The Mapping of Love and Death (16 page)

“There’s a lot of ifs in there, Miss. And I hate to say this, but a lot of blokes wear them cravats when they’re not wearing ties, and as for having that military bearing, well, look how many men were in the army in the war. All that ‘chin up, chest out’ lark gets trained into you.”

“What we do is peppered with ‘ifs’ all the time. If it wasn’t for the ‘ifs’ we would take more steps backward than forward.” Maisie sighed. “And this case is beginning to feel a bit like that.” She stood up, walked around the table, leaned against the window frame, and looked out at the square. “Then there’s this fragment of verse—at least, that’s what I think it is. I’ll stop at the library to see if someone can tell me whether it’s from a well-known poet, or perhaps it was something Michael Clifton’s ladylove penned while on night duty in a freezing cold ward.”

“That’s definitely more up your alley, Miss. Never been one for your verse, unless it’s rhyming slang, of course.”

Maisie laughed, and shook her head. “Billy, you’re a diamond. Now then, I had better be on my way. You’ll look into the rest of our list?”

“It’s as good as done. I’ll stick to the ones in London today.”

M
aisie arrived early for her appointment with Ben Sutton at his friend’s house in Notting Hill, which gave her an opportunity to look around the area. Priscilla had informed her that as far as she knew, Henry Gilbert had inherited the red-brick terrace house, and now rented out the upper two floors to students, which seemed to fit Maisie’s brief observation of the comings and goings of several people who might have been described as “bohemian” in certain circles—a man wearing a coat of Edwardian vintage with a bright yellow scarf, and a woman with
very short hair and equally short skirt, even though, as far as Maisie knew, the very fashionable women had allowed their skirt lengths to fall once more.

She watched Ben Sutton arrive in a taxi-cab. He ran up the steps and knocked at the door, which was opened some moments later by a young man with an open-necked shirt, his sleeves rolled up. He was wiping his hands with a cloth, and smiled at Sutton as if they had met before.

Maisie suspected that it was time to cross the road and knock at the door.

“There you are, on the dot! Just as I expected you would be.” Ben Sutton stepped back so that Maisie could cross the threshold, then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek as if he had known her for more than one evening. “Henry’s waiting for us in his studio. He has a sort of complex of rooms downstairs in what used to be cellars—completely purpose-built for his work. Perfect for running cine film. Follow me.”

Sutton led her down a staircase, then along a dark corridor and into what was a surprisingly large room. She looked around and, when she became accustomed to the light, could see that there had been reconstruction to provide a spacious studio, and behind her a smaller room with what she took to be a film library and a glass window with a hatch through which the lens of a projector extended. There was another door at the opposite end of the room, which was closed. A dozen quite comfortable-looking chairs were positioned in two semicircular rows; the experience would be somewhat more pleasing than a visit to the cinema—at least one would be able to view the cine film with a few friends, rather than half of London, most of whom always seemed to be sneezing.

“The door leads out into another couple of rooms, one where Henry
and his assistants do their editing and such like, though of course, they do a lot of this sort of thing at the studios in Twickenham.”

“I see,” replied Maisie, though she really did not see at all. “I should confess, my knowledge of film stops at the odd trip to the cinema, and in viewing X-rays.”

Sutton laughed at the same time as the door opened and two men entered, one carrying a series of large round canisters. “Ah, Henry, here’s Miss Dobbs.”

“Delighted to meet you, Miss Dobbs—Maisie, isn’t it?”

“Thank you for agreeing to show me your cine film, Henry—and yes, it’s Maisie.”

“This is my assistant, Roland Marshall.” He turned to introduce the young man who had opened the door for Sutton. He nodded his head, his burden too heavy to allow him to extend his hand.

Henry Gilbert was not quite six feet tall and wore his hair short, Maisie suspected, so as not to draw attention to a growing bald patch. His movements were precise and quick, and she had no trouble envisioning him working on the front line, filming soldiers going about the business of war.

“Now then, let’s get the show running. I have a lot of film, Miss Dobbs, so I wondered, do you have any specific interests? The veterinary corps, for example.”

“Well, yes—do you have anything on cartographers in the war? Or mapmaking? I know it’s a bit obscure, but I thought you might have something—especially as, from what I’ve been given to understand, you may have been in France at the same time as my friend’s son. He was a cartographer.”

“You may be in luck—I spent quite some time filming cartographers,” said Gilbert. “I didn’t want to come back with hours of film of basically the same thing, so I chose several different areas of work: the men who
operated the big guns, the veterinary corps, and the cartographers. Of course, I have some film with soldiers in the trenches, the wounded being brought back, but for the most part I wanted to draw attention to the fact that there is more to war than Tommies with guns. And the cartographers took extraordinary risks, all for information—as we all know, a war is never won without information.”

Maisie held her breath, hardly able to believe her good fortune. “Henry, do you remember the soldiers you met? I mean, did you spend sufficient time with them to have made some sort of acquaintance?”

“Yes and no. Of course there was a lot of joshing, the lads beaming into the camera, pulling faces—after all, many of them weren’t much more than boys. And we took our meals with them, slept alongside the men while we were filming them, so of course, there are those that one remembers. But I am sure you will appreciate that, in my job, there has to be a level of dispassionate observation—the cinematographer’s protection—otherwise it would be impossible. You see, very often the men on the other side of my lens were dead within days of their images being immortalized on cine film. But you can always try me—do you have a name?”

“This cartographer might stand out—he was an American, and—”

“An American, you say?” Gilbert interrupted Maisie and, without looking at his assistant, motioned for him to put the metal containers down on a table set against the side wall. “You’re right, that is unusual. There couldn’t have been two of them in the British army—could there?”

Maisie shook her head. “I doubt it.”

“Good, then we can cut out a lot of time, because I know exactly where to look for that film.” He went over to the canisters, but continued talking. “We were out in the field for some time and, as I said, I filmed several cartography units in northern France through into Belgium.”

Maisie continued talking while he searched through the canisters.
“What was the cine film used for, and what will you do with it all?” she asked.

“Some of it was used for newsreels in the war—you know, the ‘Jolly old Britain’s winning the war’ sort of propaganda. Helped everyone to buck up when things were looking bad.” He picked out two canisters and passed them to his assistant. “Load these, start with this one, and call when you’re ready.” He turned his attention back to Maisie. “The business of filming is changing rapidly, you know, and in Britain we’re at the forefront of a new genre in the craft. It’s called the documentary; a sort of hybrid between documenting an event or moment in time, and then blending it with a story, so it’s a bit more entertaining. That’s what I want to do with this film”—he waved his hand across the canisters—“though I’ve a few other things on my plate at the moment, and one has to earn one’s money.”

“So, may I ask, is there anything you remember about the American cartographer?” asked Maisie.

Gilbert rubbed his chin. “Martin—Michael—Mitch? Somebody-or-other beginning with M, wasn’t it? Anyway, I just remember he was a very approachable chap, very mannerly, always answered a question with ‘sir,’ and not because he was in the army. You had the sense that he was brought up to be respectful. Not that the others weren’t, but he was a young man of his type—I’ve been to the east coast of America, you know, and he was a real Bostonian, though he was interested when I told him I’d been to California.” He smiled. “I’d forgotten all that, to tell you the truth. Now that I come to talk about it, the details are coming back. I met so many young men, you see—of course, I was not so old myself, but I wasn’t able to join up. Given my profession, you’d be surprised to note that the reason was my shortsightedness. I told you about the cinematographer’s protection—well, I remember being told that the entire unit, which would include your American, was listed as missing not long after we shot the film. The thing is that I couldn’t help
but remember him, and not just because of his accent. He was a happy-go-lucky sort, one of those who have a perennial hail-fellow-well-met approach to everyone they meet.”

The assistant raised his voice to let them know the film was ready to run. Gilbert held out his hand to seats close to the middle of the room, and when Sutton had taken a place beside Maisie, the wall lights were extinguished. The screen in front of them seemed to splutter into life, and a series of numbers counted down until a rough board was shown. It read: “France, cartographers,” along with a date that Maisie could not discern. The screen became black for a moment, until a grainy image flickered into life, of men carrying equipment across the mud and through barbed wire. The film rendered their movements jerky, unstable, and as they set up their tools, Maisie thought they looked rather like doomed marionettes, and though she could not tell whether it was a fair day or foul, the gray cloudless background gave the impression of cold, a day when the wet damp of France in wartime could bore into the bone. She shivered.

The camera came closer, and the men looked up and were brought into greater focus. There was a moment of camaraderie, when they stood with arms about each other’s shoulders, like a rugby team preparing for the season’s photograph. Then the cameraman must have drawn back, because they continued with their work again, squinting through an eyeglass, one man making notes while another took measurements. Again the camera moved in closer, then seemed to sweep across the landscape. In the background, the projector whirled and chattered as the film continued. Maisie half closed her eyes in a squint, searching for a face she knew.

The camera came back to the unit, and once again moved closer to the men. At that moment, one of the men began laughing, and it seemed he elbowed his comrade in a playful gesture. The other soldier
laughed, and gave him a shove, and the first soldier, who Maisie could now see was an officer, pushed back his helmet to rub his forehead.

“Can you stop there?” Maisie called out.

“Stop!” Gilbert’s voice carried well, and the film stopped mid-frame. “Run it back to the soldier moving his helmet.”

The stick figures moved backward at speed, then the frame was frozen for a moment and began running again.

“There!”

“Stop!”

“Is that the American you remember, Henry?”

Gilbert nodded. “Yes, that’s him.”

Maisie waited a moment, trying to match the image on the screen with the photograph she had already seen.

“Shall we continue?”

She nodded. “Yes, thank you. Go on.”

Henry called out to his assistant, and the cine film began rolling again, and soon it was clear that during the filming, shellfire was coming closer, as the earth seemed to explode in the background. The camera had caught the men hurrying to pack up their equipment before running for cover, and as their movements became faster, so the images became almost unwatchable; in that moment, the men seemed like clowns at the circus, running back and forth in an attempt to protect their equipment and themselves. The screen changed to black, and the countdown of numbers signaled the end of the reel.

“There’s another with that same unit, Maisie. Want to watch it?”

“Of course, yes.”

Ben, Maisie, and Henry Gilbert were silent while they waited, and soon the assistant called out once more that the film was about to start. A series of numbers filled the screen, then nothing but black, then a board with the date and location. This time the men of the unit were
outside what seemed to be a farmhouse or a barn. With stilted movements, they were checking kit and preparing their packs for another expedition onto the battlefield. Maisie wished she could lip-read so that she might know what they were saying to each other, and she wondered whether their conversation was about the job at hand, a night out in the village, or their last leave. There was another second of black screen, and when it cleared, the camera had been brought in closer, and this time Maisie could see Michael Clifton clearly. He was laughing with the man next to him. The camera pulled back, and another man, an officer, came into view. The man was carrying a baton under his arm, and seemed to walk in that same matchstick-man manner, but he was evidently a more senior officer. He appeared to be taking the men to task, then looked around and came towards the camera, waving his baton. The screen went black, followed by a series of numbers.

“Do you remember that last incident?” Maisie turned in her chair as Gilbert stepped towards the light switch.

“I do indeed. Can’t remember the man’s name, but he was a bit of a killjoy. Waved his stick at me and threatened to put my camera into the mud. He should have tried it! Anyway, you don’t forget those incidents. Mind you, they’re not that unusual in my line of work, but rather unsettling when it’s a man in a uniform threatening you.”

She stood up and smiled, holding out her hand. “Thank you so much for your valuable time, Henry. It was kind of you to do this.”

“I owe Ben a favor or two,” said Gilbert, as he shook her hand. “So this helped me pay down my debt.”