'Good. You pack your bag now, and Mr. Beale will leave with you. Take any valuables.'
Elizabeth Peterson went to a chest of drawers and pushed a few items of clothing into a case she pulled from under the bed, while Maisie and Billy washed and dried the cup and saucers.
'Will you look after Michael's things?'
'Don't worry, everything is going to be all right. Either I or Mr. Beale will come to bring you home when it's safe to return.'
'Will it be long?'
Maisie shook her head. 'A day or two.' She motioned for Billy to open the door and check the way out. 'We'll leave by the back, if we can, Billy.'
She watched as Billy steered Peterson along the alley at the back of the hostel, and did not turn to go back to her motor car until she saw him hail a taxi-cab. She looked both ways along the alley and went on her way. Before returning to her motor car, she went into a telephone kiosk to place a call.
'James?'
'Maisie-don't tell me, you can't meet me for supper.'
'No, that's not it. James, does your office have a safe?'
'Do you mean the sort of safe behind a portrait of the Laughing Cavalier, moving eyes and all?'
'As long as it's a safe safe, James, and it's in your personal office, where only you have access to it, I don't mind if it's behind the Mona Lisa making eyes at you!'
'I have a safe, Maisie, a very good safe. It's next to my desk, and only I know how to get into it.'
'I'll come to your office now. If you like, we can have supper in your neck of the woods, or stick to the original plan.'
'Right you are. Does this mean I won't have the pleasure of driving you home afterward?'
'Not this time.'
'Maisie-I can't wait to see you.'
She held her breath for a second before answering. 'Can't wait to see you, either.'
Maisie looked around what seemed to be an expanse of room. As soon as the secretary had closed the door, she could not help but make a comment. James Compton's office was enormous.
'You could fit my father's cottage in this room-to say nothing of my flat.'
James laughed, and took Maisie in his arms.
'I've missed you.'
'I've missed you too.' She smiled at him, and realized she was telling the truth. She had missed him.
'So, you wish me to keep something safe for you?'
She nodded. 'Yes. It's here.' She took the wrapped parcel from a brown paper carrier bag.
'You need something a bit more, well, elegant-that bag looks a bit rough, if I may say so, Maisie.'
'I had something more professional, but it was stolen, and when found, it was in no condition for me to use when I visit clients. I was very fond of that old case, and don't want to rush into replacing it. It seems disrespectful in some way.'
'What's in the parcel?'
'I'm not exactly sure, but it was too important for me to stop and look on the way.'
'I see. Dangerous important?'
'It would appear to be, when I think of the people who would like to get their hands on it.'
'Do you want to open it? I can go out and leave you here for a few moments, if you like.'
'Would you?'
He picked up a ledger from his desk, kissed her on the cheek, and left the office.
Maisie set the parcel on the desk and proceeded to untie the string and pull back the wrapping. The leather- bound sketchbook with silver-tipped ties that she held in her hands looked as if it had been used infrequently, perhaps for one set of notes. She loosened the leather ties and opened the book at the beginning. On the first page was a date in August 1914, followed by map coordinates for a place called the Santa Ynez Valley, in California. She turned the pages with care, aware that she was hardly breathing, so exquisite were the pen-and-ink drawings that followed. She had never been to such a place, yet in the simple sketches, she felt as if she could smell dried earth and the musky fragrance of a landscape so different from the lush greenness of Kent or Sussex. Following the sketches of broad swaths of land there was what she would call a close-up sketch of small bumps in the earth, of cracks where a narrow dark stream emerged, and of outcroppings of rock. There were paragraphs in technical language that made little sense to her, followed by delicate miniature maps, with notes to the effect that they were copies of larger versions.
She sat down on James' chair and looked out across the rooftops, the view almost jarring after being immersed in the sketches of a land so far away. The drawings, rendered with a nib so fine it was beyond belief that a person could wield the pen with such dexterity, were so beautiful that she could hardly bear to look at them. They had all been signed by Michael Clifton, who had been but twenty-three years old when he created this inventory of his land. She turned back to the notes and could see that he had clearly marked places where work must begin. It was the map to his wealth, to his legacy. It would show whoever had the map in his possession where to find the land's most valuable resource-oil.
According to the notes, penned in the fine, precise hand of an engineer, Union Oil and other companies had long surveyed most of the valley, but the farmer in this corner had refused to sell-until he met Michael Clifton. She gathered that even if those oil companies came close, they could not siphon off the oil from under his property. 'It's been there for thousands of years,' the farmer had said. 'It'll be there until someone drills on my land, even if that person isn't me.'
Maisie turned a few more pages until she came to the end of Michael Clifton's entries, which were all made in the days before he left for Southampton. It was clear from his notes that he thought he would be back in the United States by the end of 1914. As she closed the book, she noticed indentations on the back cover, so opened it again and found a pocket. She slipped a finger under the flap and pulled out a small key. Further investigation revealed a piece of paper bearing the words 'The Central Bank of Santa Barbara,' followed by details of two accounts held in the name of Michael Clifton. There was also information on a last will and testament in a safe deposit box, along with maps and documents of title pertaining to his land.
She heard James talking to his secretary outside the door, and replaced Michael Clifton's belongings as she had found them. The door opened.
'Had enough time?'
'Yes, thank you, James. It's ready to go into your safe now.'
'Right you are, just a few clever flicks of the hand, and this will be as secure as the Bank of England.'
James opened a cabinet set against the wall to reveal a small safe into which he placed the parcel. He spun the dial, then closed and locked the cabinet door.
'I will not touch this until you come to claim the parcel.'
'Thank you.'
As they left the office and walked to Maisie's motor car, James reached for her hand.
'James, do you know anything about land, inheritance, and such in America?'
'Oh, inheritance-that's a bit of a dark legal tunnel wherever you are.'
'I wonder,' said Maisie. 'If someone died without family-or anyone else for that matter-knowing whether they had left a will, or indeed the deeds to their property, would it be difficult gaining access for those who might inherit?'
'There are laws of probate that might make it tricky, I do know that. These cases can carry on for years-and that's when you have proof that the deceased is actually no longer drawing breath.'
'That's what I've been told.' She was thoughtful as they approached the MG. When they had taken their seats and Maisie had started the engine, she turned to James. 'And if someone else gained access-of sorts-to the deeds, would they have grounds for a claim?'
