'Yes, you can.'
'What do you mean?'
'If he asks, do go out with him.'
'Who?'
'Ben bloody Sutton, for goodness' sake!'
'Oh, Pris…'
By the time Maisie returned home, she was feeling more positive about the direction of her inquiries. She had once described her work to her father as 'finding my way along the Embankment in a thick pea- souper.' There were times when she imagined she was reaching out in the dark, her fingers moving to touch something firm, anything solid to give her a landmark. Sound was distorted in the ocher blend of smoke and fog. Sometimes a noise that might have come from the river echoed as if between buildings, or vision was compromised and one strained the senses to find a path that led somewhere. With the Clifton case, though there were pages of information and snippets of knowledge, she hadn't thus far felt the tug in her gut. But now, after the discussion with Priscilla, she could feel a familiar excitement welling, as if, now that she'd uncovered that one thread of possibility, a vein was not too far away, even though it was still out there in the thick, swirling mist of unknowing.
Priscilla had discovered that The English Nursing Unit had been founded by Lady Petronella Casterman, a former suffragist who had been disgusted when so many of her fellow agitators had supported the war as a means to greater freedom for women-they had foreseen that women would take on the jobs vacated by men and boys, and in the process assume a measure of the independence enjoyed by men. Casterman had ploughed much of her not- inconsiderable wealth into founding a medical unit staffed entirely by women, which she sent to France in early 1915. Her husband, whom she married in 1898, when she was eighteen and he was thirty-five, had died in 1919 of a heart attack. Throughout their marriage he had, apparently, supported his wife's endeavors, partly out of guilt, given his predilection for long hours spent in his library, with friends at his club, or riding to hounds in the hunting season. According to Priscilla's notes, penned in her large eccentric script, having nursed her husband following a serious fall from his horse, Petronella Casterman had felt qualified to help in the unit herself, though she never donned the distinctive uniform supplied to her nurses. It was said that many a wounded soldier had regained consciousness as a bejeweled hand was laid on his forehead, and a woman of about thirty-five, dressed as if she were going to lunch at Fortnum and Mason, leaned over and said, 'Lovely to have you with us again, Private. Now, let's see if we can knock you out for an hour or two more.' The morphine would be administered and sleep would claim the soldier once again.
Maisie sat alongside the gas fire and smiled as she read Priscilla's notes, often with snippets of opinion scribbled alongside. 'I think you ought to try to see her. Would you like me to telephone? I am sure Julia Maynard knows her.' Another read: 'Can you imagine waking up to that?' And, 'I bet that soldier dined out on that story for years.'
The nurses were sent to Paris for rest, and their employer-benefactor saw to it that they were lodged in comfortable hotels and that no expense was spared in ensuring they rested in some style. According to the account, it was not unusual for Petronella (''Ella' to her friends') to drop in on her nurses at any point and push a few coins into their hands with the instruction, 'Do something with your hair while you're in Paris.'
'Very nice, I must say,' Maisie spoke aloud to the empty room. 'That's where I should have enlisted.'
The most interesting point about Petronella Casterman was not her eccentricity, but her early life. She was the daughter of a shopkeeper who had premises in the village close to the Casterman ancestral seat. Her parents had been anxious to see their children transcend their lot in life and had encouraged education. They had hoped that Petronella might become a governess. Instead their daughter became the object of Giles Casterman's affection when he saw her in the village. Furthermore, it was clear that the subsequent marriage was a good one; the couple became parents to two daughters and later on a son, all of whom were known for being somewhat outrageous and often opinionated, if undeniably likable-especially the youngest, who was barely two years old when his father died.
Maisie was anxious to meet Lady Casterman, and made a note to telephone Priscilla to see if she could facilitate an introduction. She hoped the former shopkeeper's daughter would have kept complete records of her staff.
Putting Priscilla's notes to one side, Maisie picked up the collection of letters found close to the body of Michael Clifton. She had intended to read through them at speed, noting points that might help her discover the identity of his lover, as well as clues to what had happened in the dugout where he died. But she found that when it came to unfolding the letters, she was not drawn to such swift analysis, and instead she approached each communique as if she were turning the pages of a much-admired book, indulging in the slow revealing of the love affair as if the writing itself had come from the pen of a favorite author.
Maisie bit her lip to control the welter of emotion rising in her chest. It was not just the journey back in time, but a sense that she was something of an interloper, a person who might linger outside an open window at nighttime, and who would watch, hand on heart, while a young couple professed their love for each other. As she read the letter sent to a man who was now dead, she could feel the excitement that the English nurse must have felt, the sudden joy of knowing that she would soon see the one who had caused such butterflies in her stomach; who had teased and delighted her, and who had, perhaps before they had declared themselves to each other, caused her to fall in love with him-because Maisie could feel, even as she touched the still damp, brown-edged pages, that Michael Clifton's English nurse loved him dearly.
The following morning, Maisie had only just closed the front door behind her when she heard the telephone ringing in her office above. She ran up the stairs, unlocked the door, and reached for the telephone before it fell silent.
'This is Maisie Dobbs.' It was not the usual greeting: in general, the accepted manner of answering the telephone was to announce the telephone number first.
'Ah, yes, Miss Dobbs, I have a message here saying that you called and wanted to talk to me.' The accent was unmistakably American. 'Thomas Libbert.'
'Mr. Libbert, how kind of you to return my call, I-'
'Are you from the press?' Libbert's tone was curt, sharp to the ear, his words cutting into the silence with a bladelike edge.
'No, I am not from the press.' Maisie tempered her voice, keeping it low and steady. 'I telephoned because I know your parents-in-law, and I wanted to ask if there was anything I could do for them at the present time. They are both lucky to be alive, I know, and I wondered how I might best help, in the circumstances.'
'You know them?' Libbert cleared his throat, and Maisie was relieved when he went on in a manner that suggested he had relaxed. 'Yes, it's been a terrible time. Their son, my brother-in-law, Edward, is en route from Boston to Southampton.'
'According to the reports I've read, it was a terrible business.' Maisie made her move. 'Look, Mr. Libbert, I wonder if you might be able to assist me. I am actually working for your parents-in-law, a small matter of helping to locate an item of some value to them, and I thought-'
'An item of some value? What do you mean?'
'I think I would rather we met in person, Mr. Libbert-might I see you at your hotel later this morning?'
'I'm at the Dorchester, but-are you some sort of dealer?'
'Yes, I suppose that's a good description. Shall we say eleven?'
