The Mapping of Love and Death (2 page)

Maisie nodded. “Do you know why he wanted the money?”

“There’s a tract of land in his name in an area known as Santa Ynez—that’s with a
y
. It’s a Spanish name. We haven’t been there, but Teddy went out in ’21, and said it was just the sort of place that Michael would have loved.”

“What happened to the land?”

“There are legal and probate problems remaining. We have no proof of title, no bill of sale. Michael paid in cash—and of course, he was listed as missing.” Clifton preempted Maisie’s next question. “Yes, time has passed, and we should have had no difficulty in making the case that Michael died in the war, but gaining access to the land has been difficult. The area is awash with oil companies, and even though we’ve pressed the point that Michael was killed in the war, the court ruled that Michael’s intentions were not known, and there might be other claimants—and believe me, there have been a few because it’s valuable land, but we’ve managed so far to keep it all from being settled, pending the discovery of proof.” He paused and shook his head. “And you have to remember, though we’re here in 1932, when Michael first went out to California, there was still more than a hint of the Wild West about it. Well, that’s how it seemed to East Coasters like Martha and me.”

“I can see this must be very troublesome for you, on top of losing your son,” said Maisie. “But how can I help you?”

Martha Clifton took her husband’s hand in both her own. “We have a batch of quite a few letters. Given that they were buried for years, they are in fair condition due to the waxed paper and rubber cloth Michael had used to wrap them. They were clearly of some value to our son, yet we could not bring ourselves to read them.” She looked down at her hands, then began to turn her wedding and engagement rings around and around, lifting them above the first bone in her slender finger, then pushing them back down again. She looked up. “I don’t want to pry into my son’s past, but to me the hand seems to be that of a woman, perhaps someone Michael loved, and I would like to know who she is. I—”

“I understand,” said Maisie, her voice soft. She turned to Edward Clifton. “Do you have anything else?”

Clifton reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat. “I have a journal, a diary kept by Michael. Again, some of the pages are fused
with damp, and foxed with age, but we have read a few paragraphs.” He paused as he handed the brown-paper-wrapped book to Maisie, who reached forward to take the package from him.

“So, am I to take it that you would like me to read the letters and the diary, that you wish me to identify the letter writer, and—” She looked from Clifton to his wife. “Am I right to assume that you would like me to try to find the person?”

Martha Clifton smiled, though her eyes had filled with tears. “Yes, yes, please, Miss Dobbs. We can help a little, because we’ve already placed an advertisement in several British newspapers, and we’ve received a number of replies; you see, though we didn’t read Michael’s letters, we opened one or two to see if there was an address or full name—but there was nothing to identify the writer. In the advertisement, we said we would like to hear from a woman who had known Michael Clifton, of Boston in the United States, in the war.”

Edward Clifton cleared his throat and began to speak again. “And I thought that, given your background, you might want to see this document, which we received from the French authorities.” He held out a brown envelope towards Maisie. As she began to draw out the pages, Clifton continued. “It’s a report from the doctor who examined our son’s remains. A postmortem of sorts. Charles has seen the report, and we’ve talked about it.”

“And I said I would rather not read it,” Martha Clifton interjected.

“Yes, I understand.” Maisie began to scan the page. She made no comment, but nodded as she reached the end of each paragraph. She could feel Edward Clifton’s gaze upon her, and when she looked up she knew that in the brief meeting of their eyes there was an understanding. She knew why he had come to her, and that the truth of Michael Clifton’s death had been kept from his mother. And she could understand how a French doctor—possibly tired, probably weary of another aging
corpse brought from the battle-scarred land upon which so many had died—had missed what an eminent Boston surgeon, one who himself had served in that same war, had seen when he read the report.

“It all looks fairly straightforward, but I would like to keep it here, if I may.”

“Of course.” Clifton looked at his wife and smiled, as if to assure her that all would be well now and that they had made the right decision in seeking the help of this British investigator. “We’ll have the letters sent over to you as soon as we get back to our hotel—we’re staying at the Dorchester.”

“And we’ll send some photographs of Michael.” Martha Clifton seemed to press back tears as she spoke. “I’d like you to know what he was like.”

“Thank you, a photograph would be most useful, though I have a picture of Michael in my mind already. You must have been very proud of him.”

“We were. And we loved him so very much, Miss Dobbs.” Edward Clifton reached into his pocket once again and drew out another envelope. “Your advance, per our correspondence.”

Billy escorted the couple downstairs to the front door, and helped them into the motor car waiting outside. Maisie looked down from the window and watched as they drove away, Billy waving them off as if bidding farewell to a respected uncle and aunt. She heard him slam the door, then make his way upstairs to the office.

“Brrr, still nippy out there, Miss.” He sat down at the table and reached for the jar of colored pencils to begin work.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Maisie remained at the window, still clutching Michael Clifton’s journal and the envelope containing the postmortem report.

“Should be an easy one, eh? We’ll get the old letters, warm ’em up
nice and slow, find out who the writer is, and Bob’s your uncle. We’ll find Michael Clifton’s lady friend, and there we are. Job done.”

Maisie turned and pulled back a chair to sit down opposite Billy. “Not quite.”

“What do you mean?”

“Unless I am much mistaken, Michael Clifton was not killed by the shell that took the lives of his fellow men. He was murdered.”

W
hy do you think Dr. Hayden didn’t say something in his letter, about that postmortem report?” Billy stood in front of Maisie’s desk, his arms folded. “I mean, it takes you by surprise, reading that sort of thing.”

“In some ways I can see why he made no mention of it. He might not have wanted to influence me—he saw an anomaly and wanted me to spot it myself, without encouragement or direction.” Maisie began to gather her belongings, checked a manila folder that she placed in her document case, and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece before turning back to Billy. “Have you ever been on the street and seen someone looking up into the sky? Next thing you know, other people are looking up, and before long everyone reckons they’ve seen something. Well, independently, both Dr. Hayden and I spotted commentary regarding damage to the skull and concluded that it was not in keeping with other wounds. It was the sort of injury more likely to be found in a case of attack with a heavy, blunt object, and the notes suggest to me that there is room for investigation.”

“I see what you mean, Miss.”

Maisie picked up the telephone receiver, but did not dial. “The first thing I want to do is to show the report to Maurice. I want to hear what he has to say about it. Now, a parcel will probably arrive from the Cliftons in an hour or so—I am sure they will lose no time in sending a messenger with the letters and other items of interest. Would you stay until it arrives?”

“Of course, Miss.” Billy fingered the edge of the case map, the offcut of plain wallpaper where all evidence, thoughts, hunches, and observations on any given case were noted using colored pencils. Some words were written in capital letters, others with a star next to them. Then clues were linked this way and that, as if the person creating the map were trying different pieces in a jigsaw puzzle to see if they might fit.

Maisie replaced the telephone receiver. “Is everything all right, Billy?”

“Y-yes, of course. Nothing wrong.”

“Do you need to leave early?”

“No, no, it’s not that.”

Maisie stepped towards the table and sat down opposite her assistant. “Doreen’s coming home soon, isn’t she?”

Billy nodded and continued to rub the paper between thumb and forefinger.

“It’s been a long time since she went away. But she’s done well of late, during her weekend visits home, hasn’t she?”

“Very well, all things considered.”

“It’s natural to be worried, Billy. You’ve all got to get used to living together again, and there isn’t exactly a book to guide you.”

Billy leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Maisie could see he was afraid.

“That doctor, the one you sent us to—Dr. Masters—said that once the anniversary of our Lizzie’s passing had come and gone, she’d make
better progress. And she has. It was as if there was a nasty old abscess full of memories in her head that had to open up. But that don’t stop me feeling two things at once. On one hand, I’m pleased as punch that she’ll be back with us, and on the other, I’m worried to the bone for our boys. They’ve done well, Miss. Her goings-on before she was taken away had made them like little ghosts around the house, never knowing what was going to happen next. They didn’t know whether she’d be all sunshine and light, or whether she’d be ready to give them a stripe across the backs of their legs. They want their mum to come home, but I can see they’re dreading it too.”

Maisie did not respond at once, but allowed silence to follow Billy’s confession. To speak with immediacy would suggest his words had no import, that such fears were unfounded. And he had good cause to be concerned.

“Those feelings are to be expected.” When she spoke, it was with tenderness in her voice. “You and the boys have been on your own for four months, and they’ve become accustomed to a new rhythm to their days, and your mother is very good with them—solid as a rock, isn’t she? Now you have to bring Doreen into your circle and welcome her home—which is so hard when you have such troubling memories of her before she was committed. Just take each day as it comes, Billy. Give Doreen time to negotiate her own path back into the fold—and remember, she’s been in a place where she’s found the healing she needed, so she must be scared too.”

“It’s not as if you can all talk about it, is it? I mean, you’ve just got to get on with it, like they say.”

Maisie took a deep breath. “Don’t be afraid to talk to each other. Talk to the boys before Doreen gets home, and talk to Doreen. After something like this happens, things rarely go back to the way they were before, but it doesn’t mean it’s all bad. Take it as it comes. Slowly. You’re
on fresh ground, Billy, so give yourself a chance to see the road ahead, and be ready to change course.”

Billy scratched his head. “I reckon I can see what you mean, Miss. Canada was the only place I’d had my sights on for years. All I wanted to do was to get us all out and emigrate, just like my mate did with his family. But now Doreen’s got to get back to her old self, and I’ve got to get more money put away before we can make a move anywhere.” He sighed. “And London might be my home, and I might be Shoreditch born and bred, but now all I can see is a big ship going to Canada and all of us on it.”

A bell ringing above the door indicated the arrival of a visitor.

“I bet that’s the messenger from the Cliftons. Bring up the parcel, and then you go on home, Billy. You’ve got a lot to do before Friday, so you’d best be off.”

Billy left the office and returned with a brown-paper-wrapped box. “Here it is, Miss.” He placed the package on Maisie’s desk. “I reckon you won’t be in until tomorrow afternoon, if you’re going down to see Dr. Blanche.”

“Probably around two tomorrow. I just have to nip home to pack my case, and I’ll be off down to Chelstone. The letters have to be warmed and opened very carefully. I know they may seem dry, having been out of the ground for a few months, but that kind of damp fuses the paper, and very hot air can cause the paper to crumble. I’ll take them home and leave them near the radiator. Then we’ll see what we can do. Oh, and in the meantime, could you start going through the list of respondents to the advertisement? Their letters should be in the parcel. We need to separate the wheat from the chaff.”

“How do I know what’s what?”

“Good question. Trust your instinct. Some stories will obviously take wide turns, and can be easily identified as the work of rogue claimants; others may be sob stories. Don’t be taken in by the sad tales of lost love,
but look for a ring of authenticity. I have a feeling that if Michael Clifton’s girl saw and responded to the advertisement, she would have taken care to mention something personal to identify her knowledge of him—though we will need the Cliftons’ help to confirm such a marker.” Maisie gathered her belongings and paused at the door. “And I think that Michael’s lady friend might offer more than solace to his parents. She might well hold the key to the identity of the person who took his life.”

M
aisie arrived at her flat in Pimlico and went straight to the radiator in the sitting room, where she pressed her hands to the thick iron pipes. They were lukewarm, a perfect temperature to dry the recently unearthed papers. The box sent from the Cliftons contained several items, including three smaller packages, each wrapped with brown paper and tied with string. One was marked “Letters from Claimants” and had been left with Billy to go through. The second was marked “Letters to Michael, found with his belongings,” and it was this package that Maisie now began to unwrap, without first even removing her coat. She had planned to pack with haste and drive straight to Chelstone, but now wavered, the letters piquing her curiosity.

Maisie had read many letters during the course of her work. A client might bring a crumpled missive found in the pocket of a husband believed to be unfaithful, or a distraught caller might present her with a collection of letters from a relative, communication he hoped might prove wrongful omission from a will. Letters were submitted to prove innocence and guilt, to indicate intentions, whether untoward or kindly. And where letters were written over the course of some months or years, Maisie could follow the passage of a relationship between writer and recipient, could read between the lines and could intuit what the recipient might have penned in return. A collection of letters offered a glimpse across the landscape of human connection at a given time. But the let
ters written to Michael Clifton offered a seed of fascination for her even before she pulled the string and began to unwrap the paper, for they were written from the heart by a girl to her love—and Maisie had once been a girl in love, in wartime.

Sitting at the table, Maisie drew back the brown paper to reveal the collection of letters, still in their original envelopes, unopened since Michael Clifton himself had received each letter. In the third package, several photographs of Michael showed him to be a young man of some height, strong across the shoulders, a confidence to his stance. His hair was fair, short and combed back, though in one photograph it appeared as if the wind had caught him unawares, and a lock of hair had fallen into his eyes—in that image he reminded her of Andrew Dene, with whom she had walked out some eighteen months earlier. She had ended the relationship, but heard that he had since married the daughter of a local landowner.

Maisie brought her attention back to Michael Clifton. The photographs appeared to have been taken in the heat of summer, close to the sea. His eyes were narrow against the glare of the sun, and she could not help but return her attention to his smile. His was an open face, a face that bore no evidence of sorrow or past calamity; it seemed to reflect only a zest for life and spirit of adventure. It was the face of one who might be said to have lived a charmed life.

Though she had planned only to pack and leave for Chelstone, Maisie lingered over the letters, and slipped the pages from the first envelope.

Maisie pressed her lips together and looked away, remembering the casualty clearing station in France, and those times when a letter arrived from Simon, its pages seeming to burn through her pocket into her thigh until the moment she could run to the tent she shared with Iris, whereupon she would tear open the envelope to read: “My Darling Maisie…”

She turned back to the letter, lifted the page to the light, and continued.

“The English Nurse?” Maisie said aloud. “The English Nurse? Don’t you have a name? Why are you calling yourself ‘The English Nurse’—and why no address?” Then she reminded herself that during the war she had never given an address at the top of the page; the official “Somewhere in France” had seemed both insipid and melodramatic at the same time. And in her chest she felt a tightening, imagining the tall
American with the broad smile on a sunny day laughing with this girl, perhaps teasing her…“
my English nurse
.”

Maisie folded the letter and placed it in the envelope once again. She brought an old newspaper from the box room and laid it out on the floor, then took the letters and set them on the paper as if she were placing cards for a game of patience. They were close enough to the radiator to benefit from the shallow heat, yet away from any damp that might be leaching through the wall from outside. Each letter had enough space around it for air to flow freely, and when she returned, she would open the letters one by one, peel away the pages and set them to dry in the same way.

T
hough rain clouds threatened to slow the drive to Kent, the promise of better weather ahead was signaled by shafts of sunlight breaking through shimmering new leaves on the tree canopy overhead. Maisie began to feel more settled as she made her way through Sevenoaks, and down River Hill towards Tonbridge. Her recent visits to Chelstone had been brief, and she had visited Maurice only occasionally since the beginning of the year. She was anxious, as always, to see her father, who would be both pleased to see her and worried that she was visiting in the middle of the week. He was a man who liked the rhythm of routine, and any deviation gave him cause for concern.

At the sound of wheels crunching on the gravel lane leading from the manor house drive to his small cottage, Frankie Dobbs was quick to open the front door. “Maisie, love—” He walked towards the MG, his dog at his side.

“Hello, Dad—you’re looking well! And so’s Jook.”

Frankie Dobbs leaned forward to kiss his daughter on the cheek, and carried her overnight case into the house while she made a fuss of the dog. Soon father and daughter were in the kitchen, the kettle on the
stove to boil, and Frankie had opened the range door so that Maisie could feel the benefit of hot coals.

“This weather doesn’t know what to do, does it? One minute you think it’s spring, the next minute you’re banking up the fire.”

“That’s exactly what Billy said only today.”

Frankie nodded. “Here to see Maurice?” There was no resentment in his voice, for Maisie’s father had long ago come to understand that the bond between Maisie and her former teacher and mentor was an enduring one, though tested at times.