The Mapping of Love and Death (24 page)

Maisie could see the deep fatigue in his body, could feel his spirit begin to flag. He had spoken to her with an energy that reminded her of a river bearing down strong across rocks before it diminishes to a trickle and then runs dry.

“Maurice.”

“Yes?”

“I have loved you as if you were my father, though that has never stopped me loving my father.”

“I know. And you are as my daughter.”

She squeezed his hand, and felt the light pressure of his fingers in return.

“And I think you should know that I am seeing James Compton.”

With his eyes closed, the corners of Maurice’s mouth lifted into a smile.

“He’s been there a long time. I’m glad you’re finally seeing him.”

Maisie remained with Maurice. Andrew Dene joined her vigil, then left to go home to his wife, who was nearing the end of her term. As day’s light faded, she was joined by Lady Rowan and Lord Julian, and by James, all of whom stayed for just a while, knowing there was little time left, and the bond between teacher and pupil was so deep that Maisie would not leave. Only her father waited with her, sitting in a chair by the window and nodding off as the night wore on. He would be there, come morning.

As the sun began to filter a red-gold light between the trees and crows cawed the dawn chorus into life to welcome a new day, Maurice breathed his last; not with the deep rattle of death in his throat, but with the ease of one who is sleeping too long. Maisie, her head resting on a corner of the bed, did not look up into his open eyes, but felt her own hot tears flood across the cold, still hand she held to her cheek.

M
aisie remained at Chelstone for several days. She broke word of Maurice’s death to Billy, who could barely believe the news.

“I know he was getting on, Miss, but I always thought he would pull through.”

“We all hoped against the odds that he would.”

Maisie’s head was heavy with grief, as Billy understood too well.

“Don’t you worry, Miss, I’ll hold the fort. I’ll see you when I see you, and rest assured, there’s plenty for me to be getting on with here.”

Caldwell extended his condolences and said that Detective Chief Inspector Stratton would doubtless be in touch, as would others from the Yard.

“He was well liked, here, was Dr. Blanche. He was one of the best to have at a murder, in his day. Told you what you needed to know to get on with your job after just a quick gander at the body—and he did it with manners. That’s what I liked about him.”

“Thank you, Inspector Caldwell. I’m glad he’s remembered.”

“Never forgotten. In any case, you just come in when you’re back in London. We’ve got the confessions we needed, and we’ve enough to get going on without your account of the events leading up to Whitting’s arrest.”

A
ndrew Dene had arrived soon after Maisie summoned him. He issued the death certificate and completed the formalities pertaining to Maurice’s passing, and remained with Maisie as arrangements were made for the undertaker to come to the house. Frankie Dobbs waited in the conservatory.

“He was a good man, Maisie. No side to him, no looking down his nose at the likes of me—and he was an important man, was Maurice. So, if it’s all the same to everyone, I’ll just sit here until they’ve taken him.”

Maisie nodded, and went about her business. Lord Julian had already assumed the task of making the formal announcements, and when there seemed to be little for her to do, Maisie walked through the house to Maurice’s study. To her surprise, there was a fire in the grate, so she took her place in the wing chair at the side of the hearth where she would sit to talk with Maurice. How many times had they been together in this room, going through strands of evidence in a given case, or—as Maurice often liked to do—speaking of Maisie’s future?

There was a soft knock at the door, and the housekeeper entered, pushing a trolley. “It’s gone lunchtime, so I thought I’d bring you a little something.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you, Mrs. Bromley. Did you light the fire?”

“Yes, Miss Dobbs. I knew you’d want to come to his study, and I didn’t want it all cold in here for you.” She rolled the trolley so that it was adjacent to Maisie’s chair.

“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.

C
lad 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.

“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 will 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.