The Mapping of Love and Death

silence, nodding on occasion, before speaking again.

'The body has been in the ground for some time-what, some sixteen years.'

'Yes.'

'But the body never lies, does it, Maisie? We may be pressed to see the message sometimes, and one person's eye is not as keen as another's, but the truth is always there.'

'What truth do you see in that report, Maurice?'

Blanche smiled, a movement that caused him to cough once again. Maisie poured a glass of water, and held it out to him. When the coughing had subsided he replied to her question. 'I see wounds consistent with the type of shellfire faced by the men-there's evidence of shrapnel infiltration to the bone from head to toe, and I would say that this man and those with him suffered vascular and arterial damage due to deep lacerations, though it's likely the deaths of the other men were ultimately caused not only by loss of blood, but by asphyxiation when the dugout caved in.' He paused, and looked up at Maisie, the firelight flames reflected in his eyes as he tapped the page. 'But this wound to the back of the head-that was not caused by shrapnel, or a gun. I would say it was a heavy object at very close range. This man was murdered by a more personal foe, not the enemy we call war. And you knew that already.'

Maisie nodded. 'Yes, I knew, Maurice. I wanted you to see the report and to have your opinion. I can see why a harried doctor might miss something; after all, the remains of soldiers are being discovered every week. Still, I thought a British military doctor checking the report might have seen what we have both seen, but this one seems to have slipped through.'

'People often see only what they want to see. To draw attention to this particular anomaly would mean more paperwork, more time-and all for a truth that has remained buried for many years. Such truths can only cause pain for someone somewhere, so perhaps consideration was at the heart of the omission.'

'Well, the father knows, and he is my client.' Maisie leaned back in her chair.

'Tell me about the dead man.'

'He was a cartographer and surveyor, an American whose father was British and who managed to worm his way into the army given his background-mapmaking is a valuable skill.' She recounted Michael Clifton's history, as told by his father, and she outlined the nature of her client's brief.

Maurice was thoughtful. 'Ah, a man who makes maps-an adventurer with his feet on the ground.'

'An adventurer with his feet on the ground?'

Maurice coughed again as he laughed, then continued. 'Who hasn't felt the stirring of wanderlust when looking at a globe? You see the names of far-flung places and want to see who lives there, and what paths they travel through life. Ah, but the mapmaker, he is one who looks at the land around him and interprets it for the rest of us, who gives us the path to our own adventure, if you like.'

'I see what you mean,' said Maisie. 'But I wonder how someone like Michael Clifton truly felt about his role in the army. After all, his job was to interpret the land not for adventure, but for men to fight, for them to be wounded, and die.'

'Indeed.'

Maurice seemed to tire, and at that moment the housekeeper knocked and came into the room. She approached with hardly a sound, and spoke in an almost-whisper.

'The nurse is here, Dr. Blanche.'

Maurice reached out to Maisie, and she took his hands in her own. 'I must go now, Maisie. The only woman ever to frighten me has arrived to ensure I take to my bed. She is fraught because I know more about my medication than she, and because I am given to ingesting my own herbal tinctures-but they allow for a good night's sleep, which is a gift at my age.'

'May I help you?'

'No, but please return tomorrow, have coffee with me before you leave for London.'

'Of course.'

Maisie turned to leave, and as she reached the door Maurice called after her.

'You might bump into James Compton tomorrow. He's home too.'

'Yes, I suppose I might. See you tomorrow, Maurice.'

Maisie planned to leave Chelstone at eleven o'clock, to be back at her office by one at the latest, so she was surprised when the telephone rang in her father's cottage at half past eight the following morning, and her father announced that Billy Beale wanted to speak to her.

'Billy, is everything all right?'

'Sorry, Miss. I know you're going to be back this afternoon, but I thought you'd want to know straightaway that we've had the police here this morning already.'

'The police? Whatever's happened?'

'It's terrible, Miss-Mr. and Mrs. Clifton were attacked in their hotel room yesterday afternoon; left for dead, they were. They're in St. George's Hospital under police guard, and they're both very, very poorly. Mrs. Clifton's at death's door. And the police seem to think you might know who did it.'

THREE

In haste Maisie gathered her belongings, packed her case, and loaded the MG. She ran up to The Dower House to see Maurice, who had not yet risen, so she penned a note to him:

My dear Maurice,

I must return to London immediately. Word came this morning that Mr. and Mrs. Clifton (parents of the young man whose postmortem we discussed yesterday) have been subjected to a most vicious attack at their hotel and both are seriously injured. I will return to Chelstone on Saturday, so expect me to call upon you in the afternoon.

Wishing you well, as always.

Maisie faltered when it came to closing the note; she felt her throat tighten at the thought of Maurice so compromised in health, and at the same time she was shocked by the news from Billy. She swallowed back a fearful anticipation of what she might have to face in the coming days and, holding the pen above the paper, wrote:

With fondest love,

Maisie

She folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and passed it to Mrs. Bromley to give to Maurice on his breakfast tray.

Later, as she started the MG and waited for the engine to warm before driving away from her father's cottage, Maisie pondered the words she had chosen to sign off the message to Maurice. Her love and regard for him was without question, though neither had ever said as much. He was not her father, and her adoration of Frankie Dobbs was beyond measure, but she knew that Maurice, in his way, was parent to her intellect, to her understanding of the world she inhabited. Without Maurice she would not have become the person she was today, for better or for worse. He had guided her along the path of her growing, was witness to her successes and failures, and showed her the world that could be hers if she set out to stake her claim.

Reversing the motor car onto the driveway, she changed gear to drive out along the carriage sweep, but swung over to the left to allow another motor car to pass. Maisie was not familiar with the vehicle, and was surprised when the driver pulled up alongside and wound down the window, though the cloth top was already drawn back despite the cold morning.

'Maisie Dobbs-off so soon? When I saw your little motor parked here last night, I thought I might catch you this morning.' James Compton was wearing a leather jacket over an Aran jersey, with a cream woolen scarf wrapped around his neck and reaching up almost to his nose. His fair hair had been rendered unruly in the wind, his nose was red, and his eyes-the gray-blue of a winter sky-watered from the chill air. He pulled down the scarf to speak. 'I wanted to see if you were up for a spin in the old girl here.'

Maisie was anxious to leave, but at the same time, she had known James for years and had also accepted investigative work from his company in the past, so thought it best to exchange at least a few words. 'Sorry, James, but I have to return to London as a matter of some urgency.' She looked along the lines of the motor car.