"I'm not exactly sure, but it was too important for me to stop and look on the way."
"I see. Dangerous important?"
"It would appear to be, when I think of the people who would like to get their hands on it."
"Do you want to open it? I can go out and leave you here for a few moments, if you like."
"Would you?"
He picked up a ledger from his desk, kissed her on the cheek, and left the office.
Maisie set the parcel on the desk and proceeded to untie the string and pull back the wrapping. The leather-bound sketchbook with silver-tipped ties that she held in her hands looked as if it had been used infrequently, perhaps for one set of notes. She loosened the leather ties and opened the book at the beginning. On the first page was a date in August 1914, followed by map coordinates for a place called the Santa Ynez Valley, in California. She turned the pages with care, aware that she was hardly breathing, so exquisite were the pen-and-ink drawings that followed. She had never been to such a place, yet in the simple sketches, she felt as if she could smell dried earth and the musky fragrance of a landscape so different from the lush greenness of Kent or Sussex. Following the sketches of broad swaths of land there was what she would call a close-up sketch of small bumps in the earth, of cracks where a narrow dark stream emerged, and of outcroppings of rock. There were paragraphs in technical language that made little sense to her, followed by delicate miniature maps, with notes to the effect that they were copies of larger versions.
She sat down on James' chair and looked out across the rooftops, the view almost jarring after being immersed in the sketches of a land so far away. The drawings, rendered with a nib so fine it was beyond belief that a person could wield the pen with such dexterity, were so beautiful that she could hardly bear to look at them. They had all been signed by Michael Clifton, who had been but twenty-three years old when he created this inventory of his land. She turned back to the notes and could see that he had clearly marked places where work must begin. It was the map to his wealth, to his legacy. It would show whoever had the map in his possession where to find the land's most valuable resource--oil.
According to the notes, penned in the fine, precise hand of an engineer, Union Oil and other companies had long surveyed most of the valley, but the farmer in this corner had refused to sell--until he met Michael Clifton. She gathered that even if those oil companies came close, they could not siphon off the oil from under his property. "It's been there for thousands of years," the farmer had said. "It'll be there until someone drills on my land, even if that person isn't me."
Maisie turned a few more pages until she came to the end of Michael Clifton's entries, which were all made in the days before he left for Southampton. It was clear from his notes that he thought he would be back in the United States by the end of 1914. As she closed the book, she noticed indentations on the back cover, so opened it again and found a pocket. She slipped a finger under the flap and pulled out a small key. Further investigation revealed a piece of paper bearing the words "The Central Bank of Santa Barbara," followed by details of two accounts held in the name of Michael Clifton. There was also information on a last will and testament in a safe deposit box, along with maps and documents of title pertaining to his land.
She heard James talking to his secretary outside the door, and replaced Michael Clifton's belongings as she had found them. The door opened.
"Had enough time?"
"Yes, thank you, James. It's ready to go into your safe now."
"Right you are, just a few clever flicks of the hand, and this will be as secure as the Bank of England."
James opened a cabinet set against the wall to reveal a small safe into which he placed the parcel. He spun the dial, then closed and locked the cabinet door.
"I will not touch this until you come to claim the parcel."
"Thank you."
As they left the office and walked to Maisie's motor car, James reached for her hand.
"James, do you know anything about land, inheritance, and such in America?"
"Oh, inheritance--that's a bit of a dark legal tunnel wherever you are."
"I wonder," said Maisie. "If someone died without family--or anyone else for that matter--knowing whether they had left a will, or indeed the deeds to their property, would it be difficult gaining access for those who might inherit?"
"There are laws of probate that might make it tricky, I do know that. These cases can carry on for years--and that's when you have proof that the deceased is actually no longer drawing breath."
"That's what I've been told." She was thoughtful as they approached the MG. When they had taken their seats and Maisie had started the engine, she turned to James. "And if someone else gained access--of sorts--to the deeds, would they have grounds for a claim?"
"They might, yes. Especially if they had a will." He turned to her. "I can see where your mind is going--and no, it might not take much to prove authenticity. The judges in such cases might just look at the paperwork and with a couple of thumps of the gavel let it go through. Or money could change hands somewhere along the line. I'm in the business of land, Maisie, and though we find that maintaining our ethics leads to less trouble in the long run, I have seen all sorts of bribery and other under-the-table goings-on in my time--and by people who are in positions made particularly vulnerable by such action. Comes down to greed. Pure greed." He shrugged. "And of course, there are other motivations, so you could go through several of the deadly sins. Sometimes people assume something is theirs by right simply because they deserve it. But I think it's the likes of you and Maurice who are the experts on that sort of thing, not a humble office boy like me."
Maisie looked at him and smiled, before slipping the MG into gear.
"Thank you, James, I think that tells me everything I need to know."
It was late by the time Maisie and James left Bertorelli's.
"Do I have to wait long to see you again?" asked James.
"I think this case will be more or less wound up soon. I hope you can bear with me."
He pulled her to him and kissed her, then held her in his arms.
"I knew what I was letting myself in for, Maisie, so of course I don't mind waiting."
"Shall I run you back to your club?" offered Maisie.
He shook his head. "No, not to worry. I'll find a taxi-cab. You're tired, so go home." He kissed her again. "Sweet dreams, my darling."
Maisie took her seat in the MG, waved once more, and drove slowly down Charlotte Street. She did not have to turn to know that James Compton would watch her drive away until he could no longer see her crimson motor car.
She arrived back at her flat in Pimlico, took off her coat and hat, and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. Soon she was seated in front of the fireplace, and though the evening was not cold, she ignited a row of jets on the gas fire, to see and feel the comfort of warmth. She rubbed her neck as she considered the events of the day. The pieces were falling into place. She was almost ready to make her move.
After making a cup of tea, she took up Michael Clifton's journal again, and reread certain entries. He seemed unafraid to put his feelings down on paper, to share with no one but himself the emotions he experienced both on the battlefield and during the few short spells of leave he had in his two years in France. There were entries that made her laugh--observations of his new British friends, the way they spoke, their mannerisms; or impressions of the more senior officers. Yet his homesickness was palpable, and after a while it seemed to seep from between the lines, until his confession in the later pages:
It's cold here, a cold that goes right to your bones and eats away at them. It's not like the cold in Boston. Back home you can wrap yourself in warm clothing and fight it, and there was always a warm house to come back to--hot chocolate and marshmallows, coffee cake right out of the oven. But I want to go out west again, back to the valley. Every time I close my eyes, I see the valley. I want to feel that heat on my skin and the breeze t
hat skims across your arms and feels like warm silk. I want to ride across the hills with the ocean in the distance. I guess I don't care about the oil anymore. I just want to build a cabin on my land and live there for as long as it takes to get this place, this mud and rain and terrible, terrible killing out of my system. I want to spend my days under one of those California oaks and know that I am far away from here. I want to go back to my beautiful valley.
Maisie could sense the ache in Michael's soul to be in a place that was his home. She thought that, young as he was, he knew that the valley had been the place where he belonged from his first view across its golden hills. And she thought that, though he had lost his life, he was blessed in such knowing--to have traveled far and found home.
At her desk the following morning, Maisie took a deep breath and picked up the telephone receiver to place a call to Chelstone Manor. It was answered by the butler, Mr. Carter, whom she had known since her first day of employ at 15 Ebury Place.
"Good morning, Mr. Carter, how are you?"
"Very well. Do I take it you would like to speak to Lady Rowan?"
"Lord Julian, actually."
"Right you are, Maisie." He cleared his throat.
"Is everything all right, Mr. Carter? You sound as if you have a sore throat."
"Fit as a fiddle." He coughed again. "I was going to say, though, we'll be calling you by another name soon, won't we?"
Maisie's stomach turned. "Might there be rumors going round about me, Mr. Carter?"
"No, not a rumor, Maisie, but--"
"I trust you know how to nip them in the bud, don't you?"
"I won't give credence to a word I hear spoken about--"
"I knew I could depend upon you. Now, may I speak to his lordship?"
"One moment. Very nice to talk to you, Maisie."
"You too, Mr. Carter. You too."
Maisie waited for a few moments, then heard the telephone receiver in the library being picked up, and the main receiver replaced.
"Maisie, how are you, my dear?"
My dear? Maisie was taken aback. Had Lord Julian ever called her "my dear" before? He was always cordial and more than helpful, but "my dear" was not an expected greeting.
"Very well, thank you, Lord Julian."
"What can I do for you?"
"I'm after information again, I'm afraid."
"Go on, I have a pen and paper at the ready."
"I'm interested in a Major Temple. He is currently at the School of Military Engineering in Chatham. I'd like to know who his commanding officer was during the war. I expect he was a first lieutenant then, or perhaps a captain. I believe he was in the artillery, but worked closely with a cartography unit, or perhaps working between several units--to tell you the truth, I am not sure, but I do want to know the chain of command above him."
"Right you are--I will see what I can do."
"Thank you, I am grateful for anything you can dig up for me."
"Anything else?"
"Um, yes. How is Maurice today?"
"Oh, dear, I was hoping you wouldn't ask, but I should have known you would want to remain apprised of his condition." He sighed. "He's not at all well. The doctor--that chap called Dene--has been to see him today, and he's comfortable. Maurice being Maurice, he's said he won't go back to the clinic, that he wants to remain at home for the time being. Of course, in my day, unless you were poor, you were treated at home, but now the doctors have more modern equipment at their disposal, don't they? So you have to go into hospital if you want that top-notch medical care with all the bells and whistles."
"Yes, you're right." Maisie thought Lord Julian was more loquacious than she had ever known him. "Would you please ensure that someone calls me if his condition deteriorates? If he gets worse, I want to be there."
Maisie could hear a voice in the background.
"Maisie, just a moment, Rowan would like a word with you."
Maisie blew out her cheeks. I bet she would.
"Maisie! How fortuitous that you've called to speak to Julian. I'm coming up to town with him tomorrow--a bit of shopping, and you know how I loathe shopping, but needs must--might you have time to join me for tea? Fortnum's, say, half past three?"
"Well, yes, that would be lovely. I'll see you there. Half past three."
"Excellent."
Though it was Lady Rowan who had first noticed her intellectual ability and love of learning, and later sponsored her education, Maisie remained somewhat intimidated by the thought of an invitation to tea the following day. She knew James had spoken to his parents and would have said something to the effect that they were walking out together--as her father might describe it--but she was sure that, underneath the warmth exuded in the telephone conversations, a dire warning was waiting for her. She had lived at Ebury Place as both a servant and, later, a guest with her own rooms, but this new development--now far from secret, as Carter's comment indicated--would test the Comptons' self-described socialist leanings.
Good morning, Billy. Did everything go smoothly when you delivered Miss Peterson into the care of her aunt and uncle?" Maisie looked up at Billy as he came into the office.
"Mornin', Miss." He rolled up his newspaper, pushed it into his jacket pocket, and sat down on the chair in front of Maisie's desk. "I told them I worked with her, and she'd been taken poorly at work, so I thought I'd better bring her back to family, being as she lived alone and didn't look like she should be on her own today, not with her being gray around the gills--which of course she was, with all the goings-on with that Mullen."
"You did well, Billy." She leaned back in her chair. "Tell me, I thought you'd already seen her once before, when you went through your list--she was in the second half of the alphabet. What made you go back?"
Billy ran his fingers through his hair, which always seemed to be in need of a comb, if not a cut. "I dunno, Miss. When I first went to see her, she didn't want to talk about it, said it was all a mistake, that her friends put her up to write a letter, and she'd never known any soldier in the war. Nigh on shut the door in my face, she did. But I did what you said I should do--I paid attention to how I felt in my middle--and I came away from that hostel feeling like I had a hive of bees in there, all buzzing around saying, 'That's the one, Billy. That's the one you're looking for.' I never said anything, just in case I was wrong, but after I'd gone through the others on your list, I went back to see her, and of course, it was the right moment for her to just spill it all out like milk from a dropped bottle. She was that scared, so she told me everything. Then I ran down the road to the telephone box to call you."
"You did very, very well, Billy." She regarded him as she spoke. "How are you feeling today?"
He nodded. "I'm all right, Miss." He looked at his hands. "What happens next with the Clifton case?"
"I'm waiting for some information from Lord Julian today--I daresay it will take him just one or two telephone calls to find what I'm looking for, and he'll have the details transcribed and sent to me in short order. I never have to wait long for intelligence from his sources."
Billy stood up. "I've got some work on those other cases to catch up with, Miss. Anything you want me to do on the Clifton case before I start?"
"Yes, there is one thing." Maisie leaned forward and scribbled a note on a piece of paper. "I'd like a birth date for this young man, if you don't mind. Shouldn't take long."
Billy took the note. "Must be, what? Sixteen by now?"
"Something like that. I'd like to know his exact date and place of birth--if you can get a look at his birth certificate or registration, so much the better. Take down as much information as you can."
"It's as good as done, Miss. I'll be back in a couple of hours."
"Thanks, Billy. I'll be out myself later, so just leave the details in an envelope on my desk."
Billy nodded, and left the office.
"'I'm all right, Miss.' Who do you think you're kidding, Billy?" Maisie said the words aloud now that she was alone
in the silence of her office. Alone but for the hive of bees.
Priscilla answered the telephone herself on the second ring.
"I'm so glad you telephoned, Maisie, I have been wondering what to say to Ben Sutton--you know he's interested, and I didn't know whether to say, 'Sorry, darling, she's spoken for.' Are you seeing that gorgeous James Compton, or not? The boys, by the way, will be crushed if he vanishes from their lives forever. All we've heard since you brought him here is Uncle James this, and Uncle James that. You see--it's Uncle now, because he came with Aunt Maisie. Douglas says that if it goes on much longer, he'll ask James to show the boys that he really can walk on water."
"Oh, dear."
"Maisie, don't tell me you've put the brakes on."
"No, well, not really--I just don't want to be pushed."
"If I'm any judge, my friend, you're going to fall anyway, so a bit of pushing won't hurt."
Maisie laughed. "I've got to hand it to you, Pris, you see the black and white in everything."
"And you see all that gray in the middle--that's why we get along. Are you in my neck of the woods today? How about lunch? Or better still, if you're going to be out on the town with James Compton, how about something new to wear--my treat."
Maisie looked at her clothes. She was wearing her burgundy suit with black shoes and a cream blouse underneath. "I'm dressed appropriately for seeing my friends at Scotland Yard."
"Drab, I would imagine."
"'Suitable' is more the ticket." Maisie twisted the telephone cord around her finger as she spoke. "Pris, I wonder if I could ask you about your niece."
"Oh, Maisie, you should see her now, growing up into a lovely young woman--we'll have to keep an eye on her in Biarritz this summer, if I know anything about the Evernden women."
"She's coming for the summer?"
"Yes. We'll be going out from the middle of July until September. I cannot wait to see the villa again. You must come!"
"I might just do that. But in the meantime, I wonder, how is she, in terms of accommodating the news that she has a family she never knew a thing about?"
The Mapping of Love and Death: A Maisie Dobbs Novel Page 24