The Mapping of Love and Death (12 page)

Billy sighed. “I wish me and Doreen and the boys could sail
to
Canada. I’ve never wished for anything more in my life—except in the war, when I didn’t want to die over there in France, and when I’ve wished for Doreen to get better. Then there was wishing for Lizzie to live.”

Maisie understood Billy’s anxiety regarding his dream of emigrating to Canada, and realized the extent to which the story of Edward Clifton’s journey as a young man must have added fuel to his desire to start anew in a land that held the promise of opportunity. It was as if Doreen’s full recovery, together with accumulating enough money to gain a foothold on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, was his guiding light.

“I know how much you want to go, Billy. Doreen will get well in her own time, and while she’s on the mend, you can make up the money you spent on the doctors.” She smiled, hoping to inspire some optimism on his part, a sense that all would be well. “But in the meantime, we’ve got to get to the bottom of this case, so let’s put our heads together. Now, where were we? Yes, the family Clifton left behind. Did you manage to find anything out about them?”

“I was talking to an old bloke who works in that big shoe shop down Regent Street,” said Billy. “He remembered that when he was an errand boy for the shop, there was talk about young Edward Clifton, as he was
then, leaving the country and the business behind him. There was a lot of wondering about what would happen to the company, being as he was the only heir. Apparently, his grandfather and father cut him off, and the family were forbidden to reply to any letters or telegrams; they said that nothing good would come of him, and good riddance.”

“That’s more or less what he told me. No wonder he sets a lot of stock in keeping his family together and happy.”

“His sister—who was about twenty-one—stepped forward and began working with her father, and then she took over the business. Name of Veronica Clifton.”

“Did you find out anything about her marriage?”

Billy nodded. “Yes. It was a bit unusual; she kept her maiden name, never became a missus until after her husband died—quite young he was, apparently. By that time the business was not doing very well, so she sold it and got herself hitched to a Mr. John Paynton. They say the strain of her brother leaving and then her having to step up in his place sent her to an early grave.”

“Did she have any children, do you know?”

Billy shook his head. “I asked the old boy, and he didn’t know. He said that even if she did, according to them who knew more about her, she wouldn’t have publicized the fact, being as she had a company to run, and she didn’t want anyone trying to take advantage of her just because she was a woman.”

“Yes. Yes, I can see why she would make that decision.”

“Do you, Miss? I can’t say as I can see anything normal about their goings-on—’cept of course old Edward running off on a ship. Funny old world, ain’t it?”

Maisie sighed. “Could you dig a bit deeper for me, find out about other family members, cousins, aunts and uncles by marriage? There might have been stepchildren, for example. Oh, and if you could plough through a bit more of your list of those women who wrote letters to the
Cliftons, it would help. I’ll attack mine this afternoon, though I may have an appointment with your Lady Petronella of the telephones. I should call her now.”

As Maisie stood up to walk to her desk, the telephone began to ring.

“Funny how that always happens, ain’t it, Miss? You mention the word
call
, and off it goes.” Billy went back to his notes.

Maisie picked up the black Bakelite telephone receiver, but did not have a chance to greet the caller with either the number or her name before Frankie Dobbs began speaking.

“Maisie, love, can you hear me?” Frankie shouted in his usual manner, never quite believing that the miracle of modern telephony could connect him to his daughter, who was in an office over eighty miles away.

“Dad! Dad, is everything all right?” Maisie felt the skin at the base of her neck grow cold, along the still-livid scar that remained from wounds she’d suffered in the war. “Are you unwell? What’s happened?”

“I just thought you would want to know—” She could hear her father breathing as if he had been running, and there was a rawness to his voice.

“Dad…Dad—take a deep breath, and sit down on that chair by the telephone. Have you been running?”

“I came back here as soon as I heard. As I said, I knew you’d want to know.”

“As soon as you heard what, Dad?” Maisie felt her heart beat faster, and a pressure on her chest. She took a deep breath in an effort to radiate calm from the center of her body.

“Dr. Blanche has been taken into hospital. A clinic in Tunbridge Wells. For observation. Apparently his lungs are just filling up.”

“I’ll come straightaway—”

“No, you can’t do that. No visitors. No one’s allowed to see him, from what I’ve heard.”

“I’ll talk to Lady Rowan. And I’m coming down to Kent as soon as I can.”

“He wouldn’t want you to come rushing—”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done something he wouldn’t like. I’m on my way.”

“You drive careful, Maisie. And—”

“Dad—rest. I don’t want two of you in hospital. I’m hanging up the telephone now, Dad. All right? I’ll be in touch again later. Have a cup of tea, sit down, and put your feet up. Everything will be all right.”

“I’d better be off then. Take good care, my Maisie.”

Maisie held on to the receiver, and pressed down the bar to disconnect the call. She began dialing again.

“That’s bad news, Miss, ain’t it? Is your dad all right?”

Maisie nodded. “It’s Maurice.”

The color drained from Billy’s face.

The call was answered on the second ring, and Maisie did not wait for a greeting. “May I speak to Lady Rowan, please, Mr. Carter.”

“I thought it would be you, Maisie,” said the Comptons’ butler.

“Do you know how he is?”

“Her Ladyship is more informed than I. I’ll tell her you’re on the line.”

Maisie heard a series of clicks, then another before Lady Rowan picked up the receiver.

“Maisie. I was just about to telephone you, counter to instructions from dear Maurice. He didn’t want to worry you.”

“Didn’t want to worry me? Oh, dear…how is he?”

“The nurse summoned the doctor early this morning, and he arranged for Maurice to be transferred into the clinic. According to Maurice’s specific instructions in such an eventuality, Dr. Dene has been asked to attend him. The news I’ve heard so far is that, all being well, he should be out in a few days. He’s had some difficulty breathing, as you know, and his health simply continued to get worse.”

“He seems to have gone downhill so quickly, Lady Rowan.” Maisie heard the catch in her voice, the fear revealed with each word. “I—I will be on my way to Tunbridge Wells as soon as I hang up this call.”

“I knew you would insist upon coming, despite Maurice’s entreaty that you not be informed of his condition. He said you were very busy and that you should not be concerned about an old gentleman. I took it upon myself to inform him that he had just spoken a load of codswallop, probably for the first time in his life.”

Maisie smiled and shook her head, trying to fight back the tears.

“In any case, you won’t need to drive. I would imagine James will be knocking at your office door within minutes, he—”

“James?”

“Yes. James. The James who is my son.” Lady Rowan’s sense of humor could verge on the sarcastic in the best of circumstances. “I telephoned him with the news and suggested he escort you to the clinic as soon as possible.”

“
You
told James?”

“Yes. Haven’t given him an order in years that he actually chose to act upon, so there was a certain pleasure attached to it.”

Maisie said nothing, her thoughts too confused to second-guess the situation.

“Don’t worry, Maisie. Maurice is a tough old sort. He’s clearly in difficulty, but I am assured by the doctor that he will get over this setback.”

At that moment the bell sounded, and Billy went to answer the front door.

“I think that’s James now, Lady Rowan. Thank you.”

“Not at all. Just hold on. I’m told he drives like me, but frankly, he’s far too sensible.”

Maisie grabbed her shoulder bag, and automatically reached for her case files. Then she stopped. Her case was important, without doubt, but it paled when set against the ill health of one so cherished. She left the
files behind, collected her coat and hat, and ran to the door just as Billy was showing James into the office. Even in a hurry, Maisie noticed that he seemed every inch the successful businessman, and in that moment he reminded her of his father. His hair was combed with a side parting, and he wore a well-cut charcoal suit of fine wool with the ease of one who is used to working at the highest levels of commerce. He had one hand in his pocket as he walked into the room, and he smiled when he saw Maisie.

“So this is where you—Maisie, what on earth have you done to your face?”

“Not now, James. I want to see just how fast that Aston Whatever-it-is of yours can go.”

“Right you are.” He stepped aside, nodded to Billy, and followed Maisie downstairs, then to his motor car, which was parked in Fitzroy Street.

“I should get you there in about three-quarters of an hour, all being well with the traffic.” James held the door for Maisie to take the passenger seat. He ran around to the driver’s side, slipped into his seat, and started the engine, setting off towards Tottenham Court Road. For just a moment he looked sideways as a single tear slid across her cheekbone. She wiped it away with her fingers. James reached across and took her hand in his. “It’ll be all right, Maisie. We’ll get the best doctors, the best care. We’ll do everything we can for him.”

She nodded and, looking out at the London traffic, squeezed his hand in return.

T
he Mount Pleasant Clinic was situated on a hill just behind The Pantiles, where in days gone by travelers were drawn to the healing spa waters of Tunbridge Wells. As soon as James parked the motor car, Maisie opened the door and dashed into the clinic, almost collid
ing with Andrew Dene, who had also once been a protégé of Maurice Blanche. Though not as close to their mentor as Maisie, Dene was still involved in the running of clinics for the poor that had been set up by Maurice over thirty years before, and he was now directing his medical care.

“Good Lord, Maisie, slow down. I really don’t want to have to admit you with a broken skull—and what have you been doing to your face?”

“A fall. Andrew, I’m so glad you’re here with him. How is he?”

“He’ll be kept in for observation for a couple of days, just to make sure.” He brushed back his unruly fringe, a habit that at once touched Maisie. Though she knew he was not one she wanted to spend her life with, she had great affection for Dene, and had missed his easygoing personality and ready humor. “I’ve given him a sedative, so he’s asleep at the moment.”

“Can I see him?”

At that moment, James Compton stepped forward, held out his hand, and introduced himself.

“Ah, Chelstone’s son and heir. Weren’t you in Canada?”

James nodded. “Back here now, and doubt I will be returning in the foreseeable future.”

Maisie was aware that James had become tense. She suspected that Dene’s comment was meant to lighten the atmosphere, but at the same time, it could be misinterpreted as a goad—and she wasn’t entirely sure that it wasn’t. She changed the subject.

“I understand congratulations are in order, Andrew?”

Dene blushed and grinned. “Yes. Abigail is expecting a baby—not long to go now, end of May, all being well.”

“That’s wonderful—I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you. Yes, thank you.” Dene cleared his throat and turned towards the door that led to the corridor of patients’ private rooms. “Come this way.” He continued walking, and addressed James as he opened the
door for the visitors. “I expect you know Maurice quite well yourself, James. He’s a great friend of your parents, isn’t he?”

James stepped past Dene, responding as he walked alongside Maisie. “I’ve known him all my life. He’s been an enormous help to me. I don’t know what I might have done without him.”

Maisie looked at James, her curiosity piqued by his candor.

The conversation continued, this time with James questioning Dene about Maurice’s care, and whether a specialist should be called. Dene was an orthopedic surgeon now, and though it was known that he was trusted by Blanche—his mentor since boyhood—James did not show any reticence when querying whether a consultant in respiratory illnesses might attend Maurice.

“If you wish to bring someone in, I would be more than willing to make my notes and Maurice’s medical history available,” said Dene.

As they reached Maurice’s room, Maisie looked through the glass window. Maurice was asleep, his head to one side. He seemed rested, though she also noticed equipment at the ready should breathing become difficult once more.

“What do you think, Maisie?” said James. “Shall I bring in someone from Harley Street? It would take only minutes and I could have a man on his way to Tunbridge Wells.”

Maisie looked at Dene, then at James Compton, and shook her head before placing her hand on James’ arm. “Andrew loves Maurice as much as I, and as much as you, James. Let’s leave things as they are for now.” She turned to Andrew. “You’ll let us know if you think otherwise, Andrew?”

Dene nodded. “Of course.” He reached for the door handle. “In you go, Maisie. I know I have no need to give you instructions.”

She nodded, and entered the room. She heard the door close behind her as she walked towards the bed where Maurice was resting. His breath at first seemed easy, but she could hear the occasional rasping in
his chest, a sound that reminded her of two pieces of wood being rubbed together. She leaned across the bed and rested her hand on Maurice’s forehead. He did not stir, but continued to breathe with some difficulty, as if with each inward breath he was searching for more air to sustain him. In that moment, Maisie reflected on the time when he had cared for her in France.