The Mapping of Love and Death: A Maisie Dobbs Novel

by Jacqueline Winspear

  "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."

  Maisie 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 letters 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.

  Dear Lt. Clifton,

  Thank you for your letter, which I received this morning. It is always exciting to receive a letter, but I had to wait until noon before I could rush to my tent to read it....

  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.

  I'm glad to hear that you enjoyed your leave in Paris as much as I. Who would believe that a war is on, when you can go from one place to another and have such a joyous time? You were very generous, and I will never forget that delicious hot cocoa the cafe owner made for us; I have never tasted anything quite like it. I'm so glad I bought a postcard with a picture of the Champs-Elysees. I felt as light as air walking along without mud and grime on my hem.

  I've been thinking about your stories of America. I can't imagine living in a country that big. Until I came to France, I had never traveled more than ten miles from my father's house.

  Well, I must go now--we are expecting more wounded this afternoon and there's much to prepare.

  Yours sincerely,

  The English Nurse

  "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.

  Though rain clouds threatened to slow the drive to Kent, the promise of better weather ahead was signaled by shafts of sunlig
ht 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.

  "Yes, I want him to look at a report, just to see what he has to say."

  "Must be urgent, if it couldn't wait until Friday."

  Maisie nodded, reaching out to take the mug of tea offered by her father. "No, I didn't want to wait."

  "He's been right poorly, you know."

  "I thought he was getting better." Maisie set down her mug after one sip.

  "To my mind, it was all that going over to France what did it. I told him, 'You can't be going over there when you still feel rough.' He said he had to go, had to get some affairs sorted out, and the next thing you know, Lady Rowan gets a message that he's staying there because he's gone down again--well, you know, don't you?"

  "How is he now?"

  "As soon as he came home, they brought a bed into the conservatory for him, so he could rest during the day--it's very warm in there when sun shines right through, plus there's that nice fireplace. I reckon the ailment's sitting on his chest and just won't be moved. Nasty cough he's got--and it's such a shock, because he's always been your busy sort, hasn't he? If he's not over there in France, or on business in London, he's out with his roses, or you can see him reading a book up there by the window. Always one to pass the time of day, he is. But this has knocked him for six, I can see that."

  "I'll go up and see the housekeeper this evening, ask if it's all right to call tomorrow morning. I should have telephoned, but I thought--"

  "I know--this isn't like him. And Lady Rowan is all beside herself. You know how she is, what with her 'I am beside myself.'"

  Maisie laughed upon hearing her father's imitation of his employer, whom he held in high regard, a respect that was mutual.

  "What's caught her attention now?"

  "James is home from Canada?"

  "James is home?" She reached for her mug again. "Well, that is a surprise, given that he hates sailing in what he calls the 'iceberg months.' I thought he wouldn't return until summer, and then perhaps not until next year."

  "No, he's back, and they say--them downstairs--that he's back for good. There's talk of the London house being opened up for him, and Lady Rowan is said to be very happy because his lordship is going to retire."

  "Well, I never." Maisie leaned back in her chair. "I don't visit for a few weeks, and look what happens. I wonder how things might change around here."

  "We all wonder. It's like the changing of the guard--out goes one lot, and in comes another."

  "I doubt it will be that bad. Lady Rowan loves Chelstone and hates going up to town now--even for the season."

  "You watch. Next thing you know, James will be matched up, mark my words."

  Maisie laughed. "He's about thirty-six now, Dad, and he's been engaged three times already. He won't be easily pressed into marriage."

  "Another one who lost his heart nigh on twenty-odd years ago." Frankie shook his head and looked out of the window across the fields.

  "Well, that's as may be." Maisie stood up, rinsed her mug under the cold tap, and set it on the draining board. "Now then, I think I'll nip up to see if I can have that word with Maurice's housekeeper."

  Is that Maisie?" Maurice's voice could be heard calling from the conservatory as Maisie spoke with the housekeeper in the entrance hall.

  "One minute, Dr. Blanche." Mrs. Bromley, the housekeeper, scurried away, returning a few minutes later. "He wants to see you now, Miss Dobbs. I was just about to bring him in from the conservatory--he does like to sit there until it's dark, and even though it's warm and we've plugged it up so there's no drafts, I do worry about him. The nurse comes in at about eight o'clock--she should be here any minute--and makes sure he's comfortable for the night, so you've time for a little chat. He's been waiting for you to come home."

  Come home. Even though she had her own flat in London, even though she was London born and bred, when she came to her father's house, to all intents and purposes she was considered to be home. Maisie smiled. He's been waiting for you to come home. It was true, she always felt a sense of belonging at Chelstone, and particularly when she reflected upon the hours spent with Maurice at The Dower House.

  Together with Mrs. Bromley, Maisie helped Maurice into a wheel-chair, then to his favorite chair alongside the fireplace in his study. As he sat down, she noticed how frail he looked. His shoulder blades seemed sharp against the fabric of his dressing gown, and his eyes milky, sunken like those of an old dog.

  "Maisie, I am so happy to see you."

  "And you too, Maurice." She leaned towards him, and they kissed on both cheeks. "I wish I had known that you were so poorly--I thought you were getting well again."

  He lifted a hand towards the chair on the opposite side of the fire-place, Maisie's usual seat; then he shook his head. "I did not want you to be worried, so I asked that you not be alerted to my ill health. I am sure that as soon as summer comes, I will be as fit as a fiddle." He coughed, reaching into the pocket of his woolen cardigan for a handkerchief, which he held to his mouth. Maisie could hear the rasping in his chest, the wheeze as he caught his breath. "I beg your pardon." He paused before continuing. "I saw the light from your torch as you came along the path. I'm glad you've come. Now then, Maisie, what is it you want to discuss? Give an old campaigner something to chew on; I'm fed up with being the resident invalid."

  Maisie pulled an envelope from her pocket, slipped out Michael Clifton's postmortem report, and passed the pages to Maurice, who squinted to see the words even though he had set his spectacles on his nose. He read in silence, nodding on occasion, before speaking again.

  "The body has been in the ground for some time--what, some sixteen years."

  "Yes."

  "But the body never lies, does it, Maisie? We may be pressed to see the message sometimes, and one person's eye is not as keen as another's, but the truth is always there."

  "What truth do you see in that report, Maurice?"

  Blanche smiled, a movement that caused him to cough once again. Maisie poured a glass of water, and held it out to him. When the coughing had subsided he replied to her question. "I see wounds consistent with the type of shellfire faced by the men--there's evidence of shrapnel infiltration to the bone from head to toe, and I would say that this man and those with him suffered vascular and arterial damage due to deep lacerations, though it's likely the deaths of the other men were ultimately caused not only by loss of blood, but by asphyxiation when the dugout caved in." He paused, and looked up at Maisie, the firelight flames reflected in his eyes as he tapped the page. "But this wound to the back o
f the head--that was not caused by shrapnel, or a gun. I would say it was a heavy object at very close range. This man was murdered by a more personal foe, not the enemy we call war. And you knew that already."

  Maisie nodded. "Yes, I knew, Maurice. I wanted you to see the report and to have your opinion. I can see why a harried doctor might miss something; after all, the remains of soldiers are being discovered every week. Still, I thought a British military doctor checking the report might have seen what we have both seen, but this one seems to have slipped through."

  "People often see only what they want to see. To draw attention to this particular anomaly would mean more paperwork, more time--and all for a truth that has remained buried for many years. Such truths can only cause pain for someone somewhere, so perhaps consideration was at the heart of the omission."

  "Well, the father knows, and he is my client." Maisie leaned back in her chair.

  "Tell me about the dead man."

  "He was a cartographer and surveyor, an American whose father was British and who managed to worm his way into the army given his background--mapmaking is a valuable skill." She recounted Michael Clifton's history, as told by his father, and she outlined the nature of her client's brief.

  Maurice was thoughtful. "Ah, a man who makes maps--an adventurer with his feet on the ground."

  "An adventurer with his feet on the ground?"

  Maurice coughed again as he laughed, then continued. "Who hasn't felt the stirring of wanderlust when looking at a globe? You see the names of far-flung places and want to see who lives there, and what paths they travel through life. Ah, but the mapmaker, he is one who looks at the land around him and interprets it for the rest of us, who gives us the path to our own adventure, if you like."