'What happened to the land?'
'There are legal and probate problems remaining. We have no proof of title, no bill of sale. Michael paid in cash-and of course, he was listed as missing.' Clifton preempted Maisie's next question. 'Yes, time has passed, and we should have had no difficulty in making the case that Michael died in the war, but gaining access to the land has been difficult. The area is awash with oil companies, and even though we've pressed the point that Michael was killed in the war, the court ruled that Michael's intentions were not known, and there might be other claimants-and believe me, there have been a few because it's valuable land, but we've managed so far to keep it all from being settled, pending the discovery of proof.' He paused and shook his head. 'And you have to remember, though we're here in 1932, when Michael first went out to California, there was still more than a hint of the Wild West about it. Well, that's how it seemed to East Coasters like Martha and me.'
'I can see this must be very troublesome for you, on top of losing your son,' said Maisie. 'But how can I help you?'
Martha Clifton took her husband's hand in both her own. 'We have a batch of quite a few letters. Given that they were buried for years, they are in fair condition due to the waxed paper and rubber cloth Michael had used to wrap them. They were clearly of some value to our son, yet we could not bring ourselves to read them.' She looked down at her hands, then began to turn her wedding and engagement rings around and around, lifting them above the first bone in her slender finger, then pushing them back down again. She looked up. 'I don't want to pry into my son's past, but to me the hand seems to be that of a woman, perhaps someone Michael loved, and I would like to know who she is. I-'
'I understand,' said Maisie, her voice soft. She turned to Edward Clifton. 'Do you have anything else?'
Clifton reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat. 'I have a journal, a diary kept by Michael. Again, some of the pages are fused with damp, and foxed with age, but we have read a few paragraphs.' He paused as he handed the brown-paper-wrapped book to Maisie, who reached forward to take the package from him.
'So, am I to take it that you would like me to read the letters and the diary, that you wish me to identify the letter writer, and-' She looked from Clifton to his wife. 'Am I right to assume that you would like me to try to find the person?'
Martha Clifton smiled, though her eyes had filled with tears. 'Yes, yes, please, Miss Dobbs. We can help a little, because we've already placed an advertisement in several British newspapers, and we've received a number of replies; you see, though we didn't read Michael's letters, we opened one or two to see if there was an address or full name-but there was nothing to identify the writer. In the advertisement, we said we would like to hear from a woman who had known Michael Clifton, of Boston in the United States, in the war.'
Edward Clifton cleared his throat and began to speak again. 'And I thought that, given your background, you might want to see this document, which we received from the French authorities.' He held out a brown envelope towards Maisie. As she began to draw out the pages, Clifton continued. 'It's a report from the doctor who examined our son's remains. A postmortem of sorts. Charles has seen the report, and we've talked about it.'
'And I said I would rather not read it,' Martha Clifton interjected.
'Yes, I understand.' Maisie began to scan the page. She made no comment, but nodded as she reached the end of each paragraph. She could feel Edward Clifton's gaze upon her, and when she looked up she knew that in the brief meeting of their eyes there was an understanding. She knew why he had come to her, and that the truth of Michael Clifton's death had been kept from his mother. And she could understand how a French doctor-possibly tired, probably weary of another aging corpse brought from the battle-scarred land upon which so many had died- had missed what an eminent Boston surgeon, one who himself had served in that same war, had seen when he read the report.
'It all looks fairly straightforward, but I would like to keep it here, if I may.'
'Of course.' Clifton looked at his wife and smiled, as if to assure her that all would be well now and that they had made the right decision in seeking the help of this British investigator. 'We'll have the letters sent over to you as soon as we get back to our hotel-we're staying at the Dorchester.'
'And we'll send some photographs of Michael.' Martha Clifton seemed to press back tears as she spoke. 'I'd like you to know what he was like.'
'Thank you, a photograph would be most useful, though I have a picture of Michael in my mind already. You must have been very proud of him.'
'We were. And we loved him so very much, Miss Dobbs.' Edward Clifton reached into his pocket once again and drew out another envelope. 'Your advance, per our correspondence.'
Billy escorted the couple downstairs to the front door, and helped them into the motor car waiting outside. Maisie looked down from the window and watched as they drove away, Billy waving them off as if bidding farewell to a respected uncle and aunt. She heard him slam the door, then make his way upstairs to the office.
'Brrr, still nippy out there, Miss.' He sat down at the table and reached for the jar of colored pencils to begin work.
'Yes. Yes, it is.' Maisie remained at the window, still clutching Michael Clifton's journal and the envelope containing the postmortem report.
'Should be an easy one, eh? We'll get the old letters, warm 'em up nice and slow, find out who the writer is, and Bob's your uncle. We'll find Michael Clifton's lady friend, and there we are. Job done.'
Maisie turned and pulled back a chair to sit down opposite Billy. 'Not quite.'
'What do you mean?'
'Unless I am much mistaken, Michael Clifton was not killed by the shell that took the lives of his fellow men. He was murdered.'
Why do you think Dr. Hayden didn't say something in his letter, about that postmortem report?' Billy stood in front of Maisie's desk, his arms folded. 'I mean, it takes you by surprise, reading that sort of thing.'
'In some ways I can see why he made no mention of it. He might not have wanted to influence me-he saw an anomaly and wanted me to spot it myself, without encouragement or direction.' Maisie began to gather her belongings, checked a manila folder that she placed in her document case, and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece before turning back to Billy. 'Have you ever been on the street and seen someone looking up into the sky? Next thing you know, other people are looking up, and before long everyone reckons they've seen something. Well, independently, both Dr. Hayden and I spotted commentary regarding damage to the skull and concluded that it was not in keeping with other wounds. It was the sort of injury more likely to be found in a case of attack with a heavy, blunt object, and the notes suggest to me that there is room for investigation.'
'I see what you mean, Miss.'
Maisie picked up the telephone receiver, but did not dial. 'The first thing I want to do is to show the report to Maurice. I want to hear what he has to say about it. Now, a parcel will probably arrive from the Cliftons in an hour or so-I am sure they will lose no time in sending a messenger with the letters and other items of interest. Would you stay until it arrives?'
'Of course, Miss.' Billy fingered the edge of the case map, the offcut of plain wallpaper where all evidence, thoughts, hunches, and observations on any given case were noted using colored pencils. Some words were written in capital letters, others with a star next to them. Then clues were linked this way and that, as if the person creating the map were trying different pieces in a jigsaw puzzle to see if they might fit.
Maisie replaced the telephone receiver. 'Is everything all right, Billy?'
'Y-yes, of course. Nothing wrong.'
'Do you need to leave early?'
'No, no, it's not that.'
Maisie stepped towards the table and sat down opposite her assistant. 'Doreen's coming home soon, isn't she?'
Billy nodded and continued to rub the paper between thumb and forefinger.
'It's been a long time since she went away. But she's done well of late, during her weekend visits home, hasn't
