The Mapping of Love and Death (25 page)

“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 cafés 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 cafés 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 café, 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.”

I
t 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.

“Miss Dobbs. We’ve been anxious to see you.” Teddy Clifton rose from his chair to greet Maisie, shaking her hand before steering her to his chair. He and Charles Hayden then pulled up chairs and the four were seated together.

“Charles tells me you’re doing well, and that Mrs. Clifton is making good progress.”

“According to Teddy, she complained when he visited her yesterday, so I consider that a good sign. Slowly but surely she’s on the mend.”

“I’m glad.” Maisie looked at Teddy.

“Miss Dobbs, Charles gave us as many details as he could, but we’d like to hear the whole story, start to finish—frankly, I didn’t even know I had a cousin called Peter Whitting. And needless to say, the whole family is shocked at what has happened to Tommy. Fortunately, my sister Meg is with Anna now—it’s a boon we all live so close to each other.”

“Even close families can grow apart, so it’s not surprising that distance and time played a part in the fact that you had no knowledge of your cousin. Your home is a great distance from your father’s place of birth.”

“I blame myself. I was little more than a boy when I left, and I let them all go. When I arrived in the States, I wrote a few letters, but they were returned. Time passed, and with it any connection to my former life. My new family was all that mattered to me. Perhaps I should have tried harder.”

“Do not blame yourself, Mr. Clifton. Many families have been divided by the distance of emigration, and it is usually left to subsequent generations to renew the blood ties, if at all.”

“Miss Dobbs is right, Dad. You can’t take all this on because you wanted something different from the life your father had dictated for you.” Teddy turned to Maisie. “Please, tell us the whole story, from the time you began work on my parents’ behalf.”

Once again, Maisie recounted each milestone in her investigation, annotating here, cutting a detail there. She told them about the attack by Mullen, about viewing the cine films at a house in Notting Hill, and about her visits to Whitting, Temple, and Thomas Libbert. She described the help given by Priscilla, the fortuitous meeting with Ben Sutton, and
gave only the briefest account of her visit to the home of Lady Ella Casterman. Finally, she told them about her meeting with Michael’s young nurse, and Whitting’s arrest. Then, opening her shoulder bag, she brought out the parcel that had been kept safe by James Compton.

“I think you will find everything here to lift the legal stalemate regarding Michael’s property. There’s a key and details of a bank, and as you will see from his notes, you will also be able to locate his original maps and the documents of title—we call them deeds—to the land he owned in the Santa Ynez Valley. His last will and testament are also mentioned with notes as to his final wishes, which are in favor of Anna’s children. All papers are dated August 1914.”

And as she passed the package to Edward Clifton and watched as his liver-spotted hands fingered the wrapping, she felt tears prickle the corners of her eyes, for at the mention of that place so far away she could see Michael’s simple drawings in her mind’s eye, and on a rainy day in London, could almost feel a breeze from the Pacific Ocean ripple across the hills and kiss her skin.

Edward Clifton sat with the package held tight in his hands and bowed his head. His eldest son reached forward, placing an arm around his shoulder.

“Dad,” said Teddy. “It’s Michael, come home to us.”

Maisie cleared her throat. “Michael’s relationship with the young woman came to an end before he was killed. I managed to open pages in both the letters and his journal that were fused, and it was clear they had considered war to be an inauspicious time to continue a courtship. She kept his belongings, which he had given to her for safekeeping, all these years in the hope that one day she might know how to find his family. She is not a worldly woman.”

“We must write to thank her, Teddy,” said Edward Clifton, before turning back to Maisie. He shrugged his shoulders. “Martha will be a bit disappointed. She had an idea in her head—I didn’t say anything to you
when we first met—but she had a notion that there might have been a child. It was a real bee in her bonnet, and it started in France. She said it had happened a lot, in the war, that war does things to people, makes them mad for each other when reason would suggest they exercise caution in their personal lives. You don’t know her, she can be a terrier where family are concerned. I have to rein her in. As much as we agreed that our children have to find their way in the world and do as their hearts decree, she would have the whole tribe living in adjoining houses on Beacon Hill.” He held the book to his chest, as if to touch his heart. “She kept saying that she just knew, so I’d better tell her that this time, she just didn’t know. We have wonderful children and grandchildren, Miss Dobbs, and Teddy’s boy is the image of Michael—isn’t he, Teddy?”

“Right down to talking nonstop about the places he’ll go when he leaves Harvard,” said Teddy Clifton.

Maisie smiled. “What’s his name?”

“Christopher—Chris to the family. Suits him—he’s becoming a real Columbus!”

M
aisie’s next visit was to Elizabeth Peterson, who had remained at the home of her aunt and uncle, though Maisie assured her it was safe to return to her bed-sitting-room. The comfort of family and attendant companionship proved difficult to leave. The police had already taken a statement, and she was able to provide much-needed evidence with which to bring charges against Peter Whitting.

After each visit, Maisie fought the need to give in to the deep exhaustion that accompanied her sadness. There were only a few days until the funeral, and if she was to complete the final accounting before Maurice was laid to rest, there was much to accomplish. As each item was completed, she drew a line through the name and place listed on a sheet of paper, and went on to the next.

At the home and studio of Henry Gilbert, she assured him that his cine films would be returned, and committed to keeping in touch until they were once again in his possession. She almost ran into Ben Sutton as she left the house, and was relieved that he did not press her to accept an invitation to supper or the theater.

She visited the British Museum, where she did not ask to see books of poetry, but instead inquired if there were books that included photographs of California, in the United States. Several books were brought to her, and she read for an hour from
Under the Sky in California
by Charles Francis Saunders, imagining Michael Clifton poring over such a book before embarking upon his journey westward. She knew some words would remain with her for days.

Maisie waved to Mrs. Hancock and left the museum, bound for Selfridges, where she completed the simple task of walking through the shoe department.

Martha Clifton was asleep when Maisie called at the hospital, but she left flowers for her client, along with good wishes for her recovery and a timely return to her home in Boston. A letter of thanks was dispatched to Lady Ella Casterman, in which Maisie enclosed the small sheet of paper bearing the verse of Elizabeth Barrett Browning she’d given to a young American man with whom she had fallen in love. Tucked inside was the lock of her hair he had cherished enough to keep.

When her visits were complete, Maisie compiled her written report for Michael Clifton’s parents, which she placed in a box along with a final statement of her charges and Michael’s belongings previously en
trusted to her. Before packing the journal, she lifted the leather cover once again and began to read.

She closed the journal and set it in the box to be delivered to Mr. and Mrs. Edward Clifton at The Dorchester Hotel.

T
here, I think it’s all done now, Billy.”

“Can we fold the map and put it away in the file then?”

“Yes. Seeing that table bare is always a bit of a dubious pleasure,” said Maisie. “There’s the joy of knowing the work’s done, and the worry that another big case will never come in.”

“We’re always all right, though, aren’t we, Miss?’

“A sizable job seems to present itself in the nick of time, and while we wait, there are always these little bits and pieces to be getting on with.”

Billy walked across to the table by the window, where he unpinned the Clifton case map, folded it with care, and put it away. Maisie sighed and leaned back, wondering whether this was the right time to talk to Billy. She still could not put her finger on her reason for thinking that
something was amiss, that there was a change about him, but she also knew that she was rarely wrong in her suspicions.

“How’s Doreen, Billy? Did she get on all right at her checkup?”

“Fit as a fiddle. Dr. Masters is very pleased.” He did not turn to reply to her question.

“Good. Yes, that’s good news.”

Still holding a folder in his hand, he came to Maisie’s desk and stood before her.

“Why don’t you sit down, Billy.” She held out her hand to the empty chair and waited for him to speak.

“I can’t keep a secret from you, Miss, never could. It’s written all over my face, I know it.”

“And I’ve known you for a while, so perhaps I see things that others mightn’t.”

“It’s Doreen.”

“Yes.”

“She’s in the family way.”

“Oh, Billy! Billy—what lovely news. Congratulations!”

Billy pursed his lips, then broke into a smile. “I was worried, to tell you the truth, Miss, but I’m dead chuffed—we’re both as pleased as punch. It’s a bit of light for us, though as I said to Doreen, we’ve still got to get ourselves out of here, get over there to Canada. We’ve got a new nipper to think about as well as our boys, and we want the best for them.” Billy’s words seemed to tumble out as he spoke of his plans, thoughts, and concerns. “I mean, Doreen went off the idea of Canada, to tell you the truth. She didn’t want to leave our little Lizzie cold in the ground without us around the corner, but now, with the new baby on the way, she wants the best, doesn’t want to lose another one.”

“Billy, how far along is she? When’s the baby due?” Maisie tried not to convey her own concerns: Doreen’s health was still so fragile, carrying the baby brought with it a risk of miscarriage or stillbirth.

“Reckon it’ll be an October baby—she’s about three months gone now.” He blushed. “The doctor said we had to be careful, and I know she’s not very happy about it, but it’s not like we meant it to happen, and Doreen—”

Maisie reached out and placed her hand on his arm. “I am sure everything will be all right, Billy.”

“I reckon so. Doreen’s really perked up, though she’s a bit off-color of a morning.” He smiled again. “Well, this won’t do, will it? I’d better get on with some work today. Cuppa tea?”