the sheets of paper and placed them in a drawer, then pulled a brass object towards him.
'This is an octant…'
One by one, Whitting took each piece and described its purpose to Maisie, explaining as he went how a cartographer was trained, and how a military mapmaker worked. He pointed out the challenges that a land surveyor or cartographer working in a civilian role would have encountered when required to do things differently in a battle situation. Maisie took notes as he spoke, taking account of his tone, which revealed more of the authoritarian military official than the man who had first welcomed her into the room.
'And I think that's all I can tell you, Miss Dobbs, without going so far as to begin actually training you in the art of mapmaking.'
'Art? Not science?'
'The mapmaker is not only a mathematician, but an artist. He has to look at the earth and see what needs to be seen, then represent it in a way that means something-to a class, a sailor, a walker on the hills, the driver of a motor car, or those who orchestrate a battle. They have to look at that map and see a range of possibilities, not just one. Enormously important decisions hang on precise representations of what is before the commander-and as you know, most of the important decisions are made many miles away, by men in warm offices and with dry clothing. Everything rests on the fallibility of the map-and it takes more than science to do the job well.'
'I see.' Maisie paused. 'Thank you for your time, Major Whitting. You have been most helpful.'
He said nothing in response, and reached to the side of the window to ring the bell that would summon Dawson. As he pulled the curtain aside, another cat, as black as jet, walked from behind the fabric into the room.
'This one will always retreat to a hiding place when there's company.'
Maisie and her host watched the cat brush up against the chairs before clambering up onto a shelf and crawling into the dark space above a row of books.
'I was thinking of contacting the School of Military Engineering in Chatham, to see if I can find out anything about Michael Clifton there.'
'Might be worth your while,' said Whitting. He folded his arms. 'But I should advise you that they're very busy down there, and given the strategic importance of Chatham to both the army and the navy, an inquiry agent probably wouldn't be the most welcome visitor.'
At that point, Dawson knocked and entered the room, holding open the door for Maisie to leave.
'May I telephone if I have any more questions, Major Whitting?'
'As long as you call in the morning.'
Maisie had just stepped across the threshold when she looked back. 'You know, there's one thing that rather surprises me: given that the cartographers and survey teams worked closely together, and were a small group in comparison with the battalions, for example, I rather hoped you might have a recollection of an American among their number. I understand you were responsible for men across the area where this particular cartographer was working. I would have thought with the accent…and by all accounts, he was a tall man, as so many Americans are, and-'
'It would be like you trying to remember another nurse, Miss Dobbs. At first blush, it might seem as if you should know every young woman who served, but on the other hand, how could you possibly? If you did, you would know exactly where to go to find the young man's lover.'
Maisie looked away, determined that Whitting not see how his choice of words had unsettled her. Turning back, she held out her hand, thanked him once more, and bid him farewell.
Maisie was leaving Hampstead when she turned off the High Street towards Belsize Park, stopping outside a mansion similar in style to Whitting's. Yet whereas the major's home was flanked by other houses, this four-story property was at the end of a terrace, and partially hidden by surrounding lush green gardens. She breathed deeply, knowing that the sudden decision to come to this place had been welling up inside her for some time.
It was the home of Basil Khan, Maurice's old friend and mentor. Years before, in Maisie's girlhood, Khan had taught her that in silence, with body and mind still, a depth of understanding may be achieved that is not available to one who languishes at the mercy of life's relentless chatter. At first Maisie found such lessons embarrassing, and wondered how she could ever remain motionless for hours without the itch to move. But Khan's quiet expectation that she sit in silence and stillness until he touched the brass bowl with a piece of wood and a mellow ringing sound echoed around the room, together with the kindness in his eyes when he took both her hands in his and said she had done well, inspired her to continue. She had drawn upon those lessons in the war when she was a nurse in France, when the screams of men dying did not end with the working day, but echoed back and forth in her head and were not silenced until she saw Khan in her mind's eye and heard his words: 'Be still, until there is nothing…'
Though an old man-indeed, Maisie could not guess Khan's age, for he had always seemed old, yet had not appeared to age since their first meeting when she was but fourteen-Khan was much in demand. Among visitors to the mansion, where Khan's students also lived, were political leaders, men of commerce and the cloth, academics, artists, and writers. Many had known Khan for years, many came to hear him speak, but only a few gained a personal audience. Maisie was shown into the same room where he had first greeted her so long ago, and there, alongside the window, Khan sat cross-legged with his eyes to the light, as if he were not blind. It was from Khan that Maisie learned that seeing was not something that necessarily required the faculty of ocular vision.
'You have not come for so long, Maisie.' He patted a large square cushion set on the floor close to him. 'Come, let us talk.'
Maisie bowed before Khan, then took her place on the cushion.
'Have you seen Maurice of late?'
'You know he has been unwell, a bronchial affliction.' Maisie looked into the pale eyes and felt her own brim with tears.
Khan nodded. 'Yes. He is not a young man, and he has given much in the service of peace, and of those who do not have a voice because it has been silenced.'
'Will he get better?'
Khan smiled, and as he turned to her, Maisie saw the wide blind eyes filled with grief. Instead of answering her question, he responded to her thoughts.
'Extremes live within us all. The joy of association resides alongside the anticipation of loss. What is given will be taken, what we have is often only of value to us when it is gone.' He paused, his face now held to the light once more. 'Maurice knows this. Whatever is to be, Maurice is at peace.'
Maisie shook her head. 'I am sure he will be all right. As soon as the weather gets better and he can sit outside, that will clear his chest.'
Khan's voice was soft. 'Yes.'
'Shall I bring Maurice to you? I am sure he would like to speak to you.'
'Oh, but we do speak, Maisie. We may not be in the same room, but we speak.'
Maisie looked at the light as it began to diminish. 'I'd better go now, Khan.' She moved as if to stand, but Khan reached out and placed a hand on her arm.
'No, stay. Sit with me as I taught you when you were a girl. Sit with me here. Tell me about your work. It is such hard work, though I know Maurice instructed you well.'
'Yes, he did. Very well.' Maisie sighed. 'My work at the moment involves a young man-a mapmaker-who was killed in the war. He was very skilled, apparently, and had loved maps from the time he was a boy. There is evidence to suggest he had been murdered, and not by the circumstance of war.'
Khan nodded, his head now lowered.
'A map is a conduit for wonder, a tool for adventure. But it is also an instrument of power-and like all things, power has two faces.'
Maisie sat with Khan for some time, and was so deep in thought-or not-thought, as he
