"Oh--" Maisie saw that on the trolley was a decanter of single-malt whiskey, and one of sherry. A wedge of Stilton cheese was flanked by a fan of plain biscuits, and two plates, table napkins, and knives were set to one side. It was Maurice's favorite late-evening repast.
Mrs. Bromley poured a glass of sherry for Maisie, then passed the malt whiskey decanter to her. She smiled and poured a good measure into Maurice's crystal glass.
"Won't you have one with me? A toast to him?"
"I think I will, Miss Dobbs." The housekeeper reached down to the second tier of the trolley, brought out another sherry glass, and smiled.
Maisie stood up and clinked her glass with the housekeeper's, then they both reached to touch Maurice's glass with their own.
"I'll miss you, Maurice," said Maisie.
Mrs. Bromley pressed her lips together and nodded. "Yes, sir, Dr. Blanche. You'll be missed."
Maisie spent only a short time with James at Chelstone. Lady Rowan had known Maurice since girlhood, and though she was taking his loss in her stride, she wanted to be in close proximity to her husband and son. For her part, Maisie felt her emotions too close to the surface to spend long hours with James. A deep sadness lay across her heart like a heavy gray blanket, and was weighted by memories of the conversation over tea with Lady Rowan, which had unsettled her. She knew she had to consider not only her own feelings, but the vulnerability of a man who had been, as Maurice observed, "in crisis."
Before returning to London, Maisie placed a telephone call to the home of Ella Casterman, and once again the lady of the house was the first to answer.
"Ah, Miss Dobbs--may I call you Maisie?" She did not wait for a reply. "Maisie, yes, I would be delighted to see you. Do come for morning coffee on Tuesday. See you then."
Maisie replaced the receiver and finished packing the small leather case that was a gift from Andrew Dene, who had once hoped to marry her. The small room in her father's house had cocooned her since Maurice's death, and now she wondered how she would ever walk out into the garden without looking up the hill towards The Dower House in all its grandeur, and the conservatory where Maurice would take breakfast looking across the land. She supposed the house would be sold, and new people would move in--how would she bear hearing voices other than his in the rose garden? And what if they removed his precious roses altogether? After all, not everyone liked roses.
James came to the Groom's Cottage to see her off on her journey back to London.
"James, may I come to your office tomorrow? I need to collect the parcel I left in your safe."
"Of course. I've been as good as my word--your belongings are as safe as houses." He ran his fingers through his hair.
Maisie smiled. "I've been so busy since Maurice--"
He put his arms around her. "It's all right, Maisie. I understand. More than you think."
She nodded. "Thank you--I'll see you tomorrow then, about three o'clock?"
He held her to him, kissed her once on the cheek, and then drew back. "I'd better be going back to the house; it's my turn to get ready to drive back to town. Take care."
Maisie watched James Compton walk along the lane towards the drive up to Chelstone Manor, hands in pockets, shoulders stooped. She wasn't the only one grieving the loss of Maurice Blanche.
Clad in her black day dress, black shoes, and black cloche, Maisie felt as if she was standing out in stark relief as she entered the bright, golden morning tones of Ella Casterman's mansion.
"Lady Casterman is in her rooms, but has asked me to show you into the library," said the butler.
Maisie had always felt at home in a library. She loved walking past rows of books, reading titles, taking down a book that piqued her interest, and opening the pages. She had seen libraries where the books were hardly touched, the spines of every text cracking with an unopened newness. And there were other libraries where each book seemed to have been read time and time again. Ella Casterman kept Maisie waiting for some moments, giving her an opportunity to peruse the shelves upon shelves of books. Books on philosophy and history might well have been the choice of an earlier reader, for although well-thumbed, the stiff pages did not yield easily, so must have not been read for many a year. Novels had been read and re-read, as Maisie could see by the frayed edges of cover and pages, and torn dust jackets. She suspected the Casterman girls had been lovers of romance--perhaps a reading preference shared with their mother.
A section of books on explorers, on travel, on distant lands appeared to have been used with some frequency. A series of new acquisitions had been added, and when she looked around at the oak table in the center of the room, a cluster of books on geographical subjects were open at various pages, and a notebook set alongside them. She smiled. The explorer was Christopher Casterman.
Close to the window, which looked out to a garden resplendent with the colors of spring, Maisie found another well-used collection, and thought she had found Ella Casterman's true literary love--poetry. Maisie took down book after book, each one well thumbed, each one with slips of paper here and there noting a favorite line, a verse that touched the heart. It was when she found a shelf of books by Elizabeth Barrett Browning that she stopped. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books until she found the collection she was looking for. It came as no surprise that, as she took the book in her hands, it fell open to one page in particular.
THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD
What's the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end...
"Ah, there you are. I am so sorry to keep you, but I was speaking with my daughter. All being well, I will be a grandmother before the week's end."
"Congratulations, Lady Casterman."
"Ella, please. Do call me Ella." She turned as the butler entered, carrying a tray with a coffeepot, hot milk jug, two cups, and some arrowroot biscuits. "Ah, just the ticket. Let's sit down, Maisie."
A few moments later the women were seated, each with a cup of coffee. Maisie had already placed the book of poetry on the table in front of her.
"I see you are a fellow reader. What have you found?" Ella Casterman set her cup on the low table and reached for the book. "I knew you would love Elizabeth--I have adored her poetry since I was a girl and feel that we are on Christian name terms."
"Yes, I can see that--you have quite a collection there," said Maisie.
"Here, let me read you one of my favorites." She turned the pages.
"Oh, I think I know which one it is." Maisie reached for the book. "May I?"
The poem was easy to find. Maisie held the book open as she faced Ella Casterman, and recited the verse.
"Ah, you were already familiar with her work." The woman blushed.
Maisie shook her head. "No, and--in truth--I think you know why I know this poem, Ella. I first discovered it written on a scrap of paper and tucked into the back of Michael Clifton's journal."
"I--I don't know what you're talking about. Do explain. Michael Clifton?"
Maisie set the book on the table, once more, then reached out and took her hostess' hand. "Please, Ella. I know. I know about your affair with Michael Clifton."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Ella Casterman stood up and began to pace. "This is really...really..." At once she bent over from the waist as if in pain, and the tears came so quickly that Maisie thought she might collapse and went to her aid.
"Come, please sit down," said Maisie, her voice soft.
The woman continued to weep for some moments, then sat back on the chesterfield.
"I thought you might find out the truth. As soon as I met you--it's your eyes, Maisie, they seem to just go right through a person."
"Ella, you've harbored this secret--and the fear that goes with it--for so long. Would you like to tell me about it?"
"Do I have your word that it wil
l not go beyond these walls and this conversation?"
"I keep many secrets, Ella. It's part of my job."
She nodded, reached for her now-cool coffee, and took a few sips before placing the cup back on the tray.
"How did you meet Michael Clifton?" asked Maisie.
"I--I first saw him in Paris with one of my nurses. They seemed to be having so much fun together, so much joy. There wasn't much that was uplifting in the hospital, though of course everyone did their best to put on a sunny face for the wounded. But it seemed there was this frenetic desire among the young people, when they were away from it all, to just get out there and enjoy life for what it was--fleeting, at best. I did as much as I could for my nurses, you know, and I thought they should have some lightness when they were on leave. And as I told you before, I tried to ensure they didn't get themselves into any difficult situations."
Maisie nodded. "Of course."
"But..." She looked down at the handkerchief bundled in her hands. "I also harbored some envy. Oh, dear, I know that sounds just dreadful, and I really wasn't myself. You see, I was married when I was quite young, and my husband, my dear, precious husband, was so much older than I. It seemed of no concern for such a long time, and we had two beautiful daughters to whom we were both devoted. But time marched on, and we went through a troublesome interlude--or perhaps I should say that I went through the troublesome interlude."
Once again, Maisie did not offer any interruption, but leaned forward to pour more coffee for herself and Ella Casterman, who sighed, then went on.
"I was only thirty-six or so. I was as fit as a fiddle, had more energy than I knew what to do with, and I was married to a man who suddenly seemed so much older. He no longer wanted to be in company and seemed to retreat to his library or to his club on many occasions. My love for him had not waned, rather it had become...it's hard to explain, but it wanted for fresh air. I wanted a breath of fresh air."
As if to underline her words, she walked to the windows and opened them wide, returning to continue her story only when she had taken several deep breaths.
"I was very active with charitable work, and of course you know about my nursing unit. You could say my husband, not wanting for wealth, indulged me, though my work was always with the best of intentions. I went across to France as often as I could. I wanted to play as big a part as possible in the day-to-day running of the hospital, and I made a commitment to personally support my staff." She looked at Maisie as if to underline that she would not draw back from telling her story.
"It was by chance that I saw them. I had accompanied a small group to Paris on leave and stopped for a cup of coffee in one of those lovely cafes they have there--have you been to Paris, Miss Dobbs?"
Maisie nodded. "Yes. I love the city, it's quite beautiful."
"Then you know it has its own intoxicating qualities. I watched them, the young couple, and--oh, dear, I know this sounds quite awful--but I was at once envious. I wanted to know that young love, that...effervescence of the heart. You see, though I had been in love with my husband when we married, because he was much older, his love was more measured, not youthful. In truth, he wanted an heir, and I was of an age, but of course we had two girls." She reached for her coffee, sipped, and placed the cup on the tray. "Later I heard, through the unit's grapevine, that the girl--Elizabeth Peterson--had brought an end to the affair. Youthful exuberance followed by a fear of what might come around the corner. Very sad."
"Yes, I suppose it is."
Ella Casterman looked at Maisie, her head to one side. "Ah, you know."
"Yes, I know."
"I'd better finish my story, before I lose courage. When I returned to Paris, I made a point of staying in the same area. I went to the same cafes as I had before, and though I would not admit it to myself in the looking glass, I was hoping to bump into that young American. I imagined us sitting together over coffee with hot milk, dipping our croissants and laughing over shared jokes. It did not occur to me what I might do if the imaginings became real. But they did. I was at the cafe, the one where I had seen him with my young nurse, and there he was. But there was no joy in his face; in fact, he was absently stirring his coffee and staring at the cup. I went over, introduced myself, and sat at his table. He seemed happy to have company--he was clearly homesick. We talked and talked, and soon he confided that he had recently seen his brother-in-law, who had frequently caused him much concern over his financial dealings. I suggested I should treat him to supper that evening, to take his mind off unpalatable matters before he returned to his unit, and I to mine. Suffice it to say, I remained in Paris for several days, until it was time for him to leave. We were inseparable, and it was as if the years just melted away--friends had often said that I looked like my daughters' older sister, not their mother, and for once I felt like it. And my heart was lifted out of the mire of age that I was stuck in at home, and the terrible sadness of the war. We both knew it could not go on forever, though perhaps I knew that more than Michael; but there were intimacies shared that I would never have wanted my husband to know about."
Ella Casterman spoke with a calm forcefulness, as if to bolster her resolve and not draw back from the truth.
"Michael Clifton and I were lovers. I was some twelve years older than him and I was a married woman, but for four short days we knew love and we experienced the joys that come with a new deep attachment."
"Then?"
"When I was expecting my daughters, on both occasions I knew the very moment I was with child. The very moment. Shortly after leaving Michael I felt those same sensations within my whole body--and indeed, before more proof was needed, the usual indisposition followed. In short, I was as sick as a dog. As soon as I could, I returned home and assumed relations with my husband. Almost nine months later our son was born."
"Michael's son."
"Yes. Michael's son. Of that I have no doubt."
"And your husband never knew?"
"If he suspected, he never said."
"So the secret remains with you."
"As it will with you, Miss Dobbs."
Maisie nodded. "Michael's parents are in London. Let me tell you what has happened to them, and to their family since they last saw their son." She recounted the story of Michael Clifton's death and the subsequent events since discovery of his remains by a farmer in France.
"I had no idea he came from such wealth. And I never connected Clifton's Shoes with Michael Clifton. I mean, he spoke of his property in a valley in America, but I imagined a smallholding, a farm, that sort of thing."
"He loved land, loved exploring. Rather like Christopher, if that collection of books is anything to go by."
"Will you keep the secret, Maisie? I have much to protect. I have a son who is still more boy than man, and there is also the question of his inheritance."
"I will not reveal any details of our conversation; however, I do hope that one day Christopher might know more about the man who was his true father. I think Michael deserves such respect." Maisie reached into her bag. "Here you are--the address of Edward and Martha Clifton in Boston. They are getting on, especially Edward, and I think their years are numbered, especially following the attack. You must do what you feel is right."
The woman who had been Michael Clifton's lover took the piece of paper, folded it and placed it within the pages of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poems. She turned to Maisie.
"Truth, not cruel to a friend."
TWENTY-ONE
It was Maurice who had taught Maisie that, following the closure of a case, it was important to ensure that she was at peace with her work, and that she had done all in her power to bring a conclusion to the assignment in a way that was just and kind. This process, known as her "final accounting," would also help to wipe clean the slate, so that lingering doubts might not hamper work on the next case.
With Maurice's funeral just one week away, Maisie wanted to complete her final accounting sooner rather than later. It was not only with
regard to the case that she sought to bring peace to her heart, but to the most recent weeks in her life. So, following a visit to Scotland Yard, and the time spent making a statement in the presence of Detective Inspector Caldwell, her first stop was to see Edward Clifton in his room at The Dorchester Hotel.
Charles Hayden greeted Maisie in the foyer of the grand hotel.
"Maisie, how are you? I was so sorry to hear of Dr. Blanche's death--I never met the man, but from your letters, I knew of your affection for him."
"Thank you, Charles. It's been a very sad time for everyone who knew Maurice. I miss him so much already." She shook her head, as if to dislodge the painful thoughts that gathered at the mention of Maurice's name. "Anyway, I came to see Mr. Clifton--how is he?"
"Anxious to see you. I gave him as full an account of events as I could following your telephone call. He is so grateful to you, Maisie--as am I. I never thought you would find the man responsible for Michael's death, though I knew you'd find the woman who loved him. Anyway, Edward is waiting for us, and Teddy is with him."
She put her hand on his arm. "Before we go up--how is Mrs. Clifton?"
Hayden nodded. "Now that she's out of the woods, she's making progress every day. It will be slow--I'm trying to sort out a suitable place for her continued convalescence. Of course, she wants only to go home, but I am loath to give my blessing to the passage until she is completely well again."
"There are some lovely convalescent homes out in the countryside. I could have my assistant look into it for you."
"Would you?"
"Consider it done. Shall we go up now?"
Edward Clifton had insisted upon getting up from his bed, and now sat alongside a window in pajamas and dressing gown. He wore a dark blue cravat at this neck, and Maisie could not help but smile, for he reminded her of a certain type of English gentleman depicted in American films. His son, Teddy, sat in a chair opposite, and was dressed casually in gray trousers, shirt, and pullover. The table in front of them was set for coffee, and a selection of pastries had been served.
The Mapping of Love and Death: A Maisie Dobbs Novel Page 28