The Mapping of Love and Death: A Maisie Dobbs Novel

by Jacqueline Winspear

  As you know, I will be spending my leave at the usual hotel, and with the usual chaperone. My employer is quite good to us, though we all work very hard. Our chaperone said to me, "What I do not see, I shall not harbor concern about." So I think we will be able to stay out at that lovely cafe until closing....

  EIGHT

  The following morning, Maisie had only just closed the front door behind her when she heard the telephone ringing in her office above. She ran up the stairs, unlocked the door, and reached for the telephone before it fell silent.

  "This is Maisie Dobbs." It was not the usual greeting: in general, the accepted manner of answering the telephone was to announce the telephone number first.

  "Ah, yes, Miss Dobbs, I have a message here saying that you called and wanted to talk to me." The accent was unmistakably American. "Thomas Libbert."

  "Mr. Libbert, how kind of you to return my call, I--"

  "Are you from the press?" Libbert's tone was curt, sharp to the ear, his words cutting into the silence with a bladelike edge.

  "No, I am not from the press." Maisie tempered her voice, keeping it low and steady. "I telephoned because I know your parents-in-law, and I wanted to ask if there was anything I could do for them at the present time. They are both lucky to be alive, I know, and I wondered how I might best help, in the circumstances."

  "You know them?" Libbert cleared his throat, and Maisie was relieved when he went on in a manner that suggested he had relaxed. "Yes, it's been a terrible time. Their son, my brother-in-law, Edward, is en route from Boston to Southampton."

  "According to the reports I've read, it was a terrible business." Maisie made her move. "Look, Mr. Libbert, I wonder if you might be able to assist me. I am actually working for your parents-in-law, a small matter of helping to locate an item of some value to them, and I thought--"

  "An item of some value? What do you mean?"

  "I think I would rather we met in person, Mr. Libbert--might I see you at your hotel later this morning?"

  "I'm at the Dorchester, but--are you some sort of dealer?"

  "Yes, I suppose that's a good description. Shall we say eleven?"

  Libbert cleared his throat. "Eleven it is. I'll meet you in the foyer."

  "Very good."

  "How will I know you?"

  "I think I'll know you, so don't worry--I'll find you."

  Billy Beale walked into the office as Maisie replaced the receiver.

  "Morning, Miss." He stopped before removing his cap. "Bad news?"

  "No, not bad news. That was Thomas Libbert. I've just arranged to see him this morning."

  "What was he like?

  Maisie shrugged and began removing her raincoat. "I'm not sure."

  "I know that look, Miss. You think he's up to something." Billy reached out to take Maisie's coat as he spoke.

  "I don't want to jump to conclusions, Billy." She passed her coat to him, took two manila folders from her document case, set them on the desk, then sat down, placing the case alongside her chair. She looked up at her assistant. "How have you been getting on? How's Doreen?"

  "As well as can be expected, Miss." Billy turned away. "We went for a nice bus ride with the boys yesterday, got out of Shoreditch for a bit, you know. It's early days yet, eh?" He placed their coats on hooks behind the door and went to his desk. "I did some more work on that list, and I think I've whittled down them names again for you--you know, the women who wrote to Mr. and Mrs. Clifton."

  Maisie nodded, noting the quick change of subject. "I should call Caldwell and find out how they are, but first I must telephone Mrs. Partridge." She lifted the receiver and proceeded to make two quick calls, first to leave a message at Scotland Yard for Detective Inspector Caldwell, then a brief conversation with Priscilla, asking if she could use her connections to put her in touch with Lady Petronella Casterman.

  "Should be a piece of cake, darling. Ella loves new people, according to Julia. I'm amazed I haven't met her myself, though we Partridges do tend to scramble out of London on Friday evenings, so we miss quite a few social goings-on, and while I'm at it, you must come out to the country with us again."

  "That's lovely of you, Pris, and I will, soon. Look, I must go now, lots to do. I'll talk to you later."

  "Has Ben telephoned you?"

  "Oh, Pris, I doubt very much if he will."

  "Don't be too surprised."

  Maisie promised to telephone again later in the day, and had just reached out to take Billy's list from his hands when the telephone rang. This time she gave only the number.

  "Maisie, it's Ben Sutton here. How are you?"

  "Mr. Sutton, good morning." Maisie smiled and nodded at Billy, who returned to his desk to continue working. "What can I do for you?"

  "I think it's what I can do for you that's of the essence here. I've been talking to my friend Henry Gilbert this morning."

  "Oh yes, the man with the cine film." Maisie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Sutton had been in touch with his friend at an early hour.

  "That's right. He's busy throughout most of the week, unfortunately. He's out at the Twickenham Film Studios until Friday, when he said we could come to his house to view the old cine films you were interested in."

  "Oh, that is excellent news. Thank you very much, Mr. Sutton."

  "Please, let's not stand on ceremony again, Maisie--do call me Ben."

  "Of course, Ben--and I am most grateful to you for talking to your friend."

  "I thought we could meet at eleven at his home in Notting Hill--and, um, how about a bite to eat afterward?"

  Maisie's reply was not immediate. "Yes, a lovely idea--though I am afraid I might not be able to stay long."

  Sutton replied as if he had heard only her acceptance, rather than the limitation of time. He gave her the address and then said. "Excellent, see you at eleven on Friday."

  "Eleven it is."

  As Maisie set down the telephone receiver once again, Billy pulled two chairs up to the table by the window, ready to go through the list of names and make notations on the case map, as was their practice when they worked together on a given assignment.

  Maisie joined him and reached for his notes, at first trying to avoid eye contact. Then she gave a half-smile and shrugged. "Oh well, sometimes you have to meet with eligible men just to get on in a case." She felt almost like Priscilla.

  Soon Maisie and Billy had eliminated more names from the list of respondents to the Cliftons' advertisement.

  "So, we've arrived at ten women who might be telling the truth." Maisie set the notes on the table and looked at Billy.

  "Yes."

  "All right, as our friends at Scotland Yard might say, it's down to shoe-leather detective work. Fortunately, apart from one in Harrogate and one in Chester, these women are all from London and the immediate home counties, so at least we won't be incurring great travel expenses. Let's start close to home first and concentrate on the ones either in or within striking distance of London, then move out. You take the first five, and I'll take the rest. And if I am to see Lady Petronella Casterman--"

  "Lady who?"

  "Casterman."

  "I mean the first bit."

  "Petronella?"

  "I know her."

  "You know her?"

  "Certainly do," said Billy. "I did a bit of private work for her, few years ago now, not long after I came home from the war. She'd had a telephone put in and wanted it all wired so she had one in her bedroom and one somewhere else, and what with one thing and another, she wanted it done on the quick and a mate of mine knew the butler. Next thing you know, I was asked to see him, and I put a dog and bone in about three rooms for her. Took me a couple of days, it did, what with all that old plaster to look after, and them high ceilings, and of course, the rooms she wanted rigged up weren't exactly next to each other. Not that I saw her, mind, but she came into the library while I was working one day. Had what they call the common touch. Her youngest, the boy, must have been only about thr
ee years old at the time--they had two older girls, if I remember rightly. And while I was there, reckon it must've been the second day, a couple of young women came to visit. They'd worked with her during the war. Apparently she took care of them who worked for her." Billy's eyes widened. "Now I see what you're getting at--she had something to do with nurses in the war, didn't she? Here, you don't reckon--"

  "No, I don't reckon, not definitely," said Maisie. "But it's a pretty strong lead, given that she sponsored a nursing unit in the war." Maisie went on to recount her conversation with Priscilla, and what she had gleaned thus far from reading the letters from the young woman for whom Michael Clifton had great affection.

  By the time she left the office to meet with Thomas Libbert at the Dorchester, Billy's list was divided, and she was in possession of the names of five women, now in their early thirties: Ivy Acton, Sybil Bates, Anne Callan, Harriet Evans, and Barbara Harte. Billy took those whose surnames beginning with letters from the second half of the alphabet: Ethel Jempson, Sylvia Lance, Elizabeth Peterson, Rose Stephens, and Theresa Tolliver.

  A top-hatted and uniformed doorman welcomed Maisie to the Dorchester with a smile and "Good morning, madam," as he drew back the doors to allow her to enter. Though there were a few men in the foyer, she knew straightaway which one was Thomas Libbert, but did not approach him--she wanted to observe him first, to judge his mood and gather information about his frame of mind before they met. She stood to one side behind a flower arrangement. Libbert was dressed in a suit of light brown wool, with an open-collared shirt and a cravat at his neck. His brown hair was combed back and oiled in place, and his otherwise polished shoes were scuffed with mud at the heel and sides--she surmised he had likely taken a walk in Hyde Park before returning to meet her at the assigned hour. The American paced back and forth, his eyes on the ground in front of him, then looking towards the entrance. His left hand was pushed into his trouser pocket, and in his right he held a cigarette, which he smoked not as a man relaxed and enjoying his tobacco, but as if it were vital that he inhale as much smoke as possible. He looks like a train, thought Maisie. But more than the smoking or his pacing, Maisie could feel his nervousness, as if his composure were hanging by a thread--which was to be understood, considering the attack on his wife's parents, and the fact that his brother-in-law had not yet arrived in the country to share the burden of concern. At that moment Libbert, who was now looking at the floor as he paced, collided with a young clerk who was walking at speed to deliver an envelope set on a silver tray.

  "Hey, watch out, pal!" Libbert admonished the clerk, who was offering profuse apologies while kneeling down to pick up the tray and envelope, which he had dropped in the collision. "Just look where you're going--I'll have you fired, you idiot."

  Maisie stepped forward, smiling as she approached and speaking his name so that he looked towards her. "Mr. Libbert? Good morning--Maisie Dobbs." She held out her hand, then turned to the clerk. "Are you all right? You almost came a cropper there."

  The young man nodded, apologized once more, and walked on, clutching the silver tray and letter.

  "I could have his job for that."

  "But it's good of you not to complain--he might be the sole supporter of his family in these times, so I am sure he's grateful to you for just letting him off with a reprimand." She looked around. "You must be under tremendous strain--shall we talk over a cup of coffee?"

  Libbert rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I--I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so rough on the kid--too much on my mind." He nodded. "I could use a cup of coffee."

  So, you're working for my father-in-law, but you can't tell me what he's asked of you?"

  "Only that it is in connection with his son, Michael. There are some outstanding questions regarding his estate, and Mr. and Mrs. Clifton wanted to be in touch with anyone who might have known him in his final days." Maisie smiled in acknowledgment as a waiter poured two cups of coffee, and cast her eyes around the opulent surroundings, at the swags of fabric decorating the walls and the marbled pillars. She turned to Libbert again. "I suppose you could say they are trying to close the book on his life in a manner that allows them, and their son, to rest in peace."

  "The only big outstanding question is that land. There have been probate problems over the years, given his status. I've been out there with Teddy, and as far as I can see, it's all desert and a bit of scrubby forest--nothing like the East Coast. That's what you call forest."

  "I thought it might be an area rich with possibility."

  Libbert shook his head. "Union Oil has the most valuable land tied up with its mineral rights and it's snapped up anything of worth. And I can't see Michael knowing more than these people, so heaven only knows why he bought the land. Not that we can sell it anyway, not until the legals are all sorted out."

  "We?"

  Libbert shrugged. "It's a pretty safe bet that, in his will, Michael would have left the land to my wife--after all, she was his favorite sister. We'll sell as soon as we can."

  "Was there a will?"

  "Yes and no."

  "What do you mean?"

  "When Michael enlisted--the fool that he was--like all soldiers, he was asked to make a will. After his death, Edward discovered that Michael had simply written, 'Done.' Now that his remains have been found, we hope this can all be sorted out--but let me tell you, the banks don't give up anything without every single last document in place."

  "It's clear that Mr. and Mrs. Clifton would want to honor Michael's will, rather than jump to conclusions about his wishes regarding distribution of his wealth."

  Libbert shook his head. "Like I said, everyone knows that we--I mean, my wife--would have been the number-one beneficiary."

  A waiter approached and poured more coffee, and as Libbert picked up his cup once more, she put another question to him.

  "Were you aware that Michael had a very strong association with a young woman while overseas?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Oh, great! If anyone was going to fall in love with a penniless girl in wartime, it would have been our romantic Michael, wouldn't it?" Libbert sipped his coffee, then reached forward and placed both cup and saucer back on the tray. "No doubt there's some money-hungry woman out there right now trying to get her hands on her deceased lover's wealth."

  "I think if the woman in question was going to do such a thing, she might not be so hard to find. And in any case, if she is not specifically mentioned in Michael's will, surely she would have no claim."

  "Oh, trust me, Miss Dobbs, as far as the Clifton money is concerned, you would not believe the people who might come out of the woodwork. And even though Edward's family shoe company over here closed down years ago, people still remember Clifton's Shoes--heck, there are people out there still wearing them. Of course, that was half their trouble, they made shoes to last. They didn't seem to understand that if shoes don't wear out, then people don't buy more shoes."

  "They did very well for over a century, Mr. Libbert, and certainly I have never heard of making shoes that do not last--after all, what do we have a cobbler for, if not to repair a good pair of shoes?"

  Libbert shook his head. "That's not how it's going to work if people want to make money--you wait and see." He looked at his watch. "Now, is this all you wanted to see me about? To talk about Michael?"

  Maisie set down her cup and saucer and picked up her gloves, shoulder bag, and document case. "Yes, that's more or less it." They stood up together, and as they walked towards the foyer, Maisie asked another question.

  "I understand you were here at the Dorchester when Mr. and Mrs. Clifton were attacked."

  Libbert cleared his throat, and Maisie thought his color heightened a little. "I was staying here, but not here at the time. I'd gone out earlier for a walk across the park--can't just sit in business meetings all day, can I? I was planning to join them for dinner later, but had yet to see them on the day it happened." He shook his head. "I just wish I'd seen them earlier, gone out with them...anything
to stop them going back to their room when they did. It's a tragedy, a family tragedy."

  Maisie nodded. "They are in excellent hands, Mr. Libbert."

  "So I've been told, but Teddy is bringing a family friend across with him--man called Charles Hayden. Brain surgeon and one of the best."

  "Charles Hayden?"

  "Heard of him?"

  Maisie smiled. "I met him in France, when I was a nurse. He was a friend of a friend."

  Libbert shrugged. "Small world, Miss Dobbs. Very small world. Now, I've got work to do."

  "Thank you for your time, Mr. Libbert."

  "You're welcome," said Libbert. Then he turned and walked away.

  Maisie pulled on her gloves and stepped out into spring sunshine breaking through the clouds. She thanked the doorman and they exchanged a few words about the weather, and that spring seemed to have sprung at last. And when she looked across towards the park and saw the last of the daffodils, she thought she would walk and consider the conversation with Libbert. But instead, the words that came to her were those of Edward Clifton, when she visited him at St. George's Hospital and asked him to recollect the day's events leading up to the attack in their hotel room: "...when they'd gone, Tommy--he's our son-in-law--called out to us. He'd just come down to the lobby. He wanted to know when we'd be back."

  As she walked in Hyde Park, Maisie's thoughts were on Edward Clifton and his wife, and she thought she would make her way to Hyde Park Corner and St. George's Hospital, where she might be able to learn more of their progress, and--if luck favored her--even see Edward again. The image of the hospital and the elderly man she hoped to see reminded her of Maurice. She confessed to herself that she had been pushing all consideration of his ill health to the back of her mind--she did not want to entertain the implications of his not getting well again. She felt as if she were on a trapeze at the circus, flying through the air, but with no net below to catch her. She stopped on the path, and as she closed her eyes, she felt the tears well up once more. Who would be there if she fell? Maurice had picked her up from the cold, wet ground when she collapsed at the site of the casualty clearing station where, in the eyes of the dead and dying, she had seen a terror she could never have imagined, and where an already compromised youthful innocence was lost to her forever. He had remained with her, had ministered to her when she needed him most--was she failing him now by not being at his side?