the riches took an expert eye. Some said you had to touch the land to know, that a man who knew where to sink his shovel could hear oil rumbling in the earth.
His task complete, and with the series of maps rolled and placed in a leather tube along with the original title documents to the land-his land-he went directly to the Central Bank of California on State Street, where he left the leather tube in a safe deposit box, withdrew a portion of the funds held in his name at the bank, and then made his way to the railroad station, where he purchased a ticket to Boston via San Francisco and New York. He left the office, then stopped short in the street before returning to the ticket counter, whereupon he informed the clerk that he had changed his mind, and would go only as far as New York. The clerk grumbled, but asked no questions as he made out the new ticket. From New York, Michael planned to sail to England as soon as he could secure a passage-and it was surprising the speed with which anything could be reserved, booked, obtained, and acquired when you were a Clifton.
It was only right that he go, because for his family, England was the old country. He'd read that other boys were going over, boys like him who had limey blood in their veins. Of course, he suspected they probably wouldn't let him bear arms, being an American by birth, but he had a profession, and he was only too aware that in wartime armies needed to know where they were going, needed to know the lie of the land. He would wire his family and let them know of his decision just before he sailed. His father might argue, but he would also be proud that his son was going to fight for the country he'd left a lifetime ago. And his maps of the valley and the deed to his land would be safe until he returned; after all, according to reports, the war in Europe would be over by Christmas. Thus, by the time a tall spruce tree was alive with baubles, tinsel, and lights in the window of the grand house on Boston's Beacon Hill, he'd be home.
Fitzroy Square, London, April 1932 Would you believe it, Billy-three years and we're still in business!' Maisie Dobbs turned away from the floor-to-ceiling window, where she had been watching gray, rain-filled clouds lumbering across an otherwise springlike sky. She smiled and sat down at the table where she and her assistant, Billy Beale, had been working.
Billy ran his fingers through his hair. 'And we've a few more clients on the books than we expected in January.'
Maisie leaned back in her chair. 'We've been lucky, there's no doubt about that. I just hope it continues throughout the year.'
'Perhaps the Americans we're seeing this morning have a few friends over here who might need your services,' said Billy. 'I mean, that's how almost all the work comes in, isn't it? Through clients who were satisfied with what you did for them.'
'Speaking of the Americans, I want to read that letter once more before they arrive.' Maisie stood up and walked across the room to her desk. She took her seat and leaned forward, her forearms resting on the blotting pad. 'Apparently they're very good people, quite down to earth, but they'll be expecting me to be completely prepared for the appointment, especially with such a strong personal reference from Dr. Hayden.'
She reached for a manila folder with the words 'Clifton, Edward and Martha' inscribed along one side, and took out a well-thumbed letter from Dr. Charles Hayden. Maisie had been introduced to the eminent American surgeon by Simon Lynch, a captain in the army medical corps, during the war. At the time Dr. Hayden was a volunteer with a medical contingent from the Massachusetts General Hospital. They had corresponded since the war, and now he wrote in response to a letter from Maisie.
Please do not apologize for the delay in letting me know that Simon has passed away. Though my first concern is always for my patients, in my dealings with families of the sick and dying, I know the passage of grief is a difficult one to navigate, so please do not concern yourself that you should have written sooner. You have been in Pauline's and my thoughts so often over the years, especially given Simon's medical circumstances. As a doctor, I confess, I was amazed at the man's continued physical resilience, when there was no obvious function in his mind.
He continued with reminiscences of times spent with Simon, and followed with news of his family. Then the letter took a different tack.
Maisie, I hope you don't mind, but I have taken the liberty of referring a friend to you. He and his wife are more than willing to pay for your professional services, and they are in any case planning to sail for France in late March, then will travel on to England in April. I know they will be in touch and you will want to hear the story straight from the horse's mouth. But let me fill you in on what I know so that you might be prepared for what's in store.
I met the Cliftons though their son-in-law, Bradley Marchant. He's married to their eldest daughter, Meg, and is one of my colleagues here at the hospital. We went to their wedding at the family vacation home on Cape Cod, and I'm a godfather to their eldest. I don't know if you need all this detail, but I thought I should let you know anyway.
Edward Clifton is an Englishman by birth. He came over here when he was about eighteen, nineteen, something like that. He wasn't exactly penniless, but he knew how to work-and to make something of himself, he had to work hard. He turned his hand to anything he could, then started putting money into land. Bradley said that acquiring land was an obsession with Edward when he was younger. I guess it's something about coming from over there and starting again in a new country-he needed to own a part of it, stake his claim. From land he moved into building and founded a construction company, then started investing in stocks; all tied to the land in some way. I'll cut to the chase here, and say that by the time he was thirty, Edward Clifton was very, very wealthy. Then he met Martha Stanbourne-she's from an important family, it's said their ancestors came to America on the Mayflower. The Stanbournes are what we call 'Boston Brahmins' over here. They married-there's no doubt it was a love match-and had four children. There's Edward Jr. (Teddy), then Margaret and Anna, and bringing up the rear, Michael. Couldn't have met a nicer family.
Maisie paused. When she had first read the letter, as soon as she saw the word Michael the thought had crossed her mind: That's the one. It's Michael who has caused them pain. For there was no doubt in her mind, even in reading a few paragraphs, that the Cliftons were in some emotional turmoil. Why else would they need her services?
In August 1914, Michael was out in California-he was a mapmaker, surveyor of some sort. Apparently he'd bought a tract of land with money left to him by Martha's father. It would have been a lot of money, and according to Bradley, there's still plenty held in trust. He was very excited about the purchase, and was due to come back to Boston-couldn't wait to see his parents to tell them all about it. Then I guess you could say he crossed paths with fate when he saw the news about war in Belgium. He changed his plans at the last minute and sailed for Europe. Edward will fill you in on the details, but Michael enlisted in England and was attached to a military cartography unit-no doubt if it wasn't for his profession he would have been sent packing back to Boston.
'Cuppa, Miss, before they get here?'
Maisie glanced at the clock. 'Oh yes, please. They're bound to be shocked if they see me drinking out of my old army mug. Americans always expect to see the English sipping tea from fine bone china.' She went back to the letter.
Michael was listed as missing in early 1916. In January a farmer working the land (somewhere in the Somme Valley) put his plough into a gully, and when he and some other men were digging it out, the ground started to fall away and the bodies of several British soldiers were found. Michael was identified by his tags. By now you're probably wondering why the Cliftons need to see someone like you. Apparently the ground gave way to a dugout and a series of what you could only describe as rooms-so well made, the Brits might have been occupying an old German trench. It was there that the soldiers' belongings were found. They were members of a surveying team. Michael's journal was discovered, along with other personal effects. Don't ask me how the Cliftons managed to get their hands on the journal. You know the soldiers weren't allowed to keep any sort of diary, so it's a wonder
