The Mapping of Love and Death

might say-that when she opened her eyes he was gone and the empty room was illuminated by just one candle. She slipped her shoes on, then made her way to the hexagonal entrance hall, where she stopped to say good-bye to one of Khan's helpers. As she turned to walk towards the front door, it opened. The visitor was James Compton. His color rose when he saw Maisie, whose surprise was marked by a half-smile, and she herself blushed.

'James, what are you doing-'

'Oh, hello, Maisie. Didn't expect to see you here.'

'But-'

'Sorry, I'm a bit late for an appointment. Business. Lovely to see you, Maisie.' He nodded towards Khan's helper, who inclined his head in return, and walked towards the door that Maisie knew led to Khan's inner sanctum.

Maisie could not disguise her fluster, and engaged in dialogue with herself all the way to collect her MG. What on earth was he doing there? He was nothing but a dilettante, a light, party-bound…She opened the door of the motor car and sat down in the driver's seat, slamming the door behind her. It occurred to her that she didn't know James Compton very well at all; though she had accepted an assignment from him of late, her understanding of his character was based on her memory of a young man referred to as 'Master James' in his parents' household. He was the happy-go-lucky wartime aviator who some eighteen years earlier had been in love with her friend Enid. He had seemed to lose his way after the war, as a result of both his wounds and the loss of Enid, who was killed in a munitions factory explosion. A round of parties would often be followed by self-imposed exile, as if James were trying to find a place where he might belong in a changed world. In sending him to work for the family corporation in Canada, his parents had hoped he would regain some sense of himself and his responsibilities-or as his father was heard to say, 'He's got to get a grip!'

No, Maisie clearly did not know James Compton as well as she thought, and found herself a little unsettled to learn that he, too, was a visitor to Khan. She started the engine, and as she drove away, her thoughts moved to her conversation with Khan, and she reflected upon his words.

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.

Billy had gone home by the time Maisie returned to the office in Fitzroy Square. The thick smog of winter, encroaching to envelop the square and barely lifting all day, had given way to a thin fog with just a tinge of yellow as town dwellers began to do without coal fires with the onset of spring. Maisie looked out at the cloudy swirls and thought about the Beale family, about the challenges they had faced, and those still before them with Doreen's homecoming from the psychiatric hospital. She had heard the tension in Billy's voice as he spoke of his concern, especially for young Billy and Bobby, who had borne the slings and arrows of their mother's distress. And Maisie knew that now, with Doreen at home, and with the family used to a new rhythm to their days, every moment, every word spoken, would represent a step into the unknown through a blanket of fog, with Billy and the boys haunted by the specter of Doreen's damaged mind. She wondered how she might help the family, but realized that this part of their journey was theirs alone, that they had to come together to regain the ground lost-only then could Billy lead them forward into his dream of a new life in Canada.

She sat down in a chair set alongside the fireplace, and leaned forward to turn on the gas jets, but as she sat back in the chair once again, she became restless, and moved instead to her desk, where she picked up the telephone and dialed Scotland Yard.

'Detective Inspector Caldwell, please.'

There was crackling on the telephone line, and soon a voice boomed into the receiver.

'Caldwell!'

'Maisie Dobbs here, Detective Inspector Caldwell.' The words felt like glue in her throat. Detective Inspector Caldwell. She needed an ally at Scotland Yard, and her interactions with Caldwell had always been far from cordial.

'Miss Dobbs-to what do I owe the pleasure?'

'I was wondering-how are Mr. and Mrs. Clifton?'

'Mr. Clifton is much improved. Sadly, Mrs. Clifton has not made progress and is still in a very poor state. It would not be over-egging the pudding to say that she might not last the night, though I am told that each hour she's alive gives the doctors some level of hope.'

'I see.'

'Anything else, Miss Dobbs? I am a very busy man, as you must know.'

'Yes, there is-when may I visit Mr. Clifton?'

Maisie heard Caldwell sigh. 'Leave it with me. I'll try to get you in tomorrow.'

'That's most kind of you, Detective Inspector.'

'I'll be in touch.'

'Oh, and one more thing-do you have any information about the Cliftons' son-in-law that you would be willing to divulge?'

Caldwell sighed again. 'If I refuse, I know you'll find out anyway. We've been talking to him, and there's nothing he can add to the statements from staff. He's upset, obviously-they're a close family-so tread carefully.'

'I won't get in your way.'

'The name is Thomas Libbert-they call him Tommy-and as you already know, he's at the Dorchester.'

'Thank you, Detective Inspector.'

Caldwell offered no words to close the conversation. Maisie replaced the telephone receiver, and shook her head. Despite his sharpness of tone and Billy's summation of his manner, it occurred to her that Caldwell had changed somewhat since his promotion, now that the struggle to move beyond Stratton's shadow had ended with the latter's move to Special Branch. He might yet prove the ally she needed.

Before leaving for home, Maisie made one more telephone call.

'Priscilla.'

'Maisie, darling-how are you?' Maisie heard the clink of ice against glass, and as she was about to speak, Priscilla was quick off the mark. 'And I know what you're thinking-'Pris is at the sauce again.' Do not fear, my friend, I have kept to my resolution, and having partaken of my one evening cocktail, I am now drinking soda water with angostura bitters-monumentally disgusting, but it's a jolly-looking little beverage. I'm told that grenadine might be better, or lime cordial, but that's a children's drink.'

Maisie laughed, glad that her friend seemed to have a semblance of control over the drinking that had dulled the fear of losing her sons. Though they were young and far from an age at which young men are sent into battle, Priscilla had lost three beloved brothers to the war, and a concern for the well-being of her sons had grown unchecked into an obsession with keeping them safe at all costs.

'I must say, I do love it when you laugh, Maisie, and I'm glad to have been of service. When will you come to see us again? The boys have been asking for Tante Maisie, though I believe it may have something to do with that delicious homemade toffee you brought last time. It certainly helped to bring out an errant baby tooth from the mouth of my youngest.'

'I'm driving down to Chelstone tomorrow, so how about Sunday evening? I could detour on the journey back to Pimlico.'

'Excellent. Come for supper. Douglas will doubtless scurry away to his study afterwards-he's composing an essay for the New Statesman, in fact, it might well turn out to be a book-so once Elinor has the toads tucked up in bed, we can retire to my sitting room for a good old chat.'

'That sounds just what I need. Oh, and Priscilla, I think I'm going to have to pick your brains.'

'Me? The intrepid Maisie Dobbs wants Priscilla Partridge, drinker of silly pink joyless cocktails, to help her on a case?'

'Yes, I do. In fact, you can start putting the gray matter to work if you like. I want to compile a list of all the nursing units in France in 1915. It's a bit tricky, as there were not only the government-sanctioned units but privately sponsored ones, and some of our nurses went to work for the French and Belgian medical corps-and of course, there was your lot, the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry.'

'Not so much of the 'your lot.'' Priscilla lifted her glass to take a sip, and Maisie heard the ice clink again. 'That's not as easy a job as it first sounds, is it? I mean, as you've said, there were groups of women who just went out and set up shop, so to speak-and God bless 'em, eh?'