The Mapping of Love and Death (5 page)

“He was an American, you say?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

He shook his head. “I wonder why we accepted him.”

“I thought you might be able to tell me.”

“Our cartographers and surveyors are, in general, trained at the School of Military Engineering, in Chatham. It could have been that your chappie, though an American, satisfied the enlistment officers regarding his British connections, and of course, it sounds as if he was quite highly qualified in his field, so he would have been snapped up. In a time of war, we can’t be picky when it comes to keeping the clever ones.”

Maisie had heard Maurice say as much, though perhaps not in such blunt terms.

“He sailed to Southampton in August 1914. Apparently, he’d heard about the declaration of war whilst working in California and booked passage straightaway. Then in 1916 his parents received a telegram with news that he was missing. His remains, and those of other members of the survey party, were discovered by a farmer at the beginning of the year.”

Whitting set down his cup and stood up, his back to the fire, whereupon the cat slipped into the warm seat vacated by her owner.

“We had our work cut out for us from the Battle of Loos onward—and that was a debacle. On the face of it our cartographers seemed to be doing a brilliant job. They were printing maps over there, distributing them, developing special sheets for commanders and top-secret sheets for the intelligence boys. As fast as our cartographers could work, we were pushing the fruits of their labors into the hands of the people who needed them.”

“So what went wrong?”

“Too much to tell, but suffice it to say that it started when we took over significant stretches of the line from the French, and began basing our maps on those we’d been bequeathed by our predecessors. In a nut
shell, our armies were fighting a battle for which the commanders were using incompatible maps, with different scales. In hindsight, the distortions were dramatic.” Whitting paused. “But you don’t want to know all that, do you, Miss Dobbs? You want to know how a cartographer works.”

“If you have time, Major Whitting.”

“You’re here now, might as well get the job done. Let’s start with the equipment.”

Whitting’s desk was neat, clear except for a pile of three books, several pages of an unfinished letter laid out on the blotting pad, and various items of equipment set on the edge of the desk, almost like ornaments. He picked up the sheets of paper and placed them in a drawer, then pulled a brass object towards him.

“This is an octant…”

One by one, Whitting took each piece and described its purpose to Maisie, explaining as he went how a cartographer was trained, and how a military mapmaker worked. He pointed out the challenges that a land surveyor or cartographer working in a civilian role would have encountered when required to do things differently in a battle situation. Maisie took notes as he spoke, taking account of his tone, which revealed more of the authoritarian military official than the man who had first welcomed her into the room.

“And I think that’s all I can tell you, Miss Dobbs, without going so far as to begin actually training you in the art of mapmaking.”

“Art? Not science?”

“The mapmaker is not only a mathematician, but an artist. He has to look at the earth and see what needs to be seen, then represent it in a way that means something—to a class, a sailor, a walker on the hills, the driver of a motor car, or those who orchestrate a battle. They have to look at that map and see a range of possibilities, not just one. Enormously important decisions hang on precise representations of what is before the commander—and as you know, most of the important deci
sions are made many miles away, by men in warm offices and with dry clothing. Everything rests on the fallibility of the map—and it takes more than science to do the job well.”

“I see.” Maisie paused. “Thank you for your time, Major Whitting. You have been most helpful.”

He said nothing in response, and reached to the side of the window to ring the bell that would summon Dawson. As he pulled the curtain aside, another cat, as black as jet, walked from behind the fabric into the room.

“This one will always retreat to a hiding place when there’s company.”

Maisie and her host watched the cat brush up against the chairs before clambering up onto a shelf and crawling into the dark space above a row of books.

“I was thinking of contacting the School of Military Engineering in Chatham, to see if I can find out anything about Michael Clifton there.”

“Might be worth your while,” said Whitting. He folded his arms. “But I should advise you that they’re very busy down there, and given the strategic importance of Chatham to both the army and the navy, an inquiry agent probably wouldn’t be the most welcome visitor.”

At that point, Dawson knocked and entered the room, holding open the door for Maisie to leave.

“May I telephone if I have any more questions, Major Whitting?”

“As long as you call in the morning.”

Maisie had just stepped across the threshold when she looked back. “You know, there’s one thing that rather surprises me: given that the cartographers and survey teams worked closely together, and were a small group in comparison with the battalions, for example, I rather hoped you might have a recollection of an American among their number. I understand you were responsible for men across the area where this particular cartographer was working. I would have thought
with the accent…and by all accounts, he was a tall man, as so many Americans are, and—”

“It would be like you trying to remember another nurse, Miss Dobbs. At first blush, it might seem as if you should know every young woman who served, but on the other hand, how could you possibly? If you did, you would know exactly where to go to find the young man’s lover.”

Maisie looked away, determined that Whitting not see how his choice of words had unsettled her. Turning back, she held out her hand, thanked him once more, and bid him farewell.

M
aisie was leaving Hampstead when she turned off the High Street towards Belsize Park, stopping outside a mansion similar in style to Whitting’s. Yet whereas the major’s home was flanked by other houses, this four-story property was at the end of a terrace, and partially hidden by surrounding lush green gardens. She breathed deeply, knowing that the sudden decision to come to this place had been welling up inside her for some time.

It was the home of Basil Khan, Maurice’s old friend and mentor. Years before, in Maisie’s girlhood, Khan had taught her that in silence, with body and mind still, a depth of understanding may be achieved that is not available to one who languishes at the mercy of life’s relentless chatter. At first Maisie found such lessons embarrassing, and wondered how she could ever remain motionless for hours without the itch to move. But Khan’s quiet expectation that she sit in silence and stillness until he touched the brass bowl with a piece of wood and a mellow ringing sound echoed around the room, together with the kindness in his eyes when he took both her hands in his and said she had done well,
inspired her to continue. She had drawn upon those lessons in the war when she was a nurse in France, when the screams of men dying did not end with the working day, but echoed back and forth in her head and were not silenced until she saw Khan in her mind’s eye and heard his words: “Be still, until there is nothing…”

Though an old man—indeed, Maisie could not guess Khan’s age, for he had always seemed old, yet had not appeared to age since their first meeting when she was but fourteen—Khan was much in demand. Among visitors to the mansion, where Khan’s students also lived, were political leaders, men of commerce and the cloth, academics, artists, and writers. Many had known Khan for years, many came to hear him speak, but only a few gained a personal audience. Maisie was shown into the same room where he had first greeted her so long ago, and there, alongside the window, Khan sat cross-legged with his eyes to the light, as if he were not blind. It was from Khan that Maisie learned that seeing was not something that necessarily required the faculty of ocular vision.

“You have not come for so long, Maisie.” He patted a large square cushion set on the floor close to him. “Come, let us talk.”

Maisie bowed before Khan, then took her place on the cushion.

“Have you seen Maurice of late?”

“You know he has been unwell, a bronchial affliction.” Maisie looked into the pale eyes and felt her own brim with tears.

Khan nodded. “Yes. He is not a young man, and he has given much in the service of peace, and of those who do not have a voice because it has been silenced.”

“Will he get better?”

Khan smiled, and as he turned to her, Maisie saw the wide blind eyes filled with grief. Instead of answering her question, he responded to her thoughts.

“Extremes live within us all. The joy of association resides alongside
the anticipation of loss. What is given will be taken, what we have is often only of value to us when it is gone.” He paused, his face now held to the light once more. “Maurice knows this. Whatever is to be, Maurice is at peace.”

Maisie shook her head. “I am sure he will be all right. As soon as the weather gets better and he can sit outside, that will clear his chest.”

Khan’s voice was soft. “Yes.”

“Shall I bring Maurice to you? I am sure he would like to speak to you.”

“Oh, but we do speak, Maisie. We may not be in the same room, but we speak.”

Maisie looked at the light as it began to diminish. “I’d better go now, Khan.” She moved as if to stand, but Khan reached out and placed a hand on her arm.

“No, stay. Sit with me as I taught you when you were a girl. Sit with me here. Tell me about your work. It is such hard work, though I know Maurice instructed you well.”

“Yes, he did. Very well.” Maisie sighed. “My work at the moment involves a young man—a mapmaker—who was killed in the war. He was very skilled, apparently, and had loved maps from the time he was a boy. There is evidence to suggest he had been murdered, and not by the circumstance of war.”

Khan nodded, his head now lowered.

“A map is a conduit for wonder, a tool for adventure. But it is also an instrument of power—and like all things, power has two faces.”

M
aisie sat with Khan for some time, and was so deep in thought—or not-thought, as he might say—that when she opened her eyes he was gone and the empty room was illuminated by just one candle. She slipped her shoes on, then made her way to the hexagonal entrance
hall, where she stopped to say good-bye to one of Khan’s helpers. As she turned to walk towards the front door, it opened. The visitor was James Compton. His color rose when he saw Maisie, whose surprise was marked by a half-smile, and she herself blushed.

“James, what are you doing—”

“Oh, hello, Maisie. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“But—”

“Sorry, I’m a bit late for an appointment. Business. Lovely to see you, Maisie.” He nodded towards Khan’s helper, who inclined his head in return, and walked towards the door that Maisie knew led to Khan’s inner sanctum.

Maisie could not disguise her fluster, and engaged in dialogue with herself all the way to collect her MG. What on earth was he doing there? He was nothing but a dilettante, a light, party-bound…She opened the door of the motor car and sat down in the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind her. It occurred to her that she didn’t know James Compton very well at all; though she had accepted an assignment from him of late, her understanding of his character was based on her memory of a young man referred to as “Master James” in his parents’ household. He was the happy-go-lucky wartime aviator who some eighteen years earlier had been in love with her friend Enid. He had seemed to lose his way after the war, as a result of both his wounds and the loss of Enid, who was killed in a munitions factory explosion. A round of parties would often be followed by self-imposed exile, as if James were trying to find a place where he might belong in a changed world. In sending him to work for the family corporation in Canada, his parents had hoped he would regain some sense of himself and his responsibilities—or as his father was heard to say, “He’s got to get a grip!”

No, Maisie clearly did not know James Compton as well as she thought, and found herself a little unsettled to learn that he, too, was
a visitor to Khan. She started the engine, and as she drove away, her thoughts moved to her conversation with Khan, and she reflected upon his words.

A map is a conduit for wonder, a tool for adventure. But it is also an instrument of power—and like all things, power has two faces.

B
illy had gone home by the time Maisie returned to the office in Fitzroy Square. The thick smog of winter, encroaching to envelop the square and barely lifting all day, had given way to a thin fog with just a tinge of yellow as town dwellers began to do without coal fires with the onset of spring. Maisie looked out at the cloudy swirls and thought about the Beale family, about the challenges they had faced, and those still before them with Doreen’s homecoming from the psychiatric hospital. She had heard the tension in Billy’s voice as he spoke of his concern, especially for young Billy and Bobby, who had borne the slings and arrows of their mother’s distress. And Maisie knew that now, with Doreen at home, and with the family used to a new rhythm to their days, every moment, every word spoken, would represent a step into the unknown through a blanket of fog, with Billy and the boys haunted by the specter of Doreen’s damaged mind. She wondered how she might help the family, but realized that this part of their journey was theirs alone, that they had to come together to regain the ground lost—only then could Billy lead them forward into his dream of a new life in Canada.

She sat down in a chair set alongside the fireplace, and leaned forward to turn on the gas jets, but as she sat back in the chair once again, she became restless, and moved instead to her desk, where she picked up the telephone and dialed Scotland Yard.

“Detective Inspector Caldwell, please.”

There was crackling on the telephone line, and soon a voice boomed into the receiver.

“Caldwell!”

“Maisie Dobbs here, Detective Inspector Caldwell.” The words felt like glue in her throat.
Detective Inspector Caldwell.
She needed an ally at Scotland Yard, and her interactions with Caldwell had always been far from cordial.

“Miss Dobbs—to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was wondering—how are Mr. and Mrs. Clifton?”

“Mr. Clifton is much improved. Sadly, Mrs. Clifton has not made progress and is still in a very poor state. It would not be over-egging the pudding to say that she might not last the night, though I am told that each hour she’s alive gives the doctors some level of hope.”

“I see.”

“Anything else, Miss Dobbs? I am a very busy man, as you must know.”

“Yes, there is—when may I visit Mr. Clifton?”

Maisie heard Caldwell sigh. “Leave it with me. I’ll try to get you in tomorrow.”

“That’s most kind of you, Detective Inspector.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Oh, and one more thing—do you have any information about the Cliftons’ son-in-law that you would be willing to divulge?”

Caldwell sighed again. “If I refuse, I know you’ll find out anyway. We’ve been talking to him, and there’s nothing he can add to the statements from staff. He’s upset, obviously—they’re a close family—so tread carefully.”

“I won’t get in your way.”

“The name is Thomas Libbert—they call him Tommy—and as you already know, he’s at the Dorchester.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector.”

Caldwell offered no words to close the conversation. Maisie replaced the telephone receiver, and shook her head. Despite his sharpness of tone and Billy’s summation of his manner, it occurred to her that Caldwell had changed somewhat since his promotion, now that the struggle to move beyond Stratton’s shadow had ended with the latter’s move to Special Branch. He might yet prove the ally she needed.

Before leaving for home, Maisie made one more telephone call.

“Priscilla.”

“Maisie, darling—how are you?” Maisie heard the clink of ice against glass, and as she was about to speak, Priscilla was quick off the mark. “And I know what you’re thinking—‘Pris is at the sauce again.’ Do not fear, my friend, I have kept to my resolution, and having partaken of my
one
evening cocktail, I am now drinking soda water with angostura bitters—monumentally disgusting, but it’s a jolly-looking little beverage. I’m told that grenadine might be better, or lime cordial, but that’s a children’s drink.”

Maisie laughed, glad that her friend seemed to have a semblance of control over the drinking that had dulled the fear of losing her sons. Though they were young and far from an age at which young men are sent into battle, Priscilla had lost three beloved brothers to the war, and a concern for the well-being of her sons had grown unchecked into an obsession with keeping them safe at all costs.

“I must say, I do love it when you laugh, Maisie, and I’m glad to have been of service. When will you come to see us again? The boys have been asking for Tante Maisie, though I believe it may have something to do with that delicious homemade toffee you brought last time. It certainly helped to bring out an errant baby tooth from the mouth of my youngest.”

“I’m driving down to Chelstone tomorrow, so how about Sunday evening? I could detour on the journey back to Pimlico.”

“Excellent. Come for supper. Douglas will doubtless scurry away to his study afterwards—he’s composing an essay for the
New Statesman
, in fact, it might well turn out to be a book—so once Elinor has the toads tucked up in bed, we can retire to my sitting room for a good old chat.”

“That sounds just what I need. Oh, and Priscilla, I think I’m going to have to pick your brains.”

“Me? The intrepid Maisie Dobbs wants Priscilla Partridge, drinker of silly pink joyless cocktails, to help her on a case?”

“Yes, I do. In fact, you can start putting the gray matter to work if you like. I want to compile a list of all the nursing units in France in 1915. It’s a bit tricky, as there were not only the government-sanctioned units but privately sponsored ones, and some of our nurses went to work for the French and Belgian medical corps—and of course, there was your lot, the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry.”

“Not so much of the ‘your lot.’” Priscilla lifted her glass to take a sip, and Maisie heard the ice clink again. “That’s not as easy a job as it first sounds, is it? I mean, as you’ve said, there were groups of women who just went out and set up shop, so to speak—and God bless ’em, eh?”

“Put your mind to it, Priscilla, and use your old contacts—but be circumspect.”

“Oh, you know me, ‘circumspect’ is my middle name.” Priscilla laughed before continuing. “Who are you looking for?”

“I don’t know, not yet.”

“That’s a good start.”

“I said ‘yet’—I’ll have a name soon.”

“Sunday—come when you like. Supper at half past six—inhumanely early, but as you know, we eat with the children in this house, unless they’ve been really, really naughty.”

“See you then, Pris—and thank you.”

“Gives me something to do—I might even get to use my fluent-and-without-an-accent French. Au revoir!”

M
aisie arrived home at seven o’clock. Her flat was cold and dark when she entered, so before taking off her coat, she turned up the radiator and ignited the gas fire. Over the winter months, Maisie had taken to walking soon after arriving home in the evening. The exercise warmed her, and when she opened the door to her flat upon her return, it was as if she were returning to a snug cocoon.

There were those who might have cautioned her against leaving her home in darkness, pointing out that there were too many people cold and with empty bellies who would attack a young woman for the coat off her back, if only to sell it again. And in walking alongside the river, one could catch one’s death—why, the stench alone would lead to consumption. But Maisie was drawn to walk the streets, in part, by Maurice’s teaching that problems were best solved when one was moving, because if one is trying to find the key to a troubling case, moving the body will move the mind. In the early days of her learning, she was confused by the apparent contradiction of teachings from Maurice and Khan, but it was Maurice who explained: “When you are sitting in silence, you open the door to a deeper wisdom—the knowing of the ages. When you are walking, with the path to that wisdom already carved anew by your daily practice, you find that an idea, a thought, a notion, comes to you, and you have the solution to a problem that seemed insoluble.”