The Mapping of Love and Death

'Of course I can, Billy. How about Friday afternoon, as soon as I've finished with the man with the cine film?'

Billy smiled. 'Thanks, Miss. I'll see you tomorrow morning, then.'

'Bright and early.'

ELEVEN

Mullen's been good to me. They're all pretty good to me. There's a bit of teasing here and here, but I get along fine with everyone-well, almost everyone. I don't know that Mullen and I would ever have become friends in civvy street, but here in France, and out there when we're working, Mullen has become my friend, and it's good to have a buddy-or a mate. As Mullen said, 'You and me's mates.' I told him that, when all this is over and I go out to California again, I'll need good men to work with me, and he said he'd come like a shot ('Couldn't keep me back, guv'nor,' he said). The fact is that I've talked about my land so much now, I am sure Mullen knows every last inch of it, almost as if he'd been there himself. He's a good worker, a man to depend on. This war might have created soldiers of some and officers of others, but it also mixes people up, blends them together. I think Mullen might have been in a bit of trouble before the war, which is probably why he enlisted, and I reckon it's why he would like to hightail it out of Blighty when this whole thing is done. He's palled up to some of the officers, which is okay, whatever he wants to do, but some of the other lads don't seem to like it. They tell him off for sucking up. It doesn't hurt me-so long as we all do our jobs and get out of here, I don't mind what people do. I'm okay when there's no one around to get at me because he's got more pips on his shoulder.

Maisie turned the pages of Clifton's journal, once again cocooned within the quiet evening solitude of her flat. In the distance she could hear foghorns drone their song of warning along the river, their call like that of fairy-tale mermaids to boatmen navigating the sometimes treacherous waterway.

She wondered about Mullen and thought he was, perhaps, a man easily led, and probably by a yearning for a better life-after all, wasn't something better what most of a certain station wanted, if not for themselves, then for their children? But would Mullen have betrayed Michael Clifton's trust? If Mullen was the man who had attacked her-and without doubt evidence pointed in that direction-she did not sense that he could kill. The incident in the park seemed to have been an error; playing the memory back in her mind, as if it were a moving picture, she recalled the man turning to look back as she fell, a certain shock registered on his face, his eyes wide, as if in other circumstances he might be the first to come to her aid. And then he was gone, running away with his catch: her document case. What was he after? Indeed, if he was working for someone else, what did they think they would find? She had just left the hotel and her meeting with Thomas Libbert, so it was fair to assume that she had been observed entering and later exiting the hotel. Could Libbert be involved, perhaps informing a waiting Mullen that their quarry was on her way out? Had he instructed him to the effect that the old black case she carried must be obtained at all costs? Or was Mullen-a 'tea boy' to more powerful men, according to Caldwell-working for someone else altogether? All in all, as she leafed through the journal, she thought Mullen might have been a likable rogue but a weak man, a man who would follow the scent of a quick shilling earned by dishonorable means.

There were times when Maisie wished she could simply pick up a telephone from her home and place a call to Maurice. He had always kept late hours, before this more recent illness, and there was a time when she knew he would have been sitting by the fire in his study, a glass of single-malt whiskey in his hand, a book or some papers in the other. When she had lived at Ebury Place, using the telephone at a late hour did not present a problem. Now to do such a thing necessitated a walk along the road to the kiosk-and Maurice would be in bed anyway. She wished it were otherwise, that she could lift the receiver and in a minute be talking to her mentor, telling him the story of her case and waiting for his advice, which always came in the shape of a question. How might it be if you look at the problem from this vantage point, Maisie? And even though she was not with him, at the end of the conversation she knew he would be smiling. That knowing smile would not be due to the fact that he had given her clues, but because he was aware that his questions had helped break down a wall so that she could see a door-and they both knew the knowledge she had in the palm of her hand had been there all the time; it had just taken a conversation with Maurice to enable her to recognize it.

Over the past two years, since the time of discord in their relationship, those telephone calls placed late at night had been few and far between, and more often because Maisie knew that Maurice missed his work to some degree, and-as he often said-could live vicariously through his former assistant as she journeyed thought the twists and turns of her cases. But now she would have been grateful for his counsel.

Maisie read on for a while, then made ready for bed. Before slipping between the bedclothes, she sat on a cushion already placed on the floor in her bedroom. She crossed her legs and closed her eyes in meditation. Though she tried to keep up with her practice, in recent weeks she had worked late and fallen asleep without first quieting the mind so the soul could be heard. But tonight, as she felt the day slip away and her consciousness descend to a place beyond her own immediate existence, she saw an image of Maurice standing before her. Her eyes were closed, yet she was aware of his presence, and felt his smile as he spoke. 'You know the truth, Maisie. You know the truth, but you need the proof. The facts are there, Maisie, between the lines. The evidence is always between the lines, whether it is written or not. Look between the lines.'

She remained sitting for a while, clearing her mind so that any nuggets of insight tucked away in her subconscious could come to the fore; then she opened her eyes, stood up, and returned to the dining table where Michael Clifton's journal and his lover's letters had been stacked. Many of the letters were difficult to read, so she had set them aside in favor of those whose pages had come apart with only the slightest slip of the finger along an adhesion. Now she went to the kitchen for a table knife and began to work on those letters where the paper was fused and the ink faint, despite her earlier attempts at careful drying. With a steady hand she divided pages joined by the years since Michael Clifton wrapped them in paper and waxed cloth, as if they were jewels to be cherished.

Priscilla, good morning to you!' Maisie twisted the telephone cord between her fingers as she greeted her friend.

'Heavens above, what on earth is the time? My toads are on their way to school, and I had just settled down to a quiet cup of coffee while I read this morning's dire warnings of the demise of the world, and there you are, bright and early and far too chipper.' Priscilla paused. 'I know, I bet Ben telephoned and you are over the moon.'

'No. Well, Ben has telephoned, but that's not why I'm calling.'

'You sound very bright.'

'Am I usually so dour?'

'Not dour, just, well, let's say thoughtful. A bit less thinking and more having a bit of fun might not do you any harm.'

'That's what you always say. In any case, I'm going to Brooklands on Saturday, for a motor racing meet.'

'I never took Ben for the racing type.'

'He probably isn't. I'm going with James Compton. He invited me last weekend.'

'James Compton? Good lord, Maisie, that's not half bad.'

'Just a friend, Pris. And probably not even that.'

'Then why did he ask you?'

'I think he's lonely.'

'Hmmmm.' Priscilla paused, and Maisie heard her lift her cup to her lips to sip her coffee, which was always brewed strong, with hot milk added. She continued. 'I've managed to pave the way for your introduction to Lady Petronella. Of course, you could have just picked up the telephone yourself, but as we both know, the path is often easier when trodden down earlier by those who are close to the subject.'

'You sound like an old hand.'

'I feel like one. Let me just grab my notebook-I have a 'Maisie' notebook now. Right, here we are: call her at this number-Mayfair five-three-two-oh-and make the arrangements with her butler, though I am told she often answers the telephone herself. Has them all over the house. She's very approachable, but at the same time no- nonsense, as you can imagine-you don't get things done in the way that she gets things done if you are wishy- washy.'

'Anything else you can tell me about her?'