The Mapping of Love and Death

on. This was no ordinary tunnel or hole in the ground-the Germans were excellent engineers. The men could all have been at rest when Michael's life was taken, and it would not be a stretch to suggest that they might not have discovered his body prior to the shelling. It is a question that cannot be readily answered.'

Maisie could see that Teddy was familiar with the story, for he showed no shock at the news, but brought his hand to his mouth for a few seconds.

'Do you think the killer perished in the shelling?' The weariness brought on by travel across the Atlantic and arrival in Southampton, along with the shock of seeing his parents in hospital, was evident in Clifton's demeanor; his shoulders were rounded, and his voice cracked with tiredness.

Maisie shook her head. 'I couldn't say, Mr. Clifton, but if I were to hazard a guess, I would say no. No, I don't believe he was killed. I can think of several circumstances wherein the killer could have taken your brother's life and then been on his way. Of course, he may himself have lost his life to war at a later date-but no, I don't think so.' She paused. 'There's the distinct possibility of a connection between Michael's death and the attack on your parents. I do not think they are isolated events.'

Clifton blew out his cheeks as he nodded. 'I know what Charles here thinks, but how do you think Michael was killed?' He put the question to Maisie.

'I believe his life was taken by a single blow to the back of his head. The weapon was likely one of his own pieces of equipment-a theodolite, for example. And I think your parents were attacked in the same way. They had your brother's tools with them in their room-I can imagine your mother, for example, putting certain items out, to remind her of your brother.'

'Yes. Yes, that's just the sort of thing she would do. How do you know?'

Maisie shrugged. 'She struck me as the sort of woman who decorates her home with pictures of family, with the trophies of childhood accomplishment, and probably went as far as to frame a school tie, or whatever would have the same significance in America.'

Clifton's eyes widened, and he looked at Hayden again. 'Can you believe this, Charles?' He turned back to Maisie. 'Mother actually had our football jerseys put into frames. We laughed like crazy, but she said we'd appreciate it one day.' He paused, then became serious once more. 'So you think the killer is on the loose. Are my folks still at risk? We've seen Detective Inspector Caldwell and he is keeping a guard on their rooms.'

'In my estimation, the risk to your parents is minimal, but at the same time, it would be foolhardy to discontinue guarding them.'

'Why?'

'I believe the man who attacked your parents is himself dead. But in my line of work, Mr. Clifton, one soon realizes that the true killer is sometimes not the person who takes the life of the victim.'

'What do you mean?'

'While there are similarities between the murder of your brother and the attack on your parents, I have a feeling that your brother died following one single blow. Your parents' attack seemed more frenzied, one borne of fear. I think the perpetrator was disturbed while searching for something he wanted-or that someone else wanted- and picked up the first thing that came to hand when he was disturbed by your parents' return to their room. He might not have wanted to kill anyone.'

Teddy Clifton nodded. He was about to ask another question, when Charles Hayden interjected.

'Maisie.' He leaned forward and touched her cheek. 'How the heck did you get this?'

'I thought I'd managed to cover it up.'

'Come on, I'm a doctor. It's my job to see these things. How did that happen?'

'A man pushed me onto the ground. He had just stolen my document case.'

'Did they catch him?'

'His body was discovered later, in the rooms he rented.'

'Was he important to the case?' asked Clifton.

'Yes, I believe he was. Of course, I could be wrong, but I think he was the man who almost killed your parents. And I don't think he intended to do anything of the sort.'

SIXTEEN

James, I think I ought to confess to you that I know precious little about motor racing. Nothing, in fact.' Maisie smiled as she spoke, relaxed in James Compton's company as he drove them out of London towards Surrey.

'Well, first of all, Brooklands is famous for being the first motor racing track in the world. Absolutely purpose- built for the business in 1907.' He grinned, ready to tease. 'And I must say, I'm glad to have found something that you don't know and I do, Maisie Dobbs!'

'You're right. The only racing I have any familiarity with is horse racing.'

James changed gear to negotiate a bend, then increased speed as the road straightened. 'Then you're more than halfway there. Almost everything about racing motor cars has been based on horse racing, so the language will be familiar-the grandstand, the track, the paddock where the drivers assemble. It's all a bit like a day at Newmarket-but faster.'

'How fast?' Maisie realized that James was increasing speed as he spoke. 'As fast as you?'

'Oh, dear-point taken.' He slowed down. 'But to be perfectly honest, I couldn't drive anywhere near as fast as the racers at Brooklands, even though I might dream about it. At the end of March, Tim Birkin-rather famous driver, was in the Flying Corps in the war; his real name is Henry, but he's been known as Tim since he was a boy-anyway, he was putting his Bentley through its paces, doing practice laps, and was clocked at 137.9 miles per hour. That's a new record over the distance. Mind you, one of the other chaps-Malcolm Campbell-recently secured a new land speed record in the USA, at Daytona. He was just three seconds shy of 254 miles per hour. Beggars belief, doesn't it?'

'It's terrifying.' Maisie held on to her seat.

'At the very least you'd put your neck out trying to follow him.' He looked out at the countryside as he spoke. 'Actually, I learned to fly at Brooklands.'

'At the speeds you've just mentioned, I would have thought staying on the ground presented quite a problem.'

'Oh, very funny!' said James, and they both laughed again. Then James explained. 'There was already a flying school at Brooklands, and then before the war, Tommy Sopwith came in with his own flying school and aircraft manufacturing concern. So it came as no surprise when the owner, Hugh Locke-King, offered Brooklands to the War Office for whatever purpose they saw fit-and the Royal Flying Corps moved in on August 5, 1914. They took it over lock, stock, and barrel.' He sighed. 'And from the time I arrived, I had six weeks to become a qualified Royal Flying Corps pilot.'

'Six weeks?' Maisie was thoughtful. 'And if I remember correctly, the average life of an aviator after arriving in France was three weeks-it wasn't exactly a secret statistic. So you knew that from the time you arrived at Brooklands to begin training, you had nine weeks of life, unless you were one of the lucky ones.'

'But you've forgotten something.' James slowed as they approached the entrance to Brooklands. 'We were all no more than boys-eighteen, nineteen, twenty, for the most part-and we only thought of this big game in the sky and getting back at the Hun. It was a very serious game, though. You don't have any real conception of the possibility of your own death, not at that age. If I look at myself, all I cared about was flying. Bit like Priscilla's boys, only older. Then of course, you come down to earth with a bump if you're hit.' He paused. 'No, that bump comes when you fly over your own chaps in the trenches, and you see them going over the top straight into the machine guns. Not a scrap of innocence remains after that.'

They were silent as James negotiated his way to park the motor car. He switched off the engine and turned to Maisie.

'Do you know what's so comfortable, talking about the war with you? I mean, it's not as if one wants to talk about it much, but when I mention it to you, I know that you know. We had very different wars, Maisie, but I-I don't have to explain anything.'

Maisie nodded. Yes, she had experienced the same feeling, a sense of comfort that someone else understood.