The Mapping of Love and Death

Maisie leaned forward to check Clifton's pulse. He was already asleep. She stood up and lifted the chair to one side so as not to scrape the legs against the floor, then tiptoed towards the door. It was Clifton's voice, speaking low but with a forced strength, that stopped her.

'Find whoever did this to Martha, Miss Dobbs. And find the man who murdered my son.'

'I will, Mr. Clifton. Don't worry, I'll find them.'

On the drive down to Chelstone, Maisie barely noticed the landscape around her, and at times realized that she could not remember driving past some of the usual landmarks on the journey. In her mind she was playing and replaying the scene described by Edward Clifton. Of course, each of the people he described seeing-the man with the cravat, the man with a dark complexion, the arguing couple, and Thomas Libbert-could be completely innocent. But someone had gained entrance to the Cliftons' room, and had been so intent that his or her identity remain secret that he or she had left the couple for dead before escaping. It was clear that the person was looking for something specific, and it was possible that the very item being sought was in the hands of either the police or Maisie. Could the letters from women who had responded to the Cliftons' advertisement have inspired the attack? Or perhaps Michael Clifton's personal effects? Somewhere there was something of great value to another person-what was it, and where was it? And who wanted it so much that they would kill to have it?

Stalled in her quest until Monday, Maisie planned to spend time with her father, and Maurice. As her thoughts transferred to her ailing mentor, Maisie's eyes filled with tears. She had known him for so long, and had it not been for Maurice Blanche, she might never have walked through the doors that had been opened for her time and time again. It was as if, the moment they were introduced when she was still only thirteen years of age, he had led her to a table heaped with knowledge-only there never seemed to be a point at which her hunger to learn was sated. He had shown her a path that, in her wildest imaginings, she might never have found alone, had offered her counsel when she returned from war wounded in both body and spirit; and he had chosen her to become his trusted assistant, and taught her so much.

A recent estrangement in their relationship had been healed, and though she felt strength in her independence, she was also glad that he was still there to offer advice, to hold up the looking glass to her innermost thoughts so that she could see that what was already within her had merit and worth. If her father was her rock, then Maurice Blanche was the witness to her journey, and for that she accorded him great affection.

Maisie's thoughts came back to the present as she reduced speed to turn in to the entrance to Chelstone Manor. To her left was The Dower House, Maurice's residence, which he had bought years before when the old Dowager Lady Compton, Lord Julian's mother, died. Once she had passed The Dower House, Maisie would turn off the carriage sweep that led to the manor and into a downward-sloping lane to the left, at the end of which was her father's cottage. The gardens of the two houses bordered each other, and Maisie would often take the path from her father's garden up to The Dower House. The conservatory where Maurice spent warm days overlooked the gardens, and Maisie knew her old mentor would be aware of her arrival at Chelstone, and would be awaiting her visit.

As she passed The Dower House, Maisie saw James Compton's Aston Martin move from its place at the front of the mansion and begin to make its way towards the gates. She sped up enough to turn into the lane before she had to pull over to make way for his motor car, which would likely necessitate a conversation. She still hadn't worked out what she might say to him. 'Funny seeing you at Khan's house' did not seem quite right, though her curiosity regarding his visit had not diminished in any way. No, it was best not to linger.

Maisie sat with her father at the kitchen table, and breathed an audible sigh.

'All right, love?'

'Yes, Dad. Just a bit weary, to tell you the truth. I had to visit a very poorly man at St. George's Hospital this morning.' She was aware that she rarely spoke of her work with her father, conscious that he would worry about her safety and well-being.

'What was wrong with him?'

Maisie paused before answering the question. She was sorry she had mentioned the visit to see Edward Clifton. The lie came easily. 'He'd suffered a fall, and he is an important witness.'

Frankie Dobbs was not easily fooled, but took his daughter at her word. 'Nasty that, a fall. I remember when I came a cropper in the stables a couple of years ago, I felt more sorry for you than meself. It's always the ones who are left waiting who suffer the most, the people anxious for news. Terrible thing, having to wait to find out if they're all right.'

Maisie knew her father spoke from the heart, from his memories of waiting, of hoping her mother would get well again, then watching her die. He waited once more, years later in the war, when Maisie sailed for France with a contingent of nurses, and he waited for her to regain her strength and health when she came home wounded.

'Which reminds me,' added Frankie. 'I saw Mrs. Bromley today, and she said Maurice was very much looking forward to your visit. You could pop over now, before they put him to bed.'

Before they put him to bed. Maisie felt the swell of ache press down on her chest, her heart beat faster, and she thought she might not be able to breathe. Before they put him to bed. Maurice was failing, and she could no more bear to think of life without his presence than she could imagine being without her father's love and companionship, both always waiting for her at Chelstone.

'Yes, you're right. I'll go up now and see if he's well enough for me to sit with him for a while.'

Maisie kissed her father on the cheek. 'I'll put that pheasant in the oven before I go-we'll have a tasty supper tonight, Dad.'

Mrs. Bromley opened the door before Maisie could set her hand upon the bellpull. 'Miss Dobbs, how lovely to see you. Dr. Blanche saw you coming up the path and sent me to the door-he might be weary, but he still doesn't miss a trick! Come along into the conservatory. It's still quite warm in there.'

The housekeeper spoke to Maurice as she entered the conservatory. 'She's here, Dr. Blanche. Shall I bring a pot of tea?'

Maurice waved his hand. 'No, I think a schooner of cream sherry would be more to Miss Dobbs' liking-and a malt whiskey for me, if you would be so kind.'

'But the doctor said-'

'I am the doctor. Some dry biscuits would go down very well too, I think, and perhaps a little Stilton. Thank you very much!'

Maisie smiled, but did not speak until Mrs. Bromley left the room. 'I think you just pulled rank on the doctor-and he wasn't even here!'

'So be it. I have earned all the rank I want to pull, so let that be a lesson to you when you are in your dotage.' He began to laugh, but the breath caught in his chest and he started to cough. Maisie reached for a glass and filled it with water from a jug, but Maurice raised a hand. 'It will pass. Please. It will pass.'

The housekeeper returned, pushing a wooden trolley set with two decanters, crystal glasses, a plate of plain water biscuits, and a wedge of the pungent blue-veined cheese Maurice favored. With a reminder to Maurice to have no more than one glass, she left the room.

'A decent pour for us both, if you would be so kind, Maisie.'

Maurice took a sip of the single-malt whiskey and closed his eyes. 'I have always believed in the medicinal properties of this particular eighteen-year-old distillation.'

'I won't argue with you, Maurice, even though I am inclined to agree with your doctor.'

'So am I, Maisie, but that this stage of my life it does me a power of good to flout rules.' He paused, lifted the amber liquid towards the setting sun, and turned to Maisie. 'And what about you?'

'About me? Well, this morning I went to see Edward-'

'I'm not talking about work, Maisie. It's your life I'm interested in.'

'My life? But my work-'

'Your work is not your life.'

'But…' Maisie faltered. 'But your work was most of your life.'

'Granted, it might have seemed like that, but there was more. My life here, my life in Paris, my garden, my friends, associations. How about you?'

'Well, I…there's my friend Priscilla, and her children.' Maisie took a sip from the schooner she had half filled with cream sherry. 'What do you want to know, Maurice?'

Maurice Blanche rested his glass on the trolley, then looked at his hands, turning them over, frowning and