s words echoed again in her mind. She put the index cards and pencil in her shoulder bag, and began to run when she saw the bus coming along. And even as she clambered on board and the conductor rang the bell for the bus to be on its way, it was as if Maurice were with her. “
The evidence is always between the lines, whether it is written or not. Look between the lines.
”
M
aisie checked the time on a clock above a shop window as the bus passed along the street, and decided that it would be a good idea to detour via The Dorchester Hotel, to see if she could meet with Thomas Libbert again. At this time of day many men of commerce were returning to their hotels, perhaps to rest before venturing out for supper with colleagues. She stepped off the bus at the next stop and walked to the underground station, from which she traveled to Marble Arch by tube, then made her way down Park Lane to the hotel. She found that she rather missed the very grand Dorchester House that had been demolished to make way for the new hotel. It had spoken of the limitless ambition of old wealth, and though it might have looked more at home in Venice, she had rather liked the building, which looked out over
Hyde Park as if it were an elderly lady surveying her garden from the comfort of a soft old chair while feeling very pleased with herself as she regarded each tree, shrub, and flower bed planted over the years.
Maisie entered the hotel and asked a clerk if a guest by the name of Mr. Thomas Libbert might be available.
“Ah, yes, madam, I believe you will find him in the bar. He’s been expecting you.”
“He—” Maisie almost revealed her surprise, but instead thanked the clerk and began to walk towards the bar. Libbert had obviously informed the clerk that he was in the bar, should his expected guest arrive soon. She was not the anticipated arrival, but she was curious to see who it might be. Should she approach Libbert? Or should she seclude herself in a corner with a vantage point from which to observe the comings and going of the clientele? She did not want the clerk to question her if he returned, so she decided to continue with her plan.
“Mr. Libbert?”
Libbert turned, and frowned when he saw Maisie.
“Oh, Miss Dobbs.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Libbert—were you expecting someone? I was passing the hotel and thought I might drop in and take my chances as to whether you might be here. If you’ve a moment or two, I have a couple more questions—but only if you’ve time.”
Libbert glanced at his glass, which was full, signifying that he was not in a hurry. “Yes, of course. Drink?”
“Thank you. A ginger ale would be lovely, please. I have been rather busy today, and I’m parched.” The lie came with ease, though Maisie was far from thirsty, having had two cups of tea with Ella Casterman.
Libbert raised a hand to the barman, ordered the ginger ale, and turned to Maisie, who was now seated alongside him. “So, are you making progress, Miss Dobbs?” He took a sip of Scotch and let it linger in his mouth before swallowing the liquid.
“Yes, there’s been some progress.” She thanked the barman, who placed a glass with one cube of ice and the effervescent ginger ale in front of her. “I am curious, though, Mr. Libbert—I know you’ve spent a lot of time in Europe on business, and I’m wondering if you ever visited Michael while he was in Paris on leave.”
Libbert rubbed his forehead, and Maisie thought he might be considering whether she knew of a visit, or whether she was engaging in investigative brinkmanship. “Paris. Lovely city. My wife and I went there for our honeymoon. Idyllic.”
“Were you there during the war?”
He shook his head. “Not that I can remember. So much traveling, you see, on behalf of the company.”
“Yes, I see. I must say, though, I don’t think I will ever forget a moment spent in Paris. Especially had I been there in wartime. And especially if my brother-in-law was on leave there.”
“Sorry, Miss Dobbs, you’ve rather caught me at a bad time. I’ve a lot on my mind—Anna’s parents are still fighting for their lives, and my brother-in-law is due here tomorrow.”
“I’d heard that Mr. and Mrs. Clifton were improving—much to the relief of the doctors.”
“Y-yes, yes, they are, but there’s no guarantee you know, with blows to the head. They could go like that.” He snapped his fingers.
Maisie nodded and reached for her ginger ale. She took another sip, set down the glass, and had just drawn breath to ask another question when Libbert looked past her, distracted.
“I must go, Miss Dobbs. My business associate has just arrived, and I do want to get this deal sewn up before Teddy arrives tomorrow—it’s rather important for our company.”
“Of course, Mr. Libbert.” Maisie smiled, and held out her hand. “And thank you for accommodating my unexpected arrival, and for the refreshment.”
“You’re welcome.” He shook her hand, nodded good-bye, and hurried from the bar.
Maisie thanked the barman as he came to collect the glasses, then walked back towards the foyer. As she came out into the low spring sunshine of late afternoon, she saw Libbert clamber aboard a taxi-cab, and though she could not be sure, it seemed the man with him, at that moment caught in a ray of sunshine that lightened the otherwise shadowed interior of the vehicle’s passenger compartment, was wearing a cravat at his neck, a white shirt, and a blazer. He was a man one might have described as distinguished, and Maisie thought that if she saw him walking along the street, he would strike her as a man who knew how to hold back his shoulders and step forward with some purpose. And in that shaft of light, she saw a man who was probably used to giving orders. Orders that were always carried out to the letter.
M
aisie prepared a simple evening meal of soused mackerel and vegetables, with a slice of bread and jam for pudding. In general, she did not mind a solitary repast, often taken on a tray while she sat in one of the armchairs, a fork in one hand and a book in the other. And she was under no illusions regarding the significance of the book, whether a novel or some work of reference. As she turned the pages, the characters or the subject matter became her company, a distraction so that the absence of a dining companion—someone with whom to share the ups and downs of her day, from the surprising to the mundane—was not so immediate. Guests to her home were few, and after such a visit, during which a linen cloth would be laid on the dining table and cutlery and glasses set for two, the vacuum left by the departing visitor seemed to echo along the hallway and into the walls. It was at those times, when her aloneness took on a darker hue, that she almost wished there would be no more guests, for then there would be no chasm of emptiness for her to negotiate when they were gone.
This evening, though, as soon as she had finished supper and the
glass, plate, and cutlery were washed, dried, and put away, Maisie sat at the dining table in front of Michael Clifton’s letters and journal, which she had opened at the beginning and was reading once more. She found herself smiling at certain excerpts—his mimicry of his soldiers’ accents, which, when written out phonetically, were certainly humorous. A listing of new words learned along the way had led him to observe, “And I thought they’d be speaking the same language. I might as well have joined up with the French.”
I don’t know where the idea came from that the English are subdued. The boys—the mates—I’ve met aren’t afraid to let you know exactly what they’re thinking. Mind you, they all keep quiet when the inspecting officer makes the rounds of the billets and says, “Any complaints?” That’s a stupid question, when you’ve got “cooties” running along the seams of your shirt and driving you crazy. If you say, “Well, sir, I do have a complaint,” you’re likely to find yourself up on some kind of disciplinary action. And as for cooties, they’re the nasty little bugs that get into everything. I’d never heard that word before. I think Dad must have lost his native language by the time I was born.
Here are a few words I’ve learned. The Tommy calls his rifle his “barndook,” I think because it’s harder to say than “rifle”—that’s a limey thing too. And I’ve started liking the thick sludge they call “char.” It’s tea, but the way they brew it! “Go on, mate, it’ll put ’airs on your chest!” they’ll say. It’s more likely to cut off the blood supply to your throat! I really don’t mind Oxo, a sort of beef cube that when dissolved in hot water makes a fortifying drink—the boys’ mothers send them out because the advertising says that Oxo is “British to the Backbone.”
Another one: gum boots—rubber boots to keep your feet dry in the trenches, should you be one of the lucky lads to get a pair (the rest of us just get wrinkled feet that you have to rub with rum, otherwise they’ll
drop off when you most need them). And the lads have all sorts of nicknames for the different bombs—the hairbrush (looks like one), the Minnie (Minnewerfer, a German trench mortar, you don’t hear it until it hits you), a fifteen-pounder (one of ours, thank God!), five nine (one of theirs), and the one the Germans hate—the four-point-five. There are so many of them, I could write a dictionary of British warfare! But here’s a name I like—the “housewife”—Tommy calls it a “hussif.” It’s a little needlework kit, so you can fix your own uniform, otherwise that guy with the pips will be all over you like a rash of cooties if you’re so much as missing a button—and it doesn’t matter if you lost it while narrowly avoiding being hit by a Minnie!
Maisie smiled as she read more of Michael Clifton’s impressions of the men who were serving alongside him, and could see that these early entries had been made before he had received his promotion to junior officer. But although she was drawn in by the young American’s observations of life among the Tommies, she was more interested in the unfolding of his love affair with the woman known as Tennie. She went over paragraphs she’d read before, then came to a place where the pages had fused and she had not attempted to pry them loose earlier because she thought they might tear. It seemed that only layers of mold were holding them together. Once again, she used her Victorinox knife—Caldwell had sent a man over to the office to return the gift from her father—to work on the pages, taking care to protect the handwriting as far as she could. Soon the task was accomplished, with only a few words here and there missing.
I don’t know how I managed to swing another short leave in Paris, but here I am, and it is perfect. Even more perfect than it was before, and I thought I came here to walk down memory lane with my head low, but instead…who would have known the outcome. I don’t know how
this will end, but I know that right now, in this place, I am a man who is on top of the world, yet on the edge of the precipice.
Maisie frowned. She picked up the letters and identified the point at which, according to letters from “Tennie,” the courtship had ended. Then why was Michael Clifton so happy at what she thought must be a later date? Had there been further correspondence from the unknown woman that had since been mislaid? Were they reunited in Paris? Perhaps there was another letter he’d kept close to heart and that had been lost in battle, or mulched down into the earth along with skin and bone? After so many years, when human remains were discovered, she knew they really were
remains
. Had Michael’s lover changed her mind? Was there news from her that elated him? Here was a man experiencing a joyous hiatus away from war, and at the same time he could see ahead, down into an event he called “the precipice,” which she took to be his return to the battlefield. Indeed, as she turned the pages, she realized that this was Michael Clifton’s last journal entry—what she had assumed would be the next page of writing was a combination of mold and ink that had soaked through the paper.
I am a man who is on top of the world.
But why?
Maisie looked back and forth through the journal and letters, scanning over excerpts again and again. She ached each time she read of the affection between Michael and his English nurse, and recognized that feeling of joy juxtaposed with a sense of despair waiting in the wings. Had she not felt the same when she was with Simon on leave? It was as if the thrill of the moment, that being together, was intensified, framed by the knowledge that their emotions were distilled in an almost make-believe hiatus from the war. Soon they would be there again, among the dead and dying, and the intimacy so dearly cherished would be like a dream gone before morning.
She rubbed her forehead, closed the journal, and set it down on the table, but as she did so, she noticed a loose page opposite the back cover that had slipped free. She reached forward, opened the book, and saw that it was not a page, but a folded sheet of paper. Using her knife, she teased the sheet apart and set it down to reveal a single curl of black hair. She picked up the hair to examine it, then placed it on top of the journal while she read the note, which had faded into invisibility in several places. It was a poem fragment.
What’s the best thing in the world?
June-rose,
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty,
Love, when, so, you’re loved again.
—
Something out of it, I think.
Though Maisie enjoyed verse, so many other aspects of her studies had demanded attention that she immersed herself in poetry only to the extent necessary to pass an exam or gain a respectable mark on a paper. She knew that to discover any significance in the curl’s wrapping, she would have to take the fragment of verse to someone who knew poetry and see if knowledge of its author might help her in some way. She had no idea who might assist her, but there was something about the words that remained with her, that nagged at her to take notice.
Pleasure, not in haste to end.
She picked up the lock of hair, turning it between thumb and finger.
Love, when, so, you’re loved again.
Later, after she’d put away the letters and journal, first taking care
to replace the poem and single black curl, she turned off the lights and made ready for bed. And try as she might to banish all thoughts of the day so that she could meditate before sleeping, the words echoed in her mind so that, eventually, when she at last went to bed, she drifted to sleep knowing that this was one poem, or fragment thereof, that she would not forget:
Love, when, so, you’re loved again.
W
hen Maisie first bought her MG, she had taken the opportunity to drive everywhere. She loved the freedom to go where she wanted, when she wanted, and when she traveled outside London the open road ahead beckoned, along with the promise held in the journey itself. But now, often frustrated by slow-moving London traffic, she drove to work only when her day demanded an excursion outside the metropolitan area, or she had to visit a place not reached by the transport services. For the most part, within the capital the bus, tram, and tube served her well, and in particular, she had always enjoyed traveling by bus. She would step aboard, make her way up the winding stairs to the top deck, and from that vantage point look down upon the world as it went about its business. The bus passed houses where people were getting ready for their day: a husband kissed his wife on the cheek as he stepped out on his way to work, briefcase in hand and bowler hat in place; a woman opened the door of her ground floor flat clutching a worn kimono around her as she let the cat in from a night on the prowl and collected the milk from the doorstep; and in another house, she saw children being made ready for school by a uniformed nanny. As the bus drew nearer the shops of Oxford Street, already clerks and assistants were walking and running purposefully towards their day’s toil. And she could see the moving throng as it formed into tributaries and streams, running ever onward towards the ocean of commerce, a day’s work and
a day’s pay. Each of the people had a life and, if they were fortunate, family who loved them and who they loved in return—perhaps a wife at home, a babe in the nursery, an aging parent who needed help, brothers and sisters. It was as if she had been looking down upon a landscape of human activity, a charting of everyday endeavor. As she considered, not for the first time, the part she played in the grand scheme, a question came to mind, almost as if Maurice had prompted her. Was she forging ahead in a stream of her own making, or was she allowing herself to be carried out by a riptide, ever onward towards…what?
M
ornin’, Miss!” Billy was already at his desk when Maisie arrived at the office. “You’ve been a bit busy, haven’t you? How was Dr. Blanche? Any improvement?” He stood up, ready to take her rain coat.
“I have been rather busy, Billy—and I am afraid I haven’t yet made a dent in my list of female letter writers.”
“Want me to crack it open?”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I do. In the meantime, Dr. Blanche is not at all well, but I am assured by Dr. Dene that—”
“Dr. Dene?”
“Yes, Billy. Dr. Dene is close to Maurice, as you know, and Maurice gave instructions that he should attend him should a deterioration in his health lead to him being admitted into hospital care.” She paused. “It was all right, Billy. It was nice to see him—his wife is expecting a child, so they are very happy.”
Billy nodded. He was not one to pry, nor would it have been proper to do so, but he knew that once upon a time Maisie and Dene had been close.
“So, what did Dr. Dene say? Will Dr. Blanche be better soon?”
“He thought Maurice would be home by Saturday afternoon. I’ll go
down to Chelstone in the evening, and hopefully see him on Sunday.” Maisie flicked through the post as she was speaking, but looked up as Billy sat down again. “Oh, and I’m still planning to drop in to see Doreen this afternoon—is that all right?”
“She’s looking forward to it, Miss.” Billy began placing mugs on a tray, ready to make tea. “And I’d like to know what you think, Miss. Whether you reckon she’s getting better.”
“She’s going back for her outpatient appointments, isn’t she?”
He nodded. “Never misses, so far. But I…I still worry.”
“I’m sure you do, Billy. Remember, you’ve all been through so much, and recovery is a long road to travel. You can expect some stumbles while she—and you and the boys—feel your feet. Everything’s changed now, but you’ll see that, at some point, her progress should speed up. She’ll gain ground, and you’ll realize you can’t remember the last bad day.”
Billy shrugged. “From your lips to God’s ears, as the saying goes.”
Maisie smiled. “Think how far you’ve all come. Now then, let’s have a cup of tea and see where we are before I have to go off to see Ben Sutton and his friend with the cine film.”
They discussed the Clifton case while sitting in front of the case map.
“So, what you’re saying, Miss, is that when Mr. and Mrs. Clifton came down into the hotel foyer, before they went back upstairs to their rooms and were attacked, there were six people there who stood out, and two of them might’ve been acquainted, but the Cliftons didn’t know that?” Billy tapped the map with his pencil.
“Yes. It’s rather a leap, but yesterday I saw Thomas Libbert, who was in the foyer on the day of the attack. He got into a taxi-cab with a man who—even though I didn’t get the best view of him—appeared to be wearing a cravat and had the look of a military type. If you remember, when I asked Mr. Clifton to try to envision coming down to the foyer,
he said he recalled a man with a cravat. And then there was the man and woman who were having an argument—could that man have been Mullen? Or was it someone else? And if it was Mullen, who was the woman? And did Mullen know Libbert?”
