The Mapping of Love and Death

'Put your mind to it, Priscilla, and use your old contacts-but be circumspect.'

'Oh, you know me, 'circumspect' is my middle name.' Priscilla laughed before continuing. 'Who are you looking for?'

'I don't know, not yet.'

'That's a good start.'

'I said 'yet'-I'll have a name soon.'

'Sunday-come when you like. Supper at half past six-inhumanely early, but as you know, we eat with the children in this house, unless they've been really, really naughty.'

'See you then, Pris-and thank you.'

'Gives me something to do-I might even get to use my fluent-and-without-an-accent French. Au revoir!'

Maisie arrived home at seven o'clock. Her flat was cold and dark when she entered, so before taking off her coat, she turned up the radiator and ignited the gas fire. Over the winter months, Maisie had taken to walking soon after arriving home in the evening. The exercise warmed her, and when she opened the door to her flat upon her return, it was as if she were returning to a snug cocoon.

There were those who might have cautioned her against leaving her home in darkness, pointing out that there were too many people cold and with empty bellies who would attack a young woman for the coat off her back, if only to sell it again. And in walking alongside the river, one could catch one's death-why, the stench alone would lead to consumption. But Maisie was drawn to walk the streets, in part, by Maurice's teaching that problems were best solved when one was moving, because if one is trying to find the key to a troubling case, moving the body will move the mind. In the early days of her learning, she was confused by the apparent contradiction of teachings from Maurice and Khan, but it was Maurice who explained: 'When you are sitting in silence, you open the door to a deeper wisdom-the knowing of the ages. When you are walking, with the path to that wisdom already carved anew by your daily practice, you find that an idea, a thought, a notion, comes to you, and you have the solution to a problem that seemed insoluble.'

But Maisie was also drawn to walk because she sought out the warmth of companionship, if only by proxy. She might stroll past a house where the family were gathered in the drawing room, perhaps talking by the fire, the scene illuminated by soft oil lamps. She passed another house where people were sitting at table, the spirited conversation audible from the street. And in the next house, the children, in nightclothes and dressing gowns, sat on their father's lap as he read a story. In each house, a fire, a family, and the blanket of companionship drawn close. She pulled up her collar, turned, and walked home. The flat would be warm by now.

Maisie prepared a supper of thick oxtail soup and bread, then with care gathered the letters she had placed close to the radiator and set them on the small table adjacent to her armchair by the fire. She had already turned down the radiator for the sake of household economy, and pulled a shawl around her shoulders as she sat down. She reread the first letter, and picked up the second.

Dear Lt. Clifton,

How lovely to receive another letter from you. I am pleased you are well. The farmhouse where you are billeted sounds quite lovely, and you are most fortunate to have fresh butter on your bread. We are lucky if we get drippings.

I fear I may bore you, as my days are not as exciting as yours. We are always busy, always at work, but, if I may be candid with you (and if it is a liberty, as I hardly know you, please forgive me), there is not much to tell in matters of life and death, and that which I could recount, I would rather not, because each day I want to forget.

Please tell me more about America. I am sure Boston is quite thrilling, and I cannot imagine three thousand miles on a train, and that one side of the country is so different from the other. Your letters bring a ray of sunshine to the day. I hope it is not forward to tell you that I read them more than once.

I must close this letter now, as I want to catch our messenger before he leaves.

Yours sincerely,

'T.E.N'

Maisie rubbed her forehead and whispered: 'What's your name? Tell me who you are.' She sat back and closed her eyes, remembering the letters she had written to Simon. Where were they now? Had they been destroyed? Sent back to his mother with his personal effects? It occurred to her that she had never wondered about them, yet they were so very personal. And she recalled how she became more careful with her signature when Simon was working at the base hospital and she was at the casualty clearing station-their letters were passed along the line, from ambulance driver to supply wagon, and at any time could have been confiscated because they were avoiding the censor. Yes! Michael Clifton and his nurse were doing the same thing! But where was she?

Maisie reached under the pile of letters and brought out Michael Clifton's journal. She turned to the beginning to read, then flicked through the pages, searching for a name, a clue, a hook. She would stop, read a line or two, her eyes scanning each line written in Michael Clifton's distinctive hand-for the most part he wrote in capital letters, and with one of his fine-nib pens. He interspersed words with drawings, sometimes a diagram, or perhaps a sketch of a flower not usually seen in the land of his birth. Maisie could feel herself becoming impatient, so she turned back the pages. She would have to start at his arrival in England.

August 31 st . Well, here I am, olde England. Albion, I've arrived!

She read on, the journal revealing Michael's path from an enlistment office in Southampton to London, where he was interviewed by an officer in the Royal Engineers, a cartographer himself. He spoke of his excitement upon being accepted. 'You're British enough, boy,' he was told, 'might even be enough for the officers' mess-and if I were you, I'd try to sound a bit more like one of us, if you don't mind.' Michael wrote of how much he had laughed, later, when he thought about his interviewer's comment-he couldn't wait to tell his family in a letter. Then there was more:

It didn't take long for TL to find me! Received a cable this morning-he's probably worried that the Hun have a bullet with my name on it, and then who will he go to? I only give in because our dear Anna's heart will be broken, and if Teddy finds out…

SIX

Maisie arrived at the office with the intention of clearing a few items of correspondence before she embarked upon the drive down to Chelstone. Spring showers had blown across London earlier in the morning, and now gray-tinged cumulus clouds moved heavily across the sky in such a way that the odd patch of blue allowed the sun to filter through, though such moments were fleeting. She turned on the gas fire low, then set to work, but had been reading through some notes for only a few moments when the telephone rang.

'Fitzroy-'

'Miss Dobbs, Detective Inspector Caldwell. I said I would be in touch about the Cliftons.'

'Oh, Detective Inspector, how kind of you to remember.' Maisie's eyes widened, registering her surprise that Caldwell had kept his word. 'May I visit Mr. Clifton?'

'This morning at ten-I'll meet you outside the main entrance to the hospital, it's as good a place as any. By the time you get to his ward, you'll have about ten minutes with him.'

'Do you have word on Mrs. Clifton's progress?'

'Or lack thereof, Miss Dobbs-she's not changed since we last spoke. Still in a deep coma. The doctors are hoping that her son's presence, when he arrives, might give her the jolt she needs to regain consciousness. Now then, see you at ten.'

'Right you are, Inspector.'

Caldwell ended the conversation without a formal 'Good-bye,' just 'See you at ten.' Instead Maisie heard only a blunt click as the receiver was hung up, and a long monotonous tone signifying the line was clear for another call. She replaced the black telephone receiver and checked the hour on the mantelpiece clock. There would be little time to finish odds and ends in the office if she were to be at St. George's Hospital at the specified hour.