The Mapping of Love and Death

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Maisie held her breath, hardly able to believe her good fortune. "Henry, do you remember the soldiers you met? I mean, did you spend sufficient time with them to have made some sort of acquaintance?"

  "Yes and no. Of course there was a lot of joshing, the lads beaming into the camera, pulling faces--after all, many of them weren't much more than boys. And we took our meals with them, slept alongside the men while we were filming them, so of course, there are those that one remembers. But I am sure you will appreciate that, in my job, there has to be a level of dispassionate observation--the cinematographer's protection--otherwise it would be impossible. You see, very often the men on the other side of my lens were dead within days of their images being immortalized on cine film. But you can always try me--do you have a name?"

  "This cartographer might stand out--he was an American, and--"

  "An American, you say?" Gilbert interrupted Maisie and, without looking at his assistant, motioned for him to put the metal containers down on a table set against the side wall. "You're right, that is unusual. There couldn't have been two of them in the British army--could there?"

  Maisie shook her head. "I doubt it."

  "Good, then we can cut out a lot of time, because I know exactly where to look for that film." He went over to the canisters, but continued talking. "We were out in the field for some time and, as I said, I filmed several cartography units in northern France through into Belgium."

  Maisie continued talking while he searched through the canisters. "What was the cine film used for, and what will you do with it all?" she asked.

  "Some of it was used for newsreels in the war--you know, the 'Jolly old Britain's winning the war' sort of propaganda. Helped everyone to buck up when things were looking bad." He picked out two canisters and passed them to his assistant. "Load these, start with this one, and call when you're ready." He turned his attention back to Maisie. "The business of filming is changing rapidly, you know, and in Britain we're at the forefront of a new genre in the craft. It's called the documentary; a sort of hybrid between documenting an event or moment in time, and then blending it with a story, so it's a bit more entertaining. That's what I want to do with this film"--he waved his hand across the canisters--"though I've a few other things on my plate at the moment, and one has to earn one's money."

  "So, may I ask, is there anything you remember about the American cartographer?" asked Maisie.

  Gilbert rubbed his chin. "Martin--Michael--Mitch? Somebody-or-other beginning with M, wasn't it? Anyway, I just remember he was a very approachable chap, very mannerly, always answered a question with 'sir,' and not because he was in the army. You had the sense that he was brought up to be respectful. Not that the others weren't, but he was a young man of his type--I've been to the east coast of America, you know, and he was a real Bostonian, though he was interested when I told him I'd been to California." He smiled. "I'd forgotten all that, to tell you the truth. Now that I come to talk about it, the details are coming back. I met so many young men, you see--of course, I was not so old myself, but I wasn't able to join up. Given my profession, you'd be surprised to note that the reason was my shortsightedness. I told you about the cinematographer's protection--well, I remember being told that the entire unit, which would include your American, was listed as missing not long after we shot the film. The thing is that I couldn't help but remember him, and not just because of his accent. He was a happy-go-lucky sort, one of those who have a perennial hail-fellow-well-met approach to everyone they meet."

  The assistant raised his voice to let them know the film was ready to run. Gilbert held out his hand to seats close to the middle of the room, and when Sutton had taken a place beside Maisie, the wall lights were extinguished. The screen in front of them seemed to splutter into life, and a series of numbers counted down until a rough board was shown. It read: "France, cartographers," along with a date that Maisie could not discern. The screen became black for a moment, until a grainy image flickered into life, of men carrying equipment across the mud and through barbed wire. The film rendered their movements jerky, unstable, and as they set up their tools, Maisie thought they looked rather like doomed marionettes, and though she could not tell whether it was a fair day or foul, the gray cloudless background gave the impression of cold, a day when the wet damp of France in wartime could bore into the bone. She shivered.

  The camera came closer, and the men looked up and were brought into greater focus. There was a moment of camaraderie, when they stood with arms about each other's shoulders, like a rugby team preparing for the season's photograph. Then the cameraman must have drawn back, because they continued with their work again, squinting through an eyeglass, one man making notes while another took measurements. Again the camera moved in closer, then seemed to sweep across the landscape. In the background, the projector whirled and chattered as the film continued. Maisie half closed her eyes in a squint, searching for a face she knew.

  The camera came back to the unit, and once again moved closer to the men. At that moment, one of the men began laughing, and it seemed he elbowed his comrade in a playful gesture. The other soldier laughed, and gave him a shove, and the first soldier, who Maisie could now see was an officer, pushed back his helmet to rub his forehead.

  "Can you stop there?" Maisie called out.

  "Stop!" Gilbert's voice carried well, and the film stopped mid-frame. "Run it back to the soldier moving his helmet."

  The stick figures moved backward at speed, then the frame was frozen for a moment and began running again.

  "There!"

  "Stop!"

  "Is that the American you remember, Henry?"

  Gilbert nodded. "Yes, that's him."

  Maisie waited a moment, trying to match the image on the screen with the photograph she had already seen.

  "Shall we continue?"

  She nodded. "Yes, thank you. Go on."

  Henry called out to his assistant, and the cine film began rolling again, and soon it was clear that during the filming, shellfire was coming closer, as the earth seemed to explode in the background. The camera had caught the men hurrying to pack up their equipment before running for cover, and as their movements became faster, so the images became almost unwatchable; in that moment, the men seemed like clowns at the circus, running back and forth in an attempt to protect their equipment and themselves. The screen changed to black, and the countdown of numbers signaled the end of the reel.

  "There's another with that same unit, Maisie. Want to watch it?"

  "Of course, yes."

  Ben, Maisie, and Henry Gilbert were silent while they waited, and soon the assistant called out once more that the film was about to start. A series of numbers filled the screen, then nothing but black, then a board with the date and location. This time the men of the unit were outside what seemed to be a farmhouse or a barn. With stilted movements, they were checking kit and preparing their packs for another expedition onto the battlefield. Maisie wished she could lip-read so that she might know what they were saying to each other, and she wondered whether their conversation was about the job at hand, a night out in the village, or their last leave. There was another second of black screen, and when it cleared, the camera had been brought in closer, and this time Maisie could see Michael Clifton clearly. He was laughing with the man next to him. The camera pulled back, and another man, an officer, came into view. The man was carrying a baton under his arm, and seemed to walk in that same matchstick-man manner, but he was evidently a more senior officer. He appeared to be taking the men to task, then looked around and came towards the camera, waving his baton. The screen went black, followed by a series of numbers.

  "Do you remember that last incident?" Maisie turned in her chair as Gilbert stepped towards the light switch.

  "I do indeed. Can't remember the man's name, but he was a bit of a killjoy. Waved his stick at me and threatened to put my camera into the mud. He should have tried it! Anyway, you don't forget those incidents. Mind you, they're not
that unusual in my line of work, but rather unsettling when it's a man in a uniform threatening you."

  She stood up and smiled, holding out her hand. "Thank you so much for your valuable time, Henry. It was kind of you to do this."

  "I owe Ben a favor or two," said Gilbert, as he shook her hand. "So this helped me pay down my debt."

  They turned to leave, and as the trio made their way to the front door, Maisie turned to Gilbert. "I know you said that you don't remember everyone, but you must have become somewhat familiar with that unit; you mentioned that for a short time you lived alongside some of the soldiers you filmed."

  "As I said, you try not to get too close, for the sake of objectivity. But yes, I sort of took to that little group, though the American is the one who sticks out most."

  "Do you recall any conversations between the men?"

  "That would be a tall order, Maisie," Sutton interjected.

  "I know, but--"

  "The boys teased the American, but he could give it back to them, and it was all in good heart, from what I can recall. There was one sapper who mentioned that he--the American--was a man of some extensive property, out in California. And he teased him about his girl--she'd broken it off, but he was convinced the American wasn't wanting for female company when he was on leave. He'd not long returned from a few days away. Mind you, a handsome young fellow like that--can't imagine him spending much time alone when he was off duty." He laughed. "Anyway, as I said, it was all a long time ago now. I might have it wrong, and it could have been the other way around--you know, the other fellow on leave, that sort of thing. I'm really interested in the image in front of the camera, not the subject's private life."

  Maisie nodded.

  After more good-byes, and some final conversation, Maisie and Sutton left and stood outside the house.

  "Ready for a bite to eat?"

  "Ben." Maisie smiled. "Would you forgive me if I decline your offer of lunch? It's a bit early for me in any case--that didn't take as long as I thought, and I have so much to do today. Watching your friend's films has given me a lot of food for thought."

  Sutton nodded. "I'll hold you to our lunch another time--or perhaps you'd come with me to the theater, and supper afterward?"

  "What a lovely idea, thank you. And I do appreciate your understanding, especially as it was so good of you to cash in a favor on my behalf. Oh, and Ben, may I trust you to keep what we have seen today to yourself--just for a while."

  "I'll not tell a soul, and I'll make sure Henry knows too. And cashing in the favor was my pleasure, Maisie." He smiled. "There weren't that many men doing what Henry was doing out in France, so I had an idea you might be in luck with his film. Serendipity, eh?" He smiled. "Anyway, I hope I'll see you again soon. May I walk you to the tube, madam?"

  They said good-bye at the underground station, and Maisie waved as she made her way down the steps and around a corner out of view. She waited a few moments until she was sure Sutton had left, then retraced her steps to Henry Gilbert's house and knocked on the door. When his assistant opened the door, Maisie asked if she could see Mr. Gilbert for just a moment.

  "Maisie, back so soon! What can I do for you--did you leave something behind?" Gilbert took off a pair of spectacles as he walked towards her.

  "I am sorry to bother you, but I have one quick question--do you mind?"

  "Of course not. Fire away!"

  "Is it possible to make a photograph of part of your cine film? I am sure there are appropriate words to describe this, but what I'd like is a picture from the last few seconds on that final piece we watched; something I can hold in my hand to study."

  "You mean the nasty ogre rushing at my camera?"

  "Yes, that's it."

  "It's not a simple task, but it can be done."

  "I would be most willing to pay for your time."

  "First things first. I'll have the frame printed and sent to you. Roland here can take down the details."

  Maisie smiled. "Thank you very much." She paused. "And if we could keep this between ourselves, I would appreciate it."

  Gilbert smiled. "Absolutely. We don't want Ben to know you want a picture of another man, do we?"

  Maisie blushed. "No, we don't."

  Later, as she left the house for the second time, Maisie could not recall any part of the conversation with Ben Sutton either before they viewed the film, or on the way to the underground station. In fact, she could barely remember any interaction with him at all. But an image continued to flash into her mind's eye, of a man brandishing a baton as he reached towards the camera that was filming his every move.

  FIFTEEN

  Maisie stopped at a pie and mash shop on her way to Shoreditch, and had a large helping of meat pie with mashed potato and gravy, followed by a cup of strong tea. It was the sort of place she rather liked to frequent; the service was quick and the repast plain yet hearty, better described as fodder than as food. Though she never stayed long, she liked to watch the customers coming and going, an assortment of men and women, all of whom were working class and valued a good meal. And as Maisie would not bother to cook a meat pie just for herself, and she rarely stopped for a proper lunch, the break was a welcome one--even though the Clifton case remained uppermost in her mind.

  She was thinking about lies. About the many times in the course of her work she had been lied to. It was a hazard of her occupation. She rarely missed a lie, seldom overlooked the sense of doubt that assailed her when she had been offered less than the truth. Indeed, she thought it was the presence of doubt--rather than certainty, perhaps--that led to cracking open many a case. Doubt. Was it an emotion? A sense? Or was it just a short, stubby word to describe a response that could diminish a person in a finger snap? When she felt doubt, she asked more questions of herself, though she also knew those questions were no guarantee that her attention would be pointed in the right direction. There's a lot of ifs. Yes, Billy had it right, there were a lot of ifs. What if. Without that question, she would not have decided to make a detour back towards the British Library. What if a librarian could identify the verse she'd found tucked into Michael Clifton's journal? And would such information have any meaning, any relevance to her search for the truth about Michael Clifton's death and the attack on his parents? As she walked along, she planned to spend only a short time in the reading room, which might allow her the opportunity to drop into Bourne and Hollingsworth on Oxford Street before dashing over to Shoreditch. She wanted to go to the shoe department to see if someone there remembered something of the Clifton story. It was an important London shop, so the buyer might have more detailed knowledge about the company in its final years than Billy had managed to uncover, or he might have remembered something after being questioned. She thought she could accomplish those two things and still be in Shoreditch at a reasonable hour.

  The reading room of the British Library was pin-drop quiet. A librarian might tiptoe across the floor to replace a book on the shelves, or a reader might begin to cough, then look around and mouth "Sorry" to the person alongside who had looked up, scowling at the interruption. Patrons moved deliberately--whether turning pages or taking notes--as if in a manner of respect, reminding Maisie of churchgoers at evensong. She slipped into a vacant seat, took out an index card and pencil, and closed her eyes, trying to envisage the words written on the notepaper tucked inside Michael Clifton's journal. She crossed out a line, then another word, and when she was satisfied, wrote the partial verse without error on another index card, then approached the librarian's desk.

  "I wonder if you could help me," she whispered.

  The librarian nodded, and leaned towards her.

  "I have a fragment of verse, which I think is part of a longer poem. I know this is rather a shot in the dark, but do you recognize it?"

  The man took the card, looked at the words, and shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not." He looked around.

  "Do you have a librarian who is more of a poetry buff?" She hoped she had not insult
ed him, but he seemed to have taken no offense.

  "I'm more of a history man, myself." He turned both ways. "I was looking for old Mrs. Hancock. She comes in almost every day--she's had a reader's ticket for years and generally settles down with the newspaper before taking up a book of poetry. She's getting on, but can still remember many, many poetical works off by heart." He picked up the index card. "Let me see if she's over there. She sometimes drops off for the odd forty winks, poor dear. Do you mind waiting?"

  Maisie shook her head. "Not at all." She stepped back as the librarian turned and walked out into the room, then circled the desks searching for Mrs. Hancock. She lost sight of him; then a moment or two later, he was walking towards the stacks with an elderly woman who was using her walking stick to point up to one of the shelves. Maisie smiled, for the woman seemed to enjoy giving orders to the man in charge. She watched as he reached for a book, then handed it to the woman, who sat down at the closest vacant seat and turned the pages, squinting as she brought the book so close to her eyes, it was touching her nose. A moment or two elapsed before she discovered what she was looking for and lifted up the open book for the librarian to read. Her smile was that of one well satisfied with herself, and Maisie was glad she had made the inquiry, for the woman seemed to stand straighter, as if in being asked to share her expertise, she had received a validation of worth.

  The librarian returned with the book held open.

  "Mrs. Hancock to the rescue!" The librarian kept his voice low, despite his enthusiasm for a task successfully completed. "It's a poem called 'The Best Thing in the World.'" He passed the book to Maisie.

  "Thank you very much." She took the open book and walked to a desk, careful to make as little noise as possible. She took out another index card and her pencil, and sat down ready to transcribe the poem.

  What's the best thing in the world?