The Mapping of Love and Death

'Oh, dear. You must ache to be back in the United States, Mr. Clifton.'

The elderly man nodded. 'The sooner the better. I cannot wait to see our house on Beacon Street again and to sleep in my own bed.' He looked up at Maisie. 'What news do you have for us?'

She sighed. 'If you will bear with me, I believe I will have news for you in the next few days. I think it best to wait to give you my report at a time when I can recount my findings in such a way that all loose ends are tied-but rest assured, the person responsible for taking the life of you son will be brought to justice. You have my word.'

Clifton nodded and leaned back on the pillows.

'I'd better leave now.' Maisie looked at Hayden, who followed her as she left the room. He closed the door behind him.

'Do you really think you'll have an answer for the old man?'

'I do.' She sighed. 'Yes, I do.'

They bid each other good-bye, and when Maisie stepped out into the spring sunshine, she thought about her response to Hayden's questions. Yes, I do think I'll have an answer-and probably more than you would want to hear.

Her next stop was the shoe department of Selfridges. Though it was rumored that the department store founded by the American Harry Selfridge might not survive the economic depression, she thought it was probably the best place to go to speak to a buyer in the shoe department. Buyers, she had discovered, understood much more about their suppliers than their suppliers had fathomed themselves; and they certainly knew more about those companies than they knew about the styles favored for the following season. Her visit to the store lasted only half an hour, with ten minutes spent winding her way through the different departments, and the remainder with a Mr. Buckingham, the shoe buyer. It was a fruitful encounter. Buckingham could not have known more about Clifton's Shoes had he founded it himself.

Maisie returned to Fitzroy Square, and hearing the telephone ringing in their first-floor office, she slammed the front door behind her and ran to answer the call.

'Miss!' Billy shouted before Maisie could announce the number.

'Is everything all right?'

'I've found her.'

'You have? What's her name? Where is she?'

'Her name is Elizabeth Peterson, and she was about to do a runner-but I spoke to her first.'

'Where are you?'

'Just off the Edgware Road. She's been living in a boardinghouse for spinster women, and she's about to leave.'

'Oh, dear. Give me the address, then go back and stay with her. Tell her we'll look after her, and make sure you lock the doors until I get there.'

'I didn't think it was that sort of case, Miss.'

'Don't worry. I'm on my way.'

Maisie started the MG and took back streets to the address provided by Billy. She parked the motor car outside a smoke-smudged building in need of some attention to peeling paint around the window frames. The dark maroon finish on the front door was curling back to reveal the blue and black of previous decades, and the brass knocker was encrusted with a green mold-like patina. She rapped at the door, then called through the letterbox, knowing that Billy would be listening for her.

She heard the thump-thump-thump of Billy's footfall on the stairs as he came to answer the door.

'Come on in, Miss. There's a Mrs. Blanchard who's the warden here, but apparently she goes to see her sister of a Monday afternoon, so we're all right. It's a bit of a strict place to live regarding visitors, to say that these girls are all getting on a bit.'

'How old would you say is getting on?' Maisie followed Billy up the stairs to a landing with three doors.

'You know, about-oh, Miss, you're not going to get me like that. You know what I mean-they're all over twenty-one, and it's not as if they're in a convent, now is it?'

He knocked on the middle door and called out. 'It's all right. Mr. Beale here, and I've got the lady I told you about-Miss Dobbs.'

A chain rattled on the other side of the door, and it opened to reveal a petite woman of about thirty-five years of age. She was slender to the point of looking as if she could do with a good meal, and Maisie could see the woman was filled with fear. She locked the door behind them.

'I was so scared you'd come back with someone to hurt me.'

Maisie introduced herself, and looked around the room. A kettle sat on top of a small single-ring gas stove in the corner, which in turn was set on top of a cupboard with a blue gingham curtain pulled to one side to reveal an assortment of crockery and two saucepans. Knives and forks were poking out of one of the saucepans.

'Would you mind if Mr. Beale puts the kettle on to boil for a cup of tea?' She did not wait for an answer, but instructed Billy, 'Strong, with plenty of sugar in each cup.' She motioned for Elizabeth Peterson to sit on the bed, and sat down next to her.

'You've had a horrible time of it, haven't you?' said Maisie.

The woman nodded, pulled a handkerchief out from the sleeve of her cardigan, and began to cry. Maisie put her arms around her and allowed her to weep until the heaving sobs abated, and the woman pulled back.

'I've been so scared, 'specially since Mr. Mullen didn't come again.'

'You sound as if you didn't know him very well.'

She shook her head. 'No, I only met him a few months ago. He turned up one Saturday morning, saying he was an old friend of Michael Clifton's. I believed him.'

'What did he want?' asked Maisie.

'He said he had always wondered about the woman his friend had fallen in love with, and he wanted to meet me, to tell me how much Michael had loved me too. Then he sort of kept coming round every now and again, and he started asking me whether I had anything of Michael's.'

Maisie nodded. 'Miss Peterson-Elizabeth-can we go back to the beginning?'

She rubbed her eyes with the handkerchief, and blew her nose. 'But the beginning was in the war.'

'Then let's go back to the war. What did you do in the war, Elizabeth?'

'I was a nurse. I was with Lady Casterman, she was the founder of The English Nursing Unit. Have you heard of us?'

Maisie nodded.

'Well, it all started when I met Lieutenant Clifton in Paris, when I was on leave.'

Her eyes began to fill with tears, and before she could use her own soiled handkerchief, Maisie reached down into her shoulder bag and passed a clean linen square to the woman.

'I wasn't out to meet a boy, really I wasn't, but he was so kind, so charming, and he was alone in Paris-he didn't have family to go back to in Britain, and I only had a short time on leave, so I wasn't going back.' She shivered, and gave a weak smile. 'We had a lovely time, a really lovely time. We did all these things I'd never done before, and in Paris! We went to a show, we had coffee at these little cafes they have, and we just walked along the streets. And afterward we wrote to each other. But we had to be careful, because we were sending our letters back and forth with the ambulance drivers.'

Maisie nodded again. She had done the same thing herself.

'That's why I had to think up another name, so I wasn't caught red-handed and sent home.'

'Tennie.'

'How do you know?'

'Later. Go on with your story. You saw each other again?'

'Once more. By that time we were in love. But I was very scared. I mean, he was an American. My friend said that he was probably just telling me all these things-about his land in America, his family's home in'-she faltered and shook her head-'Beacon Hill. I've kept his letters. She said he probably just wanted to, you know, have a bit of fun.'

She looked at Maisie, who said nothing, but waited for her to continue.

'But I think my friend was wrong. And I don't know why I doubted him, but I started wondering why he told me