Maisie had been to St. George's Hospital at Hyde Park Corner on several occasions. The main hospital had been built on the site of Lanesborough House-itself constructed in the early 1700s, when it would have been situated among fields instead of a burgeoning metropolis-and was also home to what was considered to be the best medical school in the country. Until recently, Maurice had been an occasional lecturer on the subject of medical jurisprudence, and in her younger days Maisie had attended lectures there. Though she was not a student of the school, a word from Maurice gained entry to selected lectures for the bright Cambridge graduate.
There was a certain austerity about the building, as if the stone itself would have no truck with nonsense, and the only important thing was to advance medical knowledge of the human body and how to make it well when sick. As Maisie paced back and forth at the allotted meeting place, an Invicta police vehicle swung round and came to a halt, at which point the passenger door opened, and Caldwell stepped out onto the curb.
'Good, you're on time.'
'I do not think I have ever been late for an appointment with Scotland Yard.'
'Hmmph!' Caldwell paused to touch the brim of his hat and lost no time in instructing Maisie to follow him.
With a brisk walk, he led Maisie along the street and in through an entrance she was not familiar with, then down freshly mopped corridors, up stairs and more corridors, until they reached the room where Edward Clifton was recovering from his injuries. A solitary police constable was on duty outside, and as they arrived, a nurse left the room holding a kidney bowl filled with soiled bandages.
'Ugh,' uttered Caldwell. 'Doesn't that make you want to heave?'
Maisie registered her surprise; Caldwell must have seen his fair share of deceased persons while working for what the press termed the 'Murder Squad.' 'No, not really,' she said. 'I was once a nurse. There's not much I have to turn away from.'
'It's not that I mind them dead. I just can't stand the mess when they're alive and bloody.' Caldwell shook his head and approached the constable. 'Ten minutes for this lady. And make sure it's ten, all right?'
'Yes, sir.' The constable stood to attention when Maisie entered the room, and nodded as she passed him.
'You'll not be in the room with me, Inspector?'
'No, I'll wait. I've already spoken to the doctor, but I want to be here if the nurses need to come in or if the doctor returns. I trust you'll apprise me of any facts you manage to extract from the victim.'
Maisie nodded. It seemed that, like her assistant, Detective Inspector Caldwell did not care to risk feeling queasy if he could possibly help it, though it also occurred to her that he assumed she would come out empty- handed. She entered the room, walked to the bed where Edward Clifton lay back on several pillows positioned to keep his head stable, and stood at his side. Slowly he opened his eyes and focused on her face. His head was bound with bandages, as were his palms. The skin under his eyes was black and smudged, and seemed almost blistered as the wounds on his head drained. And though Maisie had seen many much more serious wounds in the war and had stood for hours on floors thick with the blood of the dying, her eyes smarted when she thought of someone inflicting such injuries upon an elderly man who had come to London to discover the truth about the death of his beloved son.
'The police said I could see you for a moment or two, Mr. Clifton.'
He nodded, licked his lips, and then spoke in a cracked voice. 'Do you think the police will find out who did this?'
'I know they are working on it-and so am I.'
'Thank you. I suppose-' He coughed, and winced as the pain reverberated through his body. 'I suppose you want to ask me a few questions, or however the saying goes.'
'If you don't mind.'
Clifton nodded again.
'And I know you've probably been asked these same questions before, so forgive my repetition,' said Maisie. 'Can you tell me if you recollect anything about the person who attacked you?'
He paused before answering the question. 'That's an interesting thought-the police asked me if I remembered anything about the
'We need to cast the net wide before dragging it back to the boat to inspect the catch.'
He sighed. 'I've tried to remember, but it's a blur-I just remember the movement, the struggle, hearing Martha scream, as if she were trying to stop someone attacking me. Then everything went black.'
'Yes, I see.' She looked at Clifton and wanted to lay her hand on his, as she would with Maurice or her father. Instead she went on. 'I know this is terribly difficult for you, Mr. Clifton. I can see you are weary and in pain, and I would not ask you to press on if it were not important. Do you think you can cast your mind back a bit?'
'I know it's important. I'll try.'
'I'll be quick. Now, what do you remember before you returned to your room? Let's start with when you left to go out.'
'Oh, I don't know, I can't-'
She reached out and touched his arm. 'Mr. Clifton, close your eyes for a moment-not tight, but just allow your eyelids to touch.' Maisie paused as Clifton followed her instructions. 'Now, imagine you and Mrs. Clifton are leaving your room, see it as if you were at the picture house-what happened next?'
'I-I locked the door. Yes, and I can remember Martha asking if I was warm enough because I looked cold- always worrying, my Martha.'
'Go on.'
'We went downstairs, through the lobby.'
'Let's linger there for a while. Look around, who was there?'
Clifton nodded. 'Well, there was a darker gentleman-looked like a Spaniard-signing the register. Martha said she thought he must feel the cold, if he came from somewhere warm.' He coughed and winced as the pain reverberated from his chest to his head, but struggled to continue. 'She remarked on the flowers in a vase. Lovely flowers, with big blooms. She thought they must have been brought in from your Channel Islands.'
Maisie said nothing, though she found herself closing her eyes as if she, too, could conjure the scene being brought forth from Edward Clifton's deepest memory.
'There's a boy struggling with a woman's luggage, and she's talking in a loud accent-reckon she was from New York. Martha whispered that it was embarrassing to come from the same country.' He laughed. 'And I said, 'It's
'Do you want to stop, Mr. Clifton?'
'No, no.' He paused and took a deep breath. 'Now, where was I? Yes, there was the man to the left. I remember him. Very correct. Very English, as if he was in the Guards. Wore an open-neck shirt and a-' He held his hand to his neck. 'I've forgotten what you call them here? Cravat. Yes, he was wearing a cravat. At his neck. Shoes polished. I remember him because of the way he looked at Martha, and I thought to myself, Look at her, sixty-eight and she can still draw a guy's attention.'
'Can you tell me about his hair, his eyes-can you remember?'
'Darkish graying hair, silver at the sides. Then I heard the couple arguing, near the door, so I looked away.'
'Arguing?'
'Don't know what about. They didn't look as if they belonged, if you know what I mean. And it wasn't so much the woman as the man. I remember thinking he looked like someone you wouldn't want to meet on a dark night with those broad shoulders, but he looked as if he could do with a good meal all the same. She didn't want him to come into the hotel, and was trying to pull him away; then one of the hotel clerks took care of it, told them to leave, I reckon. It was all done very quietly. Can't say as I remember much after that.' He opened his eyes. 'Except, when they'd gone, Tommy-he's our son-in-law-called out to us. He'd just come down to the lobby. He wanted to know when we'd be back.' Clifton touched his head.
'Do you have a headache?'
'Starting to.' He closed his eyes again.
'Then let's stop, Mr. Clifton. You've been very kind to see me, and I cannot thank you enough for trying so hard to remember. Perhaps when you feel well enough-'
