The Mapping of Love and Death (18 page)

“That was a lovely cup of tea, Doreen. It’s a treat to see you looking so well.”

“Thank you, Miss Dobbs.”

“Let Billy know when you’re up to taking on more work. I’m fed up with the blinds in my flat and would like some curtains. I don’t think I’d trust anyone else to make them for me, so when you’re ready—”

“I’ve got a few things to finish, but in about a fortnight I reckon I could take them on.”

The two women exchanged pleasantries at the door, and soon Maisie was on a bus traveling away from Shoreditch. Throughout the journey, which took her along the narrow streets of the City and then in the direction of Fitzroy Square, her deliberations were firmly on the Beales and their future. Doreen’s behavior had revealed a tendency towards obsession, which was not unusual in a case such as hers. It gave her a sense of control over her environment and what happened in her life. Maisie wondered if she should say something, or whether certain fixations might diminish as Doreen grew stronger. Billy’s fierce pride had recently been put aside so many times to accept help from Maisie, and there was only so much more she could do. She had not the resources to offer more money, but she felt it incumbent upon herself to provide support where she could, so that at the very least, Billy knew that someone cared enough to help them find a way through their barren desert of despair to something approaching a better way of life.

T
he shank of the afternoon was giving way to dusk as Maisie ran from the bus stop on Tottenham Court Road, and when she entered the square from Fitzroy Street, she could see a light on in the first-floor office. The business week extended until Saturday afternoon, and in their line of endeavor, it was not unusual to work on a Sunday, but she was still surprised to see that Billy had not left for home at this time on a Friday. It was as she walked closer to the front door that she saw the
reason—a chauffeured motor car was parked outside, indicating that visitors had arrived and were waiting for her.

As she reached the top of the staircase, the door to the office opened, and Billy stepped out onto the landing.

“I heard the front door go, Miss.”

“Who do we have the pleasure of seeing so late in the day?”

“It’s Mr. Clifton—the son, that is. And his friend, Dr. Charles Hayden.”

“Oh, Charles—” She opened the door and entered the room.

Billy had offered the men chairs in front of Maisie’s desk, and as she walked in, her cheeks flushed, they came to their feet.

“Charles, how lovely to see you again.”

“Maisie!” He took her hands in his own and kissed her on the cheek in greeting.

Charles Hayden was tall, with broad shoulders, and if he carried any extra weight, it served only to make him seem more of a contented man, happy in his family and a success in his profession. His ready smile made Maisie feel as if she were part of an inner circle. While still holding her hands, he turned to Teddy Clifton.

“Teddy, I met this young lady when she was just—what was it, Maisie? Eighteen years of age?”

Maisie smiled and gently pulled her hands away so that she could welcome her guest.

“Mr. Clifton, it is such a pleasure to meet you, though I wish with all my heart that the circumstances were less tragic.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Charles has told me a lot about you.”

“What news of your parents?”

“My father is much better. Charles examined him today and went through some tests—the doctors accommodated us—so we are pleased with his progress. My mother has regained consciousness, but it will
be a few more days before we know what sort of lasting damage there might be.”

“I’m optimistic, though,” added Hayden.

“And I feel better knowing Charles is over here now—not that there’s anything wrong with your doctors.”

“I understand, Mr. Clifton.” Maisie pulled her chair from behind her desk so that the coming conversation might be more open, less businesslike. Maurice had often cautioned her that the desk could be seen as barrier to honest dialogue, and if she had control of the situation, and if the circumstances warranted it, she should never let the desk come between herself and her clients, or anyone she was interviewing. It was one of many nuggets of advice she had taken to heart.

“Have you had tea?”

“Mr. Beale has filled us with tea and—what do you call those things? Biscuits?” Charles Hayden laughed as he asked the question.

“‘No better than hardtack.’ That’s what you said once, when we were all in France.” She took her seat and invited Billy to bring his chair over to join them. “My assistant has been actively helping me with this case,” she explained to the men.

Maisie did not know how much Charles Hayden had brought Teddy Clifton into his confidence regarding his suspicions upon reading the postmortem report on Michael Clifton’s remains. She looked at Hayden and nodded, a signal that she wanted him to begin their meeting.

“Maisie, I have talked to Teddy about my thoughts on the postmortem report. I didn’t say much in my letter but I suspect you might have come to a few conclusions yourself—Edward intended to show you the report.”

“Yes, he brought it to my attention.” She looked at Clifton, then Hayden. “And though you did not color my assessment of what was indicated there, I believe we can set our cards on the table and see a match.”

“Go on, Maisie.” Charles Hayden nodded to her to continue.

She concentrated her attention on Clifton. “It is my belief that your brother’s life was taken deliberately prior to the shelling that killed other members of the cartography unit and led to further wounds to his body. They were in a former German dugout, and it was quite sophisticated, with separate rooms, if you will; there were bunks and so on. This was no ordinary tunnel or hole in the ground—the Germans were excellent engineers. The men could all have been at rest when Michael’s life was taken, and it would not be a stretch to suggest that they might not have discovered his body prior to the shelling. It is a question that cannot be readily answered.”

Maisie could see that Teddy was familiar with the story, for he showed no shock at the news, but brought his hand to his mouth for a few seconds.

“Do you think the killer perished in the shelling?” The weariness brought on by travel across the Atlantic and arrival in Southampton, along with the shock of seeing his parents in hospital, was evident in Clifton’s demeanor; his shoulders were rounded, and his voice cracked with tiredness.

Maisie shook her head. “I couldn’t say, Mr. Clifton, but if I were to hazard a guess, I would say no. No, I don’t believe he was killed. I can think of several circumstances wherein the killer could have taken your brother’s life and then been on his way. Of course, he may himself have lost his life to war at a later date—but no, I don’t think so.” She paused. “There’s the distinct possibility of a connection between Michael’s death and the attack on your parents. I do not think they are isolated events.”

Clifton blew out his cheeks as he nodded. “I know what Charles here thinks, but how do
you
think Michael was killed?” He put the question to Maisie.

“I believe his life was taken by a single blow to the back of his head. The weapon was likely one of his own pieces of equipment—a theodo
lite, for example. And I think your parents were attacked in the same way. They had your brother’s tools with them in their room—I can imagine your mother, for example, putting certain items out, to remind her of your brother.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s just the sort of thing she would do. How do you know?”

Maisie shrugged. “She struck me as the sort of woman who decorates her home with pictures of family, with the trophies of childhood accomplishment, and probably went as far as to frame a school tie, or whatever would have the same significance in America.”

Clifton’s eyes widened, and he looked at Hayden again. “Can you believe this, Charles?” He turned back to Maisie. “Mother actually had our football jerseys put into frames. We laughed like crazy, but she said we’d appreciate it one day.” He paused, then became serious once more. “So you think the killer is on the loose. Are my folks still at risk? We’ve seen Detective Inspector Caldwell and he is keeping a guard on their rooms.”

“In my estimation, the risk to your parents is minimal, but at the same time, it would be foolhardy to discontinue guarding them.”

“Why?”

“I believe the man who attacked your parents is himself dead. But in my line of work, Mr. Clifton, one soon realizes that the true killer is sometimes not the person who takes the life of the victim.”

“What do you mean?”

“While there are similarities between the murder of your brother and the attack on your parents, I have a feeling that your brother died following one single blow. Your parents’ attack seemed more frenzied, one borne of fear. I think the perpetrator was disturbed while searching for something he wanted—or that someone else wanted—and picked up the first thing that came to hand when he was disturbed by your parents’ return to their room. He might not have wanted to kill anyone.”

Teddy Clifton nodded. He was about to ask another question, when Charles Hayden interjected.

“Maisie.” He leaned forward and touched her cheek. “How the heck did you get this?”

“I thought I’d managed to cover it up.”

“Come on, I’m a doctor. It’s my job to see these things. How did that happen?”

“A man pushed me onto the ground. He had just stolen my document case.”

“Did they catch him?”

“His body was discovered later, in the rooms he rented.”

“Was he important to the case?” asked Clifton.

“Yes, I believe he was. Of course, I could be wrong, but I think he was the man who almost killed your parents. And I don’t think he intended to do anything of the sort.”

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

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

“You’re right. The only racing I have any familiarity with is horse racing.”

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

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

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

“It’s terrifying.” Maisie held on to her seat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James cleared his throat. “We should get going.”

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

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

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

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

“I have no idea what—or who—I would bet upon. I’m just happy to watch, James.”

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

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

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

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

“Haven’t heard of her before, have you?”

“Wasn’t she at that party…?”

“Didn’t he break off an engagement…?”

“It could be one of his little maids—don’t you remember, there was that rumor, in the war…”

She shook her head.

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

“Oh, nothing, I just thought I had something in my eye and rubbed it—it’s gone now, though.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James cleared his throat. “About Khan.”

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

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

“You don’t have to, you know. It really is all right if you don’t tell me.”

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

“I know,” said Maisie. “It’s his way.”

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

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

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

“Since I was about fourteen.”

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

“I understand, James, really I do.”

“I know you do.”

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

“And I know that I want to spend more time with you, Maisie. If that’s all right with you.”

Maisie nodded, though James could not see her gesture. “Yes, James. I’d like that too.”

“And I don’t want to do it in secret either. I will not hide my affec
tion or my regard for you from my mother and father, or from anyone else, for that matter.”

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