The Mapping of Love and Death

more than a favor or two-everyone else seems to owe him something.' The man seemed ready to go on, but Maisie nipped further conversation in the bud.

'You've been most kind, Colonel Bartley. As you said, time is of the essence. I'll ring off so that you can speak to Lieutenant Colonel Davidson on my behalf.'

FOUR

The address Archibald Davidson had given Maisie over the phone led her to a well- presented mews house five minutes from the Sloane Square underground station. A housekeeper showed Maisie into the first-floor drawing room, where Davidson joined her almost immediately. He was a wiry man, tall, with long limbs, an angular face, and high cheekbones dusted with freckles, which made him seem boyish for his years; Maisie thought he might be in his early forties. Davidson held out his right hand towards Maisie, while pressing down the collar of his tweed jacket with his left.

'Miss Dobbs, delighted to meet you. I'll apologize now for the fact that I can only spare about ten minutes. As I said on the telephone, I'm due to leave for India tomorrow, and even though my wife dealt with most of the packing before she took our children back to school, I am rather snowed under. We've had months to prepare for this posting, and now all hell seems to have broken loose-this is my sister's house, and we've made a thorough mess of the whole place.'

'I appreciate your time, Lieutenant Colonel. Thank you.'

'Please, do sit down.' He looked at his watch as he sat down at one end of a deep red sofa, while Maisie took a seat in the armchair opposite. In brief, she explained the purpose of her visit.

'So, as you can see, I'm not only trying to find someone who might remember this young man, but I would like to know more about cartographers in the war.'

'Well, first off,' said Davidson, 'I can't remember any Americans, either in the ranks or among the officers I knew personally. You'd remember someone like that, someone different.' He paused. 'But it's true to say that, though the cartography units were part of the Royal Engineers, they were chiefly in the service of the artillery, and of course the infantry. Without them we would not have known where to fire which guns, and without maps we would have been lost; our success depended upon the integrity of the maps and the precision of the mapmakers.'

'To say nothing of the lives of thousands of men.'

'Yes, of course.' Davidson checked his watch once again, and glanced at the clock on the wall for good measure.

'And you personally liaised with one or more cartographers?'

'Yes, but now that I know more about your line of inquiry, I can tell you that I was not in the geographical area you're interested in.' He sighed. 'Look, I'll give you a quick rundown of the way the cartography boys worked, then I'm afraid I really have to dash.'

Maisie opened her mouth to thank him, but he had already launched into an explanation that was brisk, filled with military jargon, and included terms such as flash spotters and sound rangers. She did not want to interrupt to ask questions, but it occurred to her that if he had been writing instead of speaking, she would be looking at little more than scribble. When he appeared to have ended his soliloquy, Maisie spoke again.

'That's very interesting, Lieutenant Colonel, but I wonder if there's anyone you can think of who might have crossed paths with the American. Is there anyone else you would suggest I speak to, someone who can throw a little more light on the subject for me, or who was in the region at the time?'

Davidson shrugged. 'I can't think of anyone, sorry, but…well, off the top of my head, there are a couple of people you could speak to. First off, there's Duncan Higginbotham. He was at Sandhurst with me, and he might be able to assist you-but I think he's just been posted to Aden. The other man is Peter Whitting. I believe he might have been in the region. I know that he had a training job and then requested a posting to the front, which surprised anyone who knew about it. I mean, we all did our duty, but there again, you didn't want to shove yourself into the wasps' nest if you could possibly help it. I remember being told about him going over voluntarily, and we all thought he should be looked at; it seemed he'd taken leave of his senses.' He shrugged. 'In any case, I've seen him at a couple of dinners and so on. He left the army after the war, but still hangs on to the title-I think he's still got a finger in the defense pie, but I couldn't say what it might be.' Davidson consulted his watch. 'I'll just get you the addresses and telephone numbers; then I really have to get on.'

He left the room, returning a few moments later with a piece of paper, which he handed to Maisie.

'There you are. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?'

Maisie thanked Davidson for the addresses, adding, 'Just one thing-I thought I might pay a visit to the School of Military Engineering in Chatham. Do you know anyone there I could speak to?'

Davidson scratched his head. 'There is one person, but I don't know him that well; however, if you telephoned out of the blue, he's probably the person you'd be referred to. His name's Ian Temple-Major Ian Temple. He's the person who seems to be responsible for any liaison with civvy street, and there's a fair bit of that sort of thing in Chatham, as far as I know.' He rubbed his chin. 'I think he might have crossed paths with Whitting during the war. Can't for the life of me remember how I know that, but perhaps Whitting could tell you more. Oh, and that reminds me, before you go-a word of warning about Whitting. He really knows his stuff and is something of a map buff, so he'll probably be able to give you quite a bit of background-but he could do with a lesson in manners. Not a terribly likable chap, a bit gruff. Lives alone in Hampstead, but with the usual help-a butler and cook. I understand he has three cats. They've probably lasted because a cat will just walk off when it gets a bit fed up with you.'

Maisie smiled. 'Thank you, you've been most kind, and I've out-stayed my welcome. I wish you and your wife well in India.'

He nodded. 'Give us a month, and we'll be begging to come home.'

As Davidson closed the door behind her, Maisie heard him bellow: 'Mrs. Bolton? Mrs. Bolton, have you seen my best brown shoes? They were here yesterday and now I can't find the bloody things!'

Maisie was glad to see an empty telephone kiosk on the way to the station. With the first call she ascertained that Duncan Higginbotham had already sailed for the port of Aden; and with the second call she managed to secure an appointment to see Peter Whitting-Major Peter Whitting-at four o'clock. She would have time to return to her office and collect her motor car for the journey to Hampstead.

Architecturally, Peter Whitting's home was like so many in Hampstead: an imposing four- story Georgian terraced mansion, the white exterior grayed by the elements and London's smoke-filled air. Parking the MG outside the property, Maisie looked up and thought the major probably rattled around like a pea in a pod, with his two servants and three cats. However, on the other hand, it was entirely likely that the retired officer was not quite as retired as he might seem, given that Davidson had suggested that Whitting was still in the employ of the government.

Maisie walked up the damp stone steps and pulled the bell handle at the side of the door, which was answered after a short wait by a man-servant dressed in a black suit, white shirt, black tie, and black shoes and socks. His beaked nose gave him an austere appearance, and Maisie thought he resembled a crow, yet his smile was broad as he stood aside to welcome her into the entrance hall.

'You must be Miss Dobbs. Major Whitting is waiting for you in his workroom. I'll show you right in and bring tea-one's always gasping for a cup at this time in the afternoon, isn't one? Your coat and hat, Miss Dobbs?'

'You know, I am gasping for a cup of tea. I've hardly had time to stop all day.' Maisie slipped off her coat and hat, patted down her hair, and smiled as they were taken from her. She was unused to such familiarity among the domestic staff of those she visited in connection with a case, and found the man's light manner refreshing. 'Mr.-?'

'Dawson. Follow me, Miss Dobbs.'

Dawson walked towards the broad staircase that led to the upper floors, and bade Maisie follow him along a corridor filled with paintings of past battles, from Hastings to Verdun. He stopped outside a door that seemed almost wedged between landscapes depicting Trafalgar and Marston Moor, knocked, and waited.

'I may have to knock again. He could be in the midst of battle.' He turned to Maisie. 'Do not be misled by the