The Mapping of Love and Death (8 page)

Conversation was light while the first course—a spinach mousse—was served; then as more wine was poured, Sutton began to quiz Maisie.

“I understand you engage in rather interesting work, Maisie. Are you allowed to tell me about it?”

Maisie lifted her glass and took a sip of wine before responding. “Yes, it is interesting—to me, in any case. I don’t generally discuss my work, though, given that my clients expect a certain high level of confidentiality.”

“I see—and you liaise with Scotland Yard?”

“On occasion. There are times when I am asked to provide assistance on a given case—and it works both ways, because I have contacts there who have provided me with valuable help in the past.”

“Bit dangerous, isn’t it?”

Maisie twisted her wineglass, and then looked up at Sutton. “And which newspaper do you work for, Ben? Or are you paid according to the value of the scoops you uncover?”

Sutton laughed, joined by Priscilla and Douglas.

“Not so clever now, are you, Ben?” Priscilla shook her head and put her hand over her glass as the butler stepped forward to pour more wine. Maisie smiled in acknowledgment—Priscilla had been struggling to control an excessive drinking habit, and now took only one or two glasses of wine on occasion.

“No, I suppose not—but who can blame me for trying to sniff out a story when in the company of a charming inquiry agent?”

“Psychologist and investigator, so mind your p’s and q’s,” said Priscilla.

“Priscilla—” Maisie blushed at Priscilla’s correction.

“Don’t try to stop her, Maisie—she’s incredibly proud of you, though I doubt she’d tell you that.” Douglas laughed and raised a glass to his wife and, as intended, the laughter defused Maisie’s embarrassment.

Again conversation changed direction, with politics, books, and current theater offerings all coming up for discussion. Sutton demonstrated an interest in moving pictures, and soon the group was engaged in talk of improvements in cinema.

“When I think how far it’s all come—it’s amazing.” Sutton had picked up a spoon and was holding it above the syllabub served for the pudding course. “A great friend of mine was working with cine film during the war—for the government, as you might imagine. He always said to me, ‘It’s just as well we didn’t have sound. The punters could see their heroes at the front, but if they could hear them, they’d have known it wasn’t all beer and skittles, and there would have been an outcry.’” He paused to sink the spoon into the smooth, pale yellow syllabub, then continued talking. “In fact, he’s kept a lot of film. I was over there watching just the other day. We went through reels of film—it was incredible, what he had managed to record.” Sutton shook his head. “There was film of some wounded horses being cared for by the army veterinary service—you
never think of that sort of job, do you? And that’s what was interesting, he filmed soldiers doing the things you never think about; it wasn’t all guns, trenches, and ‘Over the top, boys.’ He even filmed a cartography unit. Now there’s a job you wouldn’t want to do, but you should see the maps they produced in terribly difficult circumstances—some of them are like works of art. Henry filmed them and he’s exceptionally good with a camera, brought the lens in very close so you could see the details. But one wonders what he could have done with sound to accompany the cine film.”

Having delivered his soliloquy, Sutton tucked into his pudding. Maisie had put down her spoon and leaned forward.

“Mr. Sutton—Ben—do you think you might be able to introduce me to your friend? I would love to see his cine film.”

“Aha—has it to do with a case?” Sutton lifted his table napkin and drew it across his lips.

Maisie shook her head. “No, not at all.” She paused. “I’ve just always been interested in cine film, and I would imagine your friend’s work is incredibly interesting.” She avoided meeting Priscilla’s eyes, knowing her friend would comment on her subterfuge later.

“All right, I’ll have a word with Henry—I am sure he’ll jump at the chance, though you’ll probably need a chaperone, knowing him.”

“I can look after—”

“I think it’s time we left the men to their port, Maisie,” said Priscilla. “And gentlemen, we have some business of our own to attend to, so we’ll join you for coffee in the drawing room.”

W
hat a load of tosh, Maisie—when did you garner an interest in moving pictures?”

“When I learned that someone called Henry had been in France in
the war and accompanied a cartography unit. There weren’t many of those units, Pris—and I have a feeling that this meeting with Mr. Ben Sutton might just be a serendipitous gift.”

“I was right, he is dishy, isn’t he?”

“That’s not exactly what I was thinking.” Maisie pointed to a collection of papers set to one side with “For Maisie” printed on top. “Now then, let’s look at your notes—I can’t thank you enough.”

“Yes, you can.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he asks, do go out with him.”

“Who?”

“Ben bloody Sutton, for goodness’ sake!”

“Oh, Pris…”

B
y the time Maisie returned home, she was feeling more positive about the direction of her inquiries. She had once described her work to her father as “finding my way along the Embankment in a thick pea-souper.” There were times when she imagined she was reaching out in the dark, her fingers moving to touch something firm, anything solid to give her a landmark. Sound was distorted in the ocher blend of smoke and fog. Sometimes a noise that might have come from the river echoed as if between buildings, or vision was compromised and one strained the senses to find a path that led somewhere. With the Clifton case, though there were pages of information and snippets of knowledge, she hadn’t thus far felt the tug in her gut. But now, after the discussion with Priscilla, she could feel a familiar excitement welling, as if, now that she’d uncovered that one thread of possibility, a vein was not too far away, even though it was still out there in the thick, swirling mist of unknowing.

Priscilla had discovered that The English Nursing Unit had been
founded by Lady Petronella Casterman, a former suffragist who had been disgusted when so many of her fellow agitators had supported the war as a means to greater freedom for women—they had foreseen that women would take on the jobs vacated by men and boys, and in the process assume a measure of the independence enjoyed by men. Casterman had ploughed much of her not-inconsiderable wealth into founding a medical unit staffed entirely by women, which she sent to France in early 1915. Her husband, whom she married in 1898, when she was eighteen and he was thirty-five, had died in 1919 of a heart attack. Throughout their marriage he had, apparently, supported his wife’s endeavors, partly out of guilt, given his predilection for long hours spent in his library, with friends at his club, or riding to hounds in the hunting season. According to Priscilla’s notes, penned in her large eccentric script, having nursed her husband following a serious fall from his horse, Petronella Casterman had felt qualified to help in the unit herself, though she never donned the distinctive uniform supplied to her nurses. It was said that many a wounded soldier had regained consciousness as a bejeweled hand was laid on his forehead, and a woman of about thirty-five, dressed as if she were going to lunch at Fortnum and Mason, leaned over and said, “Lovely to have you with us again, Private. Now, let’s see if we can knock you out for an hour or two more.” The morphine would be administered and sleep would claim the soldier once again.

Maisie sat alongside the gas fire and smiled as she read Priscilla’s notes, often with snippets of opinion scribbled alongside. “I think you ought to try to see her. Would you like me to telephone? I am sure Julia Maynard knows her.” Another read: “Can you imagine waking up to that?” And, “I bet that soldier dined out on that story for years.”

The nurses were sent to Paris for rest, and their employer-benefactor saw to it that they were lodged in comfortable hotels and that no expense was spared in ensuring they rested in some style. According to the
account, it was not unusual for Petronella (“‘Ella’ to her friends”) to drop in on her nurses at any point and push a few coins into their hands with the instruction, “Do something with your hair while you’re in Paris.”

“Very nice, I must say,” Maisie spoke aloud to the empty room. “That’s where I should have enlisted.”

The most interesting point about Petronella Casterman was not her eccentricity, but her early life. She was the daughter of a shopkeeper who had premises in the village close to the Casterman ancestral seat. Her parents had been anxious to see their children transcend their lot in life and had encouraged education. They had hoped that Petronella might become a governess. Instead their daughter became the object of Giles Casterman’s affection when he saw her in the village. Furthermore, it was clear that the subsequent marriage was a good one; the couple became parents to two daughters and later on a son, all of whom were known for being somewhat outrageous and often opinionated, if undeniably likable—especially the youngest, who was barely two years old when his father died.

Maisie was anxious to meet Lady Casterman, and made a note to telephone Priscilla to see if she could facilitate an introduction. She hoped the former shopkeeper’s daughter would have kept complete records of her staff.

Putting Priscilla’s notes to one side, Maisie picked up the collection of letters found close to the body of Michael Clifton. She had intended to read through them at speed, noting points that might help her discover the identity of his lover, as well as clues to what had happened in the dugout where he died. But she found that when it came to unfolding the letters, she was not drawn to such swift analysis, and instead she approached each communiqué as if she were turning the pages of a much-admired book, indulging in the slow revealing of the love affair as if the writing itself had come from the pen of a favorite author.

Maisie bit her lip to control the welter of emotion rising in her chest. It was not just the journey back in time, but a sense that she was something of an interloper, a person who might linger outside an open window at nighttime, and who would watch, hand on heart, while a young couple professed their love for each other. As she read the letter sent to a man who was now dead, she could feel the excitement that the English nurse must have felt, the sudden joy of knowing that she would soon see the one who had caused such butterflies in her stomach; who had teased and delighted her, and who had, perhaps before they had declared themselves to each other, caused her to fall in love with him—because Maisie could feel, even as she touched the still damp, brown-edged pages, that Michael Clifton’s English nurse loved him dearly.

T
he following morning, Maisie had only just closed the front door behind her when she heard the telephone ringing in her office above. She ran up the stairs, unlocked the door, and reached for the telephone before it fell silent.

“This is Maisie Dobbs.” It was not the usual greeting: in general, the accepted manner of answering the telephone was to announce the telephone number first.

“Ah, yes, Miss Dobbs, I have a message here saying that you called and wanted to talk to me.” The accent was unmistakably American. “Thomas Libbert.”

“Mr. Libbert, how kind of you to return my call, I—”

“Are you from the press?” Libbert’s tone was curt, sharp to the ear, his words cutting into the silence with a bladelike edge.

“No, I am not from the press.” Maisie tempered her voice, keeping it low and steady. “I telephoned because I know your parents-in-law, and I wanted to ask if there was anything I could do for them at the present
time. They are both lucky to be alive, I know, and I wondered how I might best help, in the circumstances.”

“You know them?” Libbert cleared his throat, and Maisie was relieved when he went on in a manner that suggested he had relaxed. “Yes, it’s been a terrible time. Their son, my brother-in-law, Edward, is en route from Boston to Southampton.”

“According to the reports I’ve read, it was a terrible business.” Maisie made her move. “Look, Mr. Libbert, I wonder if you might be able to assist me. I am actually working for your parents-in-law, a small matter of helping to locate an item of some value to them, and I thought—”

“An item of some value? What do you mean?”

“I think I would rather we met in person, Mr. Libbert—might I see you at your hotel later this morning?”

“I’m at the Dorchester, but—are you some sort of dealer?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s a good description. Shall we say eleven?”

Libbert cleared his throat. “Eleven it is. I’ll meet you in the foyer.”

“Very good.”

“How will I know you?”

“I think I’ll know you, so don’t worry—I’ll find you.”

B
illy Beale walked into the office as Maisie replaced the receiver.

“Morning, Miss.” He stopped before removing his cap. “Bad news?”

“No, not bad news. That was Thomas Libbert. I’ve just arranged to see him this morning.”

“What was he like?

Maisie shrugged and began removing her raincoat. “I’m not sure.”

“I know that look, Miss. You think he’s up to something.” Billy reached out to take Maisie’s coat as he spoke.

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions, Billy.” She passed her coat to him, took two manila folders from her document case, set them on the desk, then sat down, placing the case alongside her chair. She looked up at her assistant. “How have you been getting on? How’s Doreen?”

“As well as can be expected, Miss.” Billy turned away. “We went for a nice bus ride with the boys yesterday, got out of Shoreditch for a bit, you know. It’s early days yet, eh?” He placed their coats on hooks behind the door and went to his desk. “I did some more work on that list, and I think I’ve whittled down them names again for you—you know, the women who wrote to Mr. and Mrs. Clifton.”

Maisie nodded, noting the quick change of subject. “I should call Caldwell and find out how they are, but first I must telephone Mrs. Partridge.” She lifted the receiver and proceeded to make two quick calls, first to leave a message at Scotland Yard for Detective Inspector Caldwell, then a brief conversation with Priscilla, asking if she could use her connections to put her in touch with Lady Petronella Casterman.

“Should be a piece of cake, darling. Ella loves new people, according to Julia. I’m amazed I haven’t met her myself, though we Partridges do tend to scramble out of London on Friday evenings, so we miss quite a few social goings-on, and while I’m at it, you must come out to the country with us again.”

“That’s lovely of you, Pris, and I will, soon. Look, I must go now, lots to do. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Has Ben telephoned you?”

“Oh, Pris, I doubt very much if he will.”

“Don’t be too surprised.”

Maisie promised to telephone again later in the day, and had just reached out to take Billy’s list from his hands when the telephone rang. This time she gave only the number.

“Maisie, it’s Ben Sutton here. How are you?”

“Mr. Sutton, good morning.” Maisie smiled and nodded at Billy, who returned to his desk to continue working. “What can I do for you?”

“I think it’s what I can do for you that’s of the essence here. I’ve been talking to my friend Henry Gilbert this morning.”

“Oh yes, the man with the cine film.” Maisie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Sutton had been in touch with his friend at an early hour.

“That’s right. He’s busy throughout most of the week, unfortunately. He’s out at the Twickenham Film Studios until Friday, when he said we could come to his house to view the old cine films you were interested in.”

“Oh, that is excellent news. Thank you very much, Mr. Sutton.”

“Please, let’s not stand on ceremony again, Maisie—do call me Ben.”

“Of course, Ben—and I am most grateful to you for talking to your friend.”

“I thought we could meet at eleven at his home in Notting Hill—and, um, how about a bite to eat afterward?”

Maisie’s reply was not immediate. “Yes, a lovely idea—though I am afraid I might not be able to stay long.”

Sutton replied as if he had heard only her acceptance, rather than the limitation of time. He gave her the address and then said. “Excellent, see you at eleven on Friday.”

“Eleven it is.”

As Maisie set down the telephone receiver once again, Billy pulled two chairs up to the table by the window, ready to go through the list of names and make notations on the case map, as was their practice when they worked together on a given assignment.

Maisie joined him and reached for his notes, at first trying to avoid eye contact. Then she gave a half-smile and shrugged. “Oh well, sometimes you have to meet with eligible men just to get on in a case.” She felt almost like Priscilla.

S
oon Maisie and Billy had eliminated more names from the list of respondents to the Cliftons’ advertisement.

“So, we’ve arrived at ten women who might be telling the truth.” Maisie set the notes on the table and looked at Billy.

“Yes.”

“All right, as our friends at Scotland Yard might say, it’s down to shoe-leather detective work. Fortunately, apart from one in Harrogate and one in Chester, these women are all from London and the immediate home counties, so at least we won’t be incurring great travel expenses. Let’s start close to home first and concentrate on the ones either in or within striking distance of London, then move out. You take the first five, and I’ll take the rest. And if I am to see Lady Petronella Casterman—”

“Lady who?”

“Casterman.”

“I mean the first bit.”

“Petronella?”

“I know her.”

“You know her?”

“Certainly do,” said Billy. “I did a bit of private work for her, few years ago now, not long after I came home from the war. She’d had a telephone put in and wanted it all wired so she had one in her bedroom and one somewhere else, and what with one thing and another, she wanted it done on the quick and a mate of mine knew the butler. Next thing you know, I was asked to see him, and I put a dog and bone in about three rooms for her. Took me a couple of days, it did, what with all that old plaster to look after, and them high ceilings, and of course, the rooms she wanted rigged up weren’t exactly next to each other. Not that I saw her, mind, but she came into the library while I was work
ing one day. Had what they call the common touch. Her youngest, the boy, must have been only about three years old at the time—they had two older girls, if I remember rightly. And while I was there, reckon it must’ve been the second day, a couple of young women came to visit. They’d worked with her during the war. Apparently she took care of them who worked for her.” Billy’s eyes widened. “Now I see what you’re getting at—she had something to do with nurses in the war, didn’t she? Here, you don’t reckon—”

“No, I don’t reckon, not definitely,” said Maisie. “But it’s a pretty strong lead, given that she sponsored a nursing unit in the war.” Maisie went on to recount her conversation with Priscilla, and what she had gleaned thus far from reading the letters from the young woman for whom Michael Clifton had great affection.

By the time she left the office to meet with Thomas Libbert at the Dorchester, Billy’s list was divided, and she was in possession of the names of five women, now in their early thirties: Ivy Acton, Sybil Bates, Anne Callan, Harriet Evans, and Barbara Harte. Billy took those whose surnames beginning with letters from the second half of the alphabet: Ethel Jempson, Sylvia Lance, Elizabeth Peterson, Rose Stephens, and Theresa Tolliver.

A
top-hatted and uniformed doorman welcomed Maisie to the Dorchester with a smile and “Good morning, madam,” as he drew back the doors to allow her to enter. Though there were a few men in the foyer, she knew straightaway which one was Thomas Libbert, but did not approach him—she wanted to observe him first, to judge his mood and gather information about his frame of mind before they met. She stood to one side behind a flower arrangement. Libbert was dressed in a suit of light brown wool, with an open-collared shirt and a cravat at his neck. His brown hair was combed back and oiled in place, and his
otherwise polished shoes were scuffed with mud at the heel and sides—she surmised he had likely taken a walk in Hyde Park before returning to meet her at the assigned hour. The American paced back and forth, his eyes on the ground in front of him, then looking towards the entrance. His left hand was pushed into his trouser pocket, and in his right he held a cigarette, which he smoked not as a man relaxed and enjoying his tobacco, but as if it were vital that he inhale as much smoke as possible. He looks like a train, thought Maisie. But more than the smoking or his pacing, Maisie could feel his nervousness, as if his composure were hanging by a thread—which was to be understood, considering the attack on his wife’s parents, and the fact that his brother-in-law had not yet arrived in the country to share the burden of concern. At that moment Libbert, who was now looking at the floor as he paced, collided with a young clerk who was walking at speed to deliver an envelope set on a silver tray.

“Hey, watch out, pal!” Libbert admonished the clerk, who was offering profuse apologies while kneeling down to pick up the tray and envelope, which he had dropped in the collision. “Just look where you’re going—I’ll have you fired, you idiot.”

Maisie stepped forward, smiling as she approached and speaking his name so that he looked towards her. “Mr. Libbert? Good morning—Maisie Dobbs.” She held out her hand, then turned to the clerk. “Are you all right? You almost came a cropper there.”

The young man nodded, apologized once more, and walked on, clutching the silver tray and letter.

“I could have his job for that.”

“But it’s good of you not to complain—he might be the sole supporter of his family in these times, so I am sure he’s grateful to you for just letting him off with a reprimand.” She looked around. “You must be under tremendous strain—shall we talk over a cup of coffee?”

Libbert rubbed a hand across his forehead. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t
have been so rough on the kid—too much on my mind.” He nodded. “I could use a cup of coffee.”

S
o, you’re working for my father-in-law, but you can’t tell me what he’s asked of you?”

“Only that it is in connection with his son, Michael. There are some outstanding questions regarding his estate, and Mr. and Mrs. Clifton wanted to be in touch with anyone who might have known him in his final days.” Maisie smiled in acknowledgment as a waiter poured two cups of coffee, and cast her eyes around the opulent surroundings, at the swags of fabric decorating the walls and the marbled pillars. She turned to Libbert again. “I suppose you could say they are trying to close the book on his life in a manner that allows them, and their son, to rest in peace.”

“The only big outstanding question is that land. There have been probate problems over the years, given his status. I’ve been out there with Teddy, and as far as I can see, it’s all desert and a bit of scrubby forest—nothing like the East Coast. That’s what you call forest.”

“I thought it might be an area rich with possibility.”

Libbert shook his head. “Union Oil has the most valuable land tied up with its mineral rights and it’s snapped up anything of worth. And I can’t see Michael knowing more than these people, so heaven only knows why he bought the land. Not that we can sell it anyway, not until the legals are all sorted out.”

“We?”

Libbert shrugged. “It’s a pretty safe bet that, in his will, Michael would have left the land to my wife—after all, she was his favorite sister. We’ll sell as soon as we can.”

“Was there a will?”

“Yes and no.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Michael enlisted—the fool that he was—like all soldiers, he was asked to make a will. After his death, Edward discovered that Michael had simply written, ‘Done.’ Now that his remains have been found, we hope this can all be sorted out—but let me tell you, the banks don’t give up anything without every single last document in place.”

“It’s clear that Mr. and Mrs. Clifton would want to honor Michael’s will, rather than jump to conclusions about his wishes regarding distribution of his wealth.”

Libbert shook his head. “Like I said, everyone knows that we—I mean, my wife—would have been the number-one beneficiary.”

A waiter approached and poured more coffee, and as Libbert picked up his cup once more, she put another question to him.

“Were you aware that Michael had a very strong association with a young woman while overseas?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, great! If anyone was going to fall in love with a penniless girl in wartime, it would have been our romantic Michael, wouldn’t it?” Libbert sipped his coffee, then reached forward and placed both cup and saucer back on the tray. “No doubt there’s some money-hungry woman out there right now trying to get her hands on her deceased lover’s wealth.”