'Mullen?' Maisie said the name aloud, then wrote it out on an index card. She pulled out another card and wrote, 'Stiff breeches.' If Michael Clifton had risked being put on a charge for answering back in such a manner, he must have been referring to an officer of greater rank. Was it his commanding officer? And if so, why wasn't he put on a charge? Soldiers had been court-martialed for less. On a piece of paper she made a list of inquiries to be made, and it was clear that a visit to Chatham, to the place where the artillery's mapmakers were trained, would have to be a priority. It was the second time in one sitting that she cautioned herself not to jump in with the first thought that came to mind.
Maisie continued reading, though now the events of the day were catching up with her, and her eyes were gritty and dry with fatigue. She checked the time; just half past eight in the evening, and she was exhausted. But she did not want to rest yet, so she picked up another letter and slipped the paper from the envelope, carefully unfolding the foxed and fused pages. At that moment the bell in the hallway sounded, alerting her to a visitor at the front door.
Maisie disliked the fact that as soon as she opened the door to her ground-floor flat, anyone waiting outside could see her. She had asked about having frosted glass installed, but other owners didn't appreciate the need for such expenditure. She wondered who might be calling without being in touch with her first. On the other hand, she did not have a telephone, so an uninvited guest could be expected, though it was rare. Maisie pushed back her chair and began to walk towards the hallway, but then turned around and came back to the table, where she gathered the letters and journal and put them away in a kitchen cupboard. Now she was ready to greet her caller.
As she opened the door to the foyer, she could see Detective Inspector Caldwell, together with his new detective sergeant, waiting on the step outside the main entrance. Caldwell was just about to press the bell again, so she waved to attract his attention and stepped towards the door.
'Detective Inspector Caldwell, to what do I owe a visit to my home-and at such an hour?'
'I think you know very well why I am here, Miss Dobbs-two reasons, in fact.'
'Would you care to come in?'
Caldwell and his assistant removed their hats and followed Maisie into the flat. She saw Caldwell look at the painting over the mantelpiece-of a woman standing on the beach, looking out to sea-and the collection of photos, some framed, some simply pinned, that surrounded the painting. He cast his eyes around the room.
'Do take a seat, please,' offered Maisie. 'Would you care for some tea?'
Caldwell shook his head, though Maisie saw the detective sergeant begin to smile as if he was about to accept the offer. He looked away when he heard Caldwell's quick reply.
'No time to sit here drinking tea, Miss Dobbs, but thank you for offering all the same.' He didn't miss a beat before launching into his reason for the visit. 'First of all, I want to know-from you-the circumstances of the attack on your person in Hyde Park. Then I want to know why you went to St. George's Hospital and talked my policeman into letting you into Mr. Clifton's private ward.'
'Well, one event led to the other, as is so often the case. I was the victim of a robbery in Hyde Park, and because I had hurt my hands and cheek, as you can see'-she held up her hands with her bandaged palms facing the detective-'I went to the hospital to receive treatment. The last thing I want is a case of lockjaw, so I thought I should have the wounds attended to straightaway. While I was there, I decided to go up to Mr. Clifton's ward and ask after his progress. The patient was awake, so I thought I would pop in and see him-after all, it happened to be visiting hour, and I understand he has had no visitors since he regained consciousness. He's an old man far from home, and I thought he might welcome a bit of company.'
'Did you talk about the attack?'
'Yes, of course. I inquired about his health.'
'Is there anything you'd like to share with us, Miss Dobbs?'
'There is nothing else that I believe is of any great significance to you. It was a rather pedestrian conversation. To tell you the truth, I was rather curious as to why his son-in-law had not visited since he regained consciousness, but Mr. Clifton informed me that he has received messages from him, but they have never really had much in common-those were his words.'
Caldwell nodded. 'Why didn't you inform us about the robbery attempt in Hyde Park as soon as it happened?'
'I summoned a constable to help me, and though he had tried to give chase-as had I-the robber escaped on foot, probably down into Marble Arch underground station. He took my document case, but there was nothing of value inside. The case is old, a bit tattered, but it holds great sentimental value for me-I would love to have it back.'
'Present from a suitor, Miss Dobbs?'
Maisie shook her head, not rising to the bait. 'No, from the staff I worked with when I was in service. They bought me the case when I left to go up to Girton College in 1914. It was such a big event, not just for me but for all of us-one of their own going away to college. So they had a whip-round and bought me the very best document case they could afford, and it has lasted all this time.'
Caldwell heard the catch in her throat as she spoke, and responded in a softer tone. 'We'll see if we can get it back for you, then. If we can do that, we'll likely catch the thief-and you never know how valuable he might be to us.'
'Thank you. Now, if you don't mind…'
'Yes, of course. Much obliged to you, Miss Dobbs. Please try to remember to request a visit to Mr. Clifton until further notice. And I'd appreciate being kept informed of any leads you might uncover in this case. It was a violent attack on two prominent visitors to our country. I'm expected to get to the bottom of it in short order.'
'I'll keep you posted.'
Maisie saw the men to the door and bid them good night. She returned to her chair by the fire, which she had not ignited earlier, but because she felt chilled, she knelt down and turned on the gas jets, lowering the flame for the sake of economy. Instead of sitting on one of the two armchairs, Maisie pulled a cushion towards her and made herself comfortable seated on the floor in front of the fire. She found the combination of heat and flame almost hypnotic, and allowed her mind to wander.
It was not until she spoke of the loss of the document case that she had realized how much it meant to her. She was but seventeen years old when a special 'below stairs' supper had been organized for her at Chelstone Manor, where most of the household staff were located over the summer months. War had been declared on August 4, and in September, the staff were happy to send one of their own on her way to better things. The document case earned a few scratches at Girton, then was put away when she enlisted for nursing service after just two terms. It was brought out again when she returned to complete her studies in 1919-after she had already been wounded, had recovered, and then worked in a hospital for the shell-shocked. The fine leather became even more scuffed when she became assistant to Dr. Maurice Blanche, as she filled it daily with papers and files and the accoutrements of her trade. The bag had been repaired where stitching had loosened, and had required a new clasp some years earlier, but she had never been without it since the end of the war.
Now it was gone, and in her mind's eye she saw the staff gathered around the table on the day it was presented to her. There was Enid cracking a joke, always a bit sarcastic, always sharp. Dear Enid, who had died in a munitions factory explosion. Mrs. Crawford was still there, not yet retired, and Carter, the butler, before the years began to tell. She had no idea, then, what she would make of her life. No thoughts of love had entered her mind, her drive to educate herself usurping all other measures of happiness, contentment. Priscilla, Simon, the girls who had served alongside her in France-they were all yet to come, on the day she opened the box and drew back the fine tissue to reveal the aroma of good leather, soft to the touch. The path from there to here had been far from straight, had looped back and forth, yet always with an imagined place ahead-that she would be a woman of independent means and would rise above her circumstances.
As she sat by the fire in her own flat, the retreat and refuge she'd imagined in those dreams, she thought about other places where she had laid her head. There was the room in Lambeth-why had she lived there at all? She came from Girton, straight to London to interview with Maurice. Then when he'd sent word that the job was hers, she found lodgings in the only area she could afford and knew at all, the place where she'd grown up: Lambeth. Her room was clean, tidy, and there was a meal in the evening when she arrived home, but she walked through the slums each day, through streets of depression and want. She had realized, even then, that her choice to live in a
