The Mapping of Love and Death E-Book

Jacqueline Winspear

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Maisie Dobbs
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 517

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

August 1914. When war in Europe is declared, a young American cartographer, Michael Clifton, is compelled to fight for his father's native country, and sets sail for England to serve in the British Army. Three years later, he is listed as missing in action. April 1932. After Michael's remains are unearthed in a French field, his devastated parents engage investigator Maisie Dobbs, hoping she can find the unnamed nurse whose love letters were among their late son's belongings. It is a quest that leads Maisie back to her own bittersweet wartime love - and to the discovery that Michael Clifton may not have died in combat. Suddenly an exposed web of intrigue and violence threatens to ensnare the dead soldier's family and even Maisie herself as she attempts to cope with the impending loss of her mentor and the unsettling awareness that she is once again falling in love.

Leseprobe

THE MAPPINGOF LOVE AND DEATH

A Maisie Dobbs Novel

JACQUELINE WINSPEAR

For John

‘The Bluesman’

With my love

There is a great deal of unmapped country within us which would have to be taken into account in an explanation of our gusts and storms.

GEORGE ELIOT,DANIEL DERONDA

War is like love; it always finds a way.

BERTOLT BRECHT

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphPROLOGUEONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVENTWELVETHIRTEENFOURTEENFIFTEENSIXTEENSEVENTEENEIGHTEENNINETEENTWENTYTWENTY-ONEEPILOGUEACKNOWLEDGEMENTSBy Jacqueline WinspearCopyright

PROLOGUE

The Santa Ynez Valley, California, August 1914

Michael Clifton stood on a hill burnished gold in the summer sun and, hands on hips, closed his eyes. The landscape before him had been scored into his mind’s eye, and an onlooker might have noticed his chin move as he traced the pitch and curve of the hills, the lines of the valley, places where water ran in winter, gullies where the ground underfoot might become soft and rises where the rock would never yield to a pick. Michael could see only coloured lines now, with swirls and circles close together where the peaks rose, and broad sweeps of fine ink where foothills gave way to flat land. Yes, this was the place. He had wired his mother a month earlier, asking her to co-sign a document releasing the funds held in trust for him from his maternal grandfather’s will. Each of the Clifton offspring had received a tidy sum. His two sisters had set money aside for their own children and together had indulged in a little investing in land, while his older brother had rolled the bequest into an impressive property. Now it was his turn and, following the example set by his siblings, he had taken his father’s advice to heart: ‘Land is where to put your money. And if it’s good land, you’ll get your money back time and time again.’ Edward Clifton would be pleased when he saw the maps, would slap him on the back. Well done, son. Well done. Didn’t I always say you had the nose? Didn’t I, Martha? Didn’t I, Teddy? And his brother would shake his hand, perhaps add a friendly punch to the shoulder. Good for you, little brother. And there would be no rancour, no slight because he had acted alone, only familial joy because he had succeeded.

Soon, perhaps early next year, a sign bearing the Clifton name would be set above the opening to a new trail into the valley, and travellers passing on the old stage road would assume that the famous company founded some forty years ago by Edward Clifton – a young Englishman who was still in his teens when he’d disembarked from a ship in New York in search of his fortune – was drilling for oil. But they would be wrong, for this Clifton was the youngest son, and this was his land, his oil.

Michael opened his eyes, gazed at the gold and green vista a few moments longer, and began packing away his equipment in a heavy canvas bag. One by one he took each piece and wrapped it carefully with linen and sackcloth: an octant, a graphometer, the surveyor’s compass – a gift from his parents when he completed his studies – a waywiser, theodolite, and tripod. Using these tools attached him to the past, like a plumb line drawn across time connecting him to early map-makers with that same curiosity. He’d always felt so young – the youngest son of a man who came to a young country in his youth. His roots were fresh, new, and in his love of the land – especially this very primitive land shaped by the power of nature – he felt those roots entrench into ancient soil.

He loaded the bag onto the back of a mule-drawn cart, the Mexican driver waiting patiently while he leapt up to sit on the floor and prepared to leave, his legs dangling down as he reached across for his stationery box. He opened the wooden box, checked that he had collected all his pens, sturdy German writing instruments each filled with a different coloured ink. He liked the heft of the pens, the flow of ink, the narrow threads of colour that issued from the pinlike point onto the heavy mapping paper. Michael Clifton might sometimes have been thought an impulsive young man anxious to make his mark, but he knew his business and he was nothing if not a diligent cartographer.

In Santa Ynez, Michael transferred his equipment and personal effects to a larger carriage for the journey into Santa Barbara. From there he could telegraph his father that he was on his way, but would save the good news for later, when he was home. He wanted to see the look on Edward Clifton’s face when he told him of his discovery, he wanted to experience the joy and pride in person. For now he would check into the Arlington Hotel – the Clifton name alone meant a suite would be made available – bathe the dust from his skin, and then he would buy himself the biggest steak he could find in town. He might walk along the beach, smell that crisp Pacific air once more before boarding a California Pacific train bound for San Francisco tomorrow, and from there to the East Coast along the transcontinental railroad. Then, before you knew it, he would be home. But he would return soon to this place. Yes, he would be back – and this new Clifton Corporation would be his.

It was the newsboy outside the hotel who caught his attention.

‘Read all about it. Read all about it. Britain goes to war! Kaiser to fight whole world. Read all about it.’

Pulling a handful of coins from his pocket, Michael bought a newspaper and began reading as he made his way through the hotel foyer. He signed the guest register, only marginally aware of what he was writing, and where. He nodded upon receiving the key to his rooms, and continued reading as the bellhop struggled with his belongings. Once in the suite, he slumped down in a chair, looking up only to press a few cents into the boy’s palm.

It had come as no surprise to his family that Michael Clifton chose to become a cartographer. He had loved maps since childhood, drawn to the mystery of lands far away, fascinated by the names of places and the promise he saw held within a map. ‘You always know where you are with a map,’ he had told his parents, while persuading them of his choice of profession. ‘And if you know where you are, why, you’re more likely to be brave, to have an adventure, to search beyond where everyone else is looking. Think of what I could do for the company!’ His father had laughed, seeing through the subtle entreaty. Yet Michael was right – it had been good for the company, to have a man in the family business who could read the land. You knew where you were with family, and as Edward had told his children time and again, you knew where your money was when it was in land. But what Michael never even tried to explain was the sense of wonder that came with a map, for each one told a story, and he, the surveyor and cartographer, was the storyteller, the translator, the guide to places a person might never otherwise see. He could tame a forest, prairie, or wilderness with a few strokes of his pen. And he had a knack for finding nature’s buried treasures.

It had taken no time at all for Michael to make his decision. Before leaving his rooms he copied precise details from the maps and land documents into a small leather-bound notebook, adding sketches, carefully marking those places where drilling should begin. That the valley held oil deposits was without question – William Orcutt, the surveyor for Union Oil, had the coast and much of the valley all but sewn up. Yet to know exactly where to tap into the riches took an expert eye. Some said you had to touch the land to know, that a man who knew where to sink his shovel could hear oil rumbling in the earth.

His task complete, and with the series of maps rolled and placed in a leather tube along with the original title documents to the land – his land – he went directly to the Central Bank of California on State Street, where he left the leather tube in a safe deposit box, withdrew a portion of the funds held in his name at the bank, and then made his way to the railroad station, where he purchased a ticket to Boston via San Francisco and New York. He left the office, then stopped short in the street before returning to the ticket counter, whereupon he informed the clerk that he had changed his mind, and would go only as far as New York. The clerk grumbled, but asked no questions as he made out the new ticket. From New York, Michael planned to sail to England as soon as he could secure a passage – and it was surprising the speed with which anything could be reserved, booked, obtained, and acquired when you were a Clifton.

It was only right that he go, because for his family, England was the old country. He’d read that other boys were going over, boys like him who had Limey blood in their veins. Of course, he suspected they probably wouldn’t let him bear arms, being an American by birth, but he had a profession, and he was only too aware that in wartime armies needed to know where they were going, needed to know the lie of the land. He would wire his family and let them know of his decision just before he sailed. His father might argue, but he would also be proud that his son was going to fight for the country he’d left a lifetime ago. And his maps of the valley and the deed to his land would be safe until he returned; after all, according to reports, the war in Europe would be over by Christmas. Thus, by the time a tall spruce tree was alive with baubles, tinsel, and lights in the window of the grand house on Boston’s Beacon Hill, he’d be home.

ONE

Fitzroy Square, London, April 1932

‘Would you believe it, Billy – three years and we’re still in business!’ Maisie Dobbs turned away from the floor-to-ceiling window, where she had been watching grey, rain-filled clouds lumbering across an otherwise springlike sky. She smiled and sat down at the table where she and her assistant, Billy Beale, had been working.

Billy ran his fingers through his hair. ‘And we’ve a few more clients on the books than we expected in January.’

Maisie leant back in her chair. ‘We’ve been lucky, there’s no doubt about that. I just hope it continues throughout the year.’

‘Perhaps the Americans we’re seeing this morning have a few friends over here who might need your services,’ said Billy. ‘I mean, that’s how almost all the work comes in, isn’t it? Through clients who were satisfied with what you did for them.’

‘Speaking of the Americans, I want to read that letter once more before they arrive.’ Maisie stood up and walked across the room to her desk. She took her seat and leant forward, her forearms resting on the blotting pad. ‘Apparently they’re very good people, quite down to earth, but they’ll be expecting me to be completely prepared for the appointment, especially with such a strong personal reference from Dr Hayden.’

She reached for a manila folder with the words ‘Clifton, Edward and Martha’ inscribed along one side, and took out a well-thumbed letter from Dr Charles Hayden. Maisie had been introduced to the eminent American surgeon by Simon Lynch, a captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps, during the war. At the time Dr Hayden was a volunteer with a medical contingent from the Massachusetts General Hospital. They had corresponded since the war, and now he wrote in response to a letter from Maisie.

Please do not apologise for the delay in letting me know that Simon has passed away. Though my first concern is always for my patients, in my dealings with families of the sick and dying, I know the passage of grief is a difficult one to navigate, so please do not concern yourself that you should have written sooner. You have been in Pauline’s and my thoughts so often over the years, especially given Simon’s medical circumstances. As a doctor, I confess, I was amazed at the man’s continued physical resilience, when there was no obvious function in his mind.

He continued with reminiscences of times spent with Simon, and followed with news of his family. Then the letter took a different tack.

Maisie, I hope you don’t mind, but I have taken the liberty of referring a friend to you. He and his wife are more thanwilling to pay for your professional services, and they are in any case planning to sail for France in late March, then will travel on to England in April. I know they will be in touch and you will want to hear the story straight from the horse’s mouth, but let me fill you in on what I know so that you might be prepared for what’s in store.

I met the Cliftons though their son-in-law, Bradley Marchant. He’s married to their eldest daughter, Meg, and is one of my colleagues here at the hospital. We went to their wedding at the family vacation home on Cape Cod, and I’m a godfather to their eldest. I don’t know if you need all this detail, but I thought I should let you know anyway.

Edward Clifton is an Englishman by birth. He came over here when he was about eighteen, nineteen, something like that. He wasn’t exactly penniless, but he knew how to work – and to make something of himself, he had to work hard. He turned his hand to anything he could, then started putting money into land. Bradley said that acquiring land was an obsession with Edward when he was younger. I guess it’s something about coming from over there and starting again in a new country – he needed to own a part of it, stake his claim. From land he moved into building and founded a construction company, then started investing in stocks; all tied to the land in some way. I’ll cut to the chase here, and say that by the time he was thirty, Edward Clifton was very, very wealthy. Then he met Martha Stanbourne – she’s from an important family, it’s said their ancestors came to America on the Mayflower. The Stanbournes are what wecall ‘Boston Brahmin’ over here. They married – there’s no doubt it was a love match – and had four children. There’s Edward Jr. (Teddy), then Margaret and Anna, and bringing up the rear, Michael. Couldn’t have met a nicer family.

Maisie paused. When she had first read the letter, as soon as she saw the word Michael the thought had crossed her mind: That’s the one. It’s Michael who has caused them pain. For there was no doubt in her mind, even in reading a few paragraphs, that the Cliftons were in some emotional turmoil. Why else would they need her services?

In August 1914, Michael was out in California – he was a map-maker, surveyor of some sort. Apparently he’d bought a tract of land with money left to him by Martha’s father. It would have been a lot of money, and according to Bradley, there’s still plenty held in trust. He was very excited about the purchase, and was due to come back to Boston – couldn’t wait to see his parents to tell them all about it. Then I guess you could say he crossed paths with fate when he saw the news about war in Belgium. He changed his plans at the last minute and sailed for Europe. Edward will fill you in on the details, but Michael enlisted in England and was attached to a military cartography unit – no doubt if it wasn’t for his profession he would have been sent packing back to Boston.

‘Cuppa, Miss, before they get here?’

Maisie glanced at the clock. ‘Oh yes, please. They’re bound to be shocked if they see me drinking out of my old army mug. Americans always expect to see the English sipping tea from fine bone china.’ She went back to the letter.

Michael was listed as missing in early 1916. In January a farmer working the land (somewhere in the Somme Valley) put his plough into a gully, and when he and some other men were digging it out, the ground started to fall away and the bodies of several British soldiers were found. Michael was identified by his tags. By now you’re probably wondering why the Cliftons need to see someone like you. Apparently the ground gave way to a dugout and a series of what you could only describe as rooms – so well made, the Brits might have been occupying an old German trench. It was there that the soldiers belongings were found. They were members of a surveying team. Michael’s journal was discovered, along with other personal effects. Don’t ask me how the Cliftons managed to get their hands on the journal. You know the soldiers weren’t allowed to keep any sort of diary, so it’s a wonder it wasn’t retained by the authorities. It’s now with Edward and Martha, along with a collection of letters. His wallet was tucked in his jacket pocket, and apparently his surveying compass and other tools he’d taken with him were also returned to the family. Now, the reason they want to see you is this: the letters were from a woman, they think an English woman, and they want to find her. That’s everything I know, but at least you’ll be prepared when they arrive.

Please keep in touch, Maisie. Pauline sends her love – perhaps you girls will have a chance to meet one day.

It was signed with a flourish: ‘Charles.’

‘There you are, Miss. Nice cuppa the old char.’

‘Lovely – thank you, Billy.’ Maisie pushed back her chair, leaving the letter open on the table as she looked out upon the square again. She cupped her hands around the chipped enamel mug. ‘I thought we were in for a warm spring, but look at that rain.’

‘Coming down cats and dogs, ain’t it?’ Billy sipped his tea and reached for the letter. ‘You know what I reckon happened to this here Michael Clifton?’ Billy continued without waiting for an answer. ‘I reckon he heard about the war starting and came over all patriotic for the half of him that was British. That and the fact that something gets into lads when a war starts. Makes them get all mannish, as if they can’t wait to get on with getting old. Look at me and my brother – and him buried over there.’

Maisie nodded. ‘I know – though it’s true to say that you and your brother were also pushed by public opinion. I remember Charles – Dr Hayden – saying that in America in 1914 it was different. There were a lot of people who had just emigrated from Germany, so there was a significant allegiance to the Kaiser at first. But thank heavens for the American doctors and nurses who volunteered when war broke out; they saved a great many lives.’

‘So, what do you think of this, Miss?’ He held up the letter.

‘Let’s see what the Cliftons have to say – they’ll be here in a minute. But I don’t think it has anything to do with money. If they want to find that woman, it’s because there’s a link to Michael. The question is, what kind of link? It could be something as simple as wanting to speak to someone who knew their son at a time when he was at a great distance from them – it appears they were a close family. But my sense is that it’s more than that.’ Maisie closed her eyes. ‘They want to unlock some door to the past, I would say. And they have reason to believe this woman holds the key.’

The bell above the door began to ring.

‘That must be them. Go on, Billy, go and let them in while I put these few things away.’

Maisie turned up the jets on the gas fire and pulled four chairs closer, so that the room might be more welcoming when the new clients entered. She heard their footsteps on the stairs, and Billy asking how they were liking England and if they had had a good crossing from France. The door opened, and Maisie walked towards Edward and Martha Clifton, extending her hand to welcome them into the room.

‘How lovely to meet you, Mr and Mrs Clifton. May I take your coats?’

Maisie judged Edward Clifton to be about seventy-seven or seventy-eight, probably a little older than her father. He was a man of average height, not stooped, but one who seemed ill at ease with the restricted movement that came with age. He wore a black woollen overcoat and black homburg, which he removed as he stepped into the office. His suit was of a deep slate-grey fabric, a colour matching the silk tie and the kerchief in his pocket. Martha Clifton – Maisie suspected she might be some ten years younger than her husband – removed a cashmere coat trimmed with fur. She was wearing a stylish ensemble of light tweed in which mauves were blended with earthen colours perhaps more suited to autumn than spring. Her cloche accentuated deep-set brown eyes, around which the skin was lined, gathering in gentle ripples when Maisie took her hand, and she smiled in return. Maisie could imagine that smile becoming broad upon greeting her children and grandchildren, and an image came to mind of her eyes filled with tears when she was reminded of her youngest son, Michael.

When her guests were settled, Maisie took the seat closest to her desk, while Billy handed cups of tea to Edward and Martha, and in those precious seconds without conversation, she was able to gauge their mood and feelings towards each other. They were, as might be imagined, somewhat tense, though Maisie could detect a connection between them that she found rare in a man and wife of their generation. They leant towards each other in the way that a pair of ancient oaks might seem as one, their branches laced together as the years passed. Yet at the same time there was an independence and, Maisie thought, profound respect. She could see that there had been no secrets in the household, and decisions had never been made alone, until the day Michael left for England.

‘Now, perhaps you could tell me what it is you would like to discuss with me, and how you think I might be able to help you.’ She was careful not to mention Charles Hayden’s letter, as she wanted to hear the story from the couple.

‘Well—’ Edward Clifton looked at his wife, and reached for her hand, which she had already moved towards his. ‘Our son, who was an American citizen, came to England in ’14 to join up.’ He cleared his throat. His voice was deep, and though one could not mistake the Englishman in his accent, there was a slower rhythm to his speech, a cadence distinguishing him as one who had gone away and would never again be at ease in the country of his birth. ‘He decided not to tell us until just before he sailed.’ He glanced at his wife again. Martha Clifton nodded for him to continue. ‘Michael’s mother and I, well, we thought he’d be turned away and shipped right back home, but that was not to be, given his profession.’

‘Which was?’

‘Michael was a cartographer. He had been working for one of the family companies as a surveyor, assessing land prior to purchase.’

‘And is that what he was doing before he enlisted for service in England?’

‘Yes – and no.’

Maisie looked at Martha, who had leant forward as she spoke. ‘Each of our children has money left in trust by my father. The trust stipulated that until they reached the age of thirty, I had to co-sign transfer of funds from the trust. From the time he was in his teens, Michael had been fascinated by California. He said there was so much there for a young man, that he wanted to just go see what it was all about. Then, a month before he left to return to Boston, he wired me and asked for a significant sum to be transferred into an account in Santa Barbara – it’s a little town along the coast.’

‘And you agreed?’

‘It was his money. He was a man – twenty-three at the time. And both his father and I felt that if he lost the money, well, it represented an investment on a lesson that would stand him in good stead.’

Maisie nodded. ‘And before I go on – may I ask how you felt about Michael making a decision that was not on behalf of the family business?’

‘We were all for it,’ said Edward. He paused to clear his throat. ‘Let me explain. My great-grandfather was a shoemaker who built a successful business, which was in turn taken over by my grandfather, then my father. I was the only male in my generation, and from early childhood I was told that I was in line to take over the business. It was drummed into me time and time again.’ He smiled and looked at his wife. ‘And you know something, Miss Dobbs? I couldn’t stand it. I hated the smell of the factories, the untreated leather, the whale oil when it was delivered, the tannery. I detested the shoe business and would have walked around in rubber boots to make my point. I had no mind to go into that company, and in the end, I suppose you could say I ran away. I had a bit of money of my own – we weren’t poor, but I had to earn every penny – and America beckoned. Same thing happened in Martha’s family, to her brothers; they were expected to join a family business without consideration of what they might have wanted. In my case, my father and mother disowned me, my letters were returned, and I never spoke to my family again – which grieves me to this day. So, with that in mind, my corporation is set up to be run independently. We never wanted our children to feel beholden to us. If they had it in them to join the company – fine. But if not, we still wanted them to sit at the table with us for Thanksgiving dinner without an argument about it. As it happens, Teddy – our eldest son – and our daughter Anna’s husband both work for the corporation. Michael was just doing what I had done years before. He was breaking away, and we wanted to make it easy for him to come home again, always.’

Maisie nodded. ‘Do you know why he wanted the money?’

‘There’s a tract of land in his name in an area known as Santa Ynez – that’s with a y. It’s a Spanish name. We haven’t been there, but Teddy went out in ’21, and said it was just the sort of place that Michael would have loved.’

‘What happened to the land?’

‘There are legal and probate problems remaining. We have no proof of title, no bill of sale. Michael paid in cash – and of course, he was listed as missing.’ Clifton pre-empted Maisie’s next question. ‘Yes, time has passed, and we should have had no difficulty in making the case that Michael died in the war, but gaining access to the land has been difficult. The area is awash with oil companies, and even though we’ve pressed the point that Michael was killed in the war, the court ruled that Michael’s intentions were not known, and there might be other claimants – and believe me, there have been a few because it’s valuable land, but we’ve managed so far to keep it all from being settled, pending the discovery of proof.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘And you have to remember, though we’re here in 1932, when Michael first went out to California, there was still more than a hint of the Wild West about it. Well, that’s how it seemed to East Coasters like Martha and me.’

‘I can see this must be very troublesome for you, on top of losing your son,’ said Maisie. ‘But how can I help you?’

Martha Clifton took her husband’s hand in both her own. ‘We have a batch of quite a few letters. Given that they were buried for years, they are in fair condition due to the waxed paper and rubber cloth Michael had used to wrap them. They were clearly of some value to our son, yet we could not bring ourselves to read them.’ She looked down at her hands, then began to turn her wedding and engagement rings around and around, lifting them above the first bone in her slender finger, then pushing them back down again. She looked up. ‘I don’t want to pry into my son’s past, but to me the hand seems to be that of a woman, perhaps someone Michael loved, and I would like to know who she is. I—’

‘I understand,’ said Maisie, her voice soft. She turned to Edward Clifton. ‘Do you have anything else?’

Clifton reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat. ‘I have a journal, a diary kept by Michael. Again, some of the pages are fused with damp, and foxed with age, but we have read a few paragraphs.’ He paused as he handed the brown-paper-wrapped book to Maisie, who reached forward to take the package from him.

‘So, am I to take it that you would like me to read the letters and the diary, that you wish me to identify the letter writer, and—’ She looked from Clifton to his wife. ‘Am I right to assume that you would like me to try to find the person?’

Martha Clifton smiled, though her eyes had filled with tears. ‘Yes, yes, please, Miss Dobbs. We can help a little, because we’ve already placed an advertisement in several British newspapers, and we’ve received a number of replies; you see, though we didn’t read Michael’s letters, we opened one or two to see if there was an address or full name – but there was nothing to identify the writer. In the advertisement, we said we would like to hear from a woman who had known Michael Clifton, of Boston in the United States, in the war.’

Edward Clifton cleared his throat and began to speak again. ‘And I thought that, given your background, you might want to see this document, which we received from the French authorities.’ He held out a brown envelope towards Maisie. As she began to draw out the pages, Clifton continued. ‘It’s a report from the doctor who examined our son’s remains. A post-mortem of sorts. Charles has seen the report, and we’ve talked about it.’

‘And I said I would rather not read it,’ Martha Clifton interjected.

‘Yes, I understand.’ Maisie began to scan the page. She made no comment, but nodded as she reached the end of each paragraph. She could feel Edward Clifton’s gaze upon her, and when she looked up she knew that in the brief meeting of their eyes there was an understanding. She knew why he had come to her, and that the truth of Michael Clifton’s death had been kept from his mother. And she could understand how a French doctor – possibly tired, probably weary of another aging corpse brought from the battle-scarred land upon which so many had died – had missed what an eminent Boston surgeon, one who himself had served in that same war, had seen when he read the report.

‘It all looks fairly straightforward, but I would like to keep it here, if I may.’

‘Of course.’ Clifton looked at his wife and smiled, as if to assure her that all would be well now and that they had made the right decision in seeking the help of this British investigator. ‘We’ll have the letters sent over to you as soon as we get back to our hotel – we’re staying at the Dorchester.’

‘And we’ll send some photographs of Michael.’ Martha Clifton seemed to press back tears as she spoke. ‘I’d like you to know what he was like.’

‘Thank you, a photograph would be most useful, though I have a picture of Michael in my mind already. You must have been very proud of him.’

‘We were. And we loved him so very much, Miss Dobbs.’ Edward Clifton reached into his pocket once again and drew out another envelope. ‘Your advance, per our correspondence.’

Billy escorted the couple downstairs to the front door, and helped them into the motor car waiting outside. Maisie looked down from the window and watched as they drove away, Billy waving them off as if bidding farewell to a respected uncle and aunt. She heard him slam the door, then make his way upstairs to the office.

‘Brrr, still nippy out there, Miss.’ He sat down at the table and reached for the jar of coloured pencils to begin work.

‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ Maisie remained at the window, still clutching Michael Clifton’s journal and the envelope containing the post-mortem report.

‘Should be an easy one, eh? We’ll get the old letters, warm ’em up nice and slow, find out who the writer is, and Bob’s your uncle. We’ll find Michael Clifton’s lady friend, and there we are. Job done.’

Maisie turned and pulled back a chair to sit down opposite Billy. ‘Not quite.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Unless I am much mistaken, Michael Clifton was not killed by the shell that took the lives of his fellow men. He was murdered.’

TWO

‘Why do you think Dr Hayden didn’t say something in his letter, about that post-mortem report?’ Billy stood in front of Maisie’s desk, his arms folded. ‘I mean, it takes you by surprise, reading that sort of thing.’

‘In some ways I can see why he made no mention of it. He might not have wanted to influence me – he saw an anomaly and wanted me to spot it myself, without encouragement or direction.’ Maisie began to gather her belongings, checked a manila folder that she placed in her document case, and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece before turning back to Billy. ‘Have you ever been on the street and seen someone looking up into the sky? Next thing you know, other people are looking up, and before long everyone reckons they’ve seen something. Well, independently, both Dr Hayden and I spotted commentary regarding damage to the skull and concluded that it was not in keeping with other wounds. It was the sort of injury more likely to be found in a case of attack with a heavy, blunt object, and the notes suggest to me that there is room for investigation.’

‘I see what you mean, Miss.’

Maisie picked up the telephone receiver, but did not dial. ‘The first thing I want to do is to show the report to Maurice. I want to hear what he has to say about it. Now, a parcel will probably arrive from the Cliftons in an hour or so – I am sure they will lose no time in sending a messenger with the letters and other items of interest. Would you stay until it arrives?’

‘Of course, Miss.’ Billy fingered the edge of the case map, the offcut of plain wallpaper where all evidence, thoughts, hunches, and observations on any given case were noted using coloured pencils. Some words were written in capital letters, others with a star next to them. Then clues were linked this way and that, as if the person creating the map were trying different pieces in a jigsaw puzzle to see if they might fit.

Maisie replaced the telephone receiver. ‘Is everything all right, Billy?’

‘Y-yes, of course. Nothing wrong.’

‘Do you need to leave early?’

‘No, no, it’s not that.’

Maisie stepped towards the table and sat down opposite her assistant. ‘Doreen’s coming home soon, isn’t she?’

Billy nodded and continued to rub the paper between thumb and forefinger.

‘It’s been a long time since she went away. But she’s done well of late, during her weekend visits home, hasn’t she?’

‘Very well, all things considered.’

‘It’s natural to be worried, Billy. You’ve all got to get used to living together again, and there isn’t exactly a book to guide you.’

Billy leant forward and put his head in his hands. Maisie could see he was afraid.

‘That doctor, the one you sent us to – Dr Masters – said that once the anniversary of our Lizzie’s passing had come and gone, she’d make better progress. And she has. It was as if there was a nasty old abscess full of memories in her head that had to open up. But that don’t stop me feeling two things at once. On one hand, I’m pleased as punch that she’ll be back with us, and on the other, I’m worried to the bone for our boys. They’ve done well, Miss. Her goings-on before she was taken away had made them like little ghosts around the house, never knowing what was going to happen next. They didn’t know whether she’d be all sunshine and light, or whether she’d be ready to give them a stripe across the backs of their legs. They want their mum to come home, but I can see they’re dreading it too.’

Maisie did not respond at once, but allowed silence to follow Billy’s confession. To speak with immediacy would suggest his words had no import, that such fears were unfounded. And he had good cause to be concerned.

‘Those feelings are to be expected.’ When she spoke, it was with tenderness in her voice. ‘You and the boys have been on your own for four months, and they’ve become accustomed to a new rhythm to their days, and your mother is very good with them – solid as a rock, isn’t she? Now you have to bring Doreen into your circle and welcome her home – which is so hard when you have such troubling memories of her before she was committed. Just take each day as it comes, Billy. Give Doreen time to negotiate her own path back into the fold – and remember, she’s been in a place where she’s found the healing she needed, so she must be scared too.’

‘It’s not as if you can all talk about it, is it? I mean, you’ve just got to get on with it, like they say.’

Maisie took a deep breath. ‘Don’t be afraid to talk to each other. Talk to the boys before Doreen gets home, and talk to Doreen. After something like this happens, things rarely go back to the way they were before, but it doesn’t mean it’s all bad. Take it as it comes. Slowly. You’re on fresh ground, Billy, so give yourself a chance to see the road ahead, and be ready to change course.’

Billy scratched his head. ‘I reckon I can see what you mean, Miss. Canada was the only place I’d had my sights on for years. All I wanted to do was to get us all out and emigrate, just like my mate did with his family. But now Doreen’s got to get back to her old self, and I’ve got to get more money put away before we can make a move anywhere.’ He sighed. ‘And London might be my home, and I might be Shoreditch born and bred, but now all I can see is a big ship going to Canada and all of us on it.’

A bell ringing above the door indicated the arrival of a visitor.

‘I bet that’s the messenger from the Cliftons. Bring up the parcel, and then you go on home, Billy. You’ve got a lot to do before Friday, so you’d best be off.’

Billy left the office and returned with a brown-paper-wrapped box. ‘Here it is, Miss.’ He placed the package on Maisie’s desk. ‘I reckon you won’t be in until tomorrow afternoon, if you’re going down to see Dr Blanche.’

‘Probably around two tomorrow. I just have to nip home to pack my case, and I’ll be off down to Chelstone. The letters have to be warmed and opened very carefully. I know they may seem dry, having been out of the ground for a few months, but that kind of damp fuses the paper, and very hot air can cause the paper to crumble. I’ll take them home and leave them near the radiator. Then we’ll see what we can do. Oh, and in the meantime, could you start going through the list of respondents to the advertisement? Their letters should be in the parcel. We need to separate the wheat from the chaff.’

‘How do I know what’s what?’

‘Good question. Trust your instinct. Some stories will obviously take wide turns, and can be easily identified as the work of rogue claimants; others may be sob stories. Don’t be taken in by the sad tales of lost love, but look for a ring of authenticity. I have a feeling that if Michael Clifton’s girl saw and responded to the advertisement, she would have taken care to mention something personal to identify her knowledge of him – though we will need the Cliftons’ help to confirm such a marker.’ Maisie gathered her belongings and paused at the door. ‘And I think that Michael’s lady friend might offer more than solace to his parents. She might well hold the key to the identity of the person who took his life.’

Maisie arrived at her flat in Pimlico and went straight to the radiator in the sitting room, where she pressed her hands to the thick iron pipes. They were lukewarm, a perfect temperature to dry the recently unearthed papers. The box sent from the Cliftons contained several items, including three smaller packages, each wrapped with brown paper and tied with string. One was marked ‘Letters from Claimants’ and had been left with Billy to go through. The second was marked ‘Letters to Michael, found with his belongings’, and it was this package that Maisie now began to unwrap, without first even removing her coat. She had planned to pack with haste and drive straight to Chelstone, but now wavered, the letters piquing her curiosity.

Maisie had read many letters during the course of her work. A client might bring a crumpled missive found in the pocket of a husband believed to be unfaithful, or a distraught caller might present her with a collection of letters from a relative, communication he hoped might prove wrongful omission from a will. Letters were submitted to prove innocence and guilt, to indicate intentions, whether untoward or kindly. And where letters were written over the course of some months or years, Maisie could follow the passage of a relationship between writer and recipient, could read between the lines and could intuit what might have been penned in return. A collection of letters offered a glimpse across the landscape of human connection at a given time. But the letters written to Michael Clifton offered a seed of fascination for her even before she pulled the string and began to unwrap the paper, for they were written from the heart by a girl to her love – and Maisie had once been a girl in love, in wartime.

Sitting at the table, Maisie drew back the brown paper to reveal the collection of letters, still in their original envelopes, unopened since Michael Clifton himself had received each letter. In the third package, several photographs of Michael showed him to be a young man of some height, strong across the shoulders, a confidence to his stance. His hair was fair, short and combed back, though in one photograph it appeared as if the wind had caught him unawares, and a lock of hair had fallen into his eyes – in that image he reminded her of Andrew Dene, with whom she had walked out some eighteen months earlier. She had ended the relationship, but heard that he had since married the daughter of a local landowner.

Maisie brought her attention back to Michael Clifton. The photographs appeared to have been taken in the heat of summer, close to the sea. His eyes were narrow against the glare of the sun, and she could not help but return her attention to his smile. His was an open face, a face that bore no evidence of sorrow or past calamity; it seemed to reflect only a zest for life and spirit of adventure. It was the face of one who might be said to have lived a charmed life.

Though she had planned only to pack and leave for Chelstone, Maisie lingered over the letters, and slipped the pages from the first envelope.

Dear Lt Clifton,

Thank you for your letter, which I received this morning. It is always exciting to receive a letter, but I had to wait until noon before I could rush to my tent to read it …

Maisie pressed her lips together and looked away, remembering the casualty clearing station in France, and those times when a letter arrived from Simon, its pages seeming to burn through her pocket into her thigh until the moment she could run to the tent she shared with Iris, whereupon she would tear open the envelope to read: ‘My Darling Maisie …’

She turned back to the letter, lifted the page to the light, and continued.

I’m glad to hear that you enjoyed your leave in Paris as much as I. Who would believe that a war is on, when youcan go from one place to another and have such a joyous time? You were very generous, and I will never forget that delicious hot cocoa the café owner made for us; I have never tasted anything quite like it. I’m so glad I bought a postcard with a picture of the Champs-Élysées. I felt as light as air walking along without mud and grime on my hem.

I’ve been thinking about your stories of America. I can’t imagine living in a country that big. Until I came to France, I had never travelled more than ten miles from my father’s house.

Well, I must go now – we are expecting more wounded this afternoon and there’s much to prepare.

Yours sincerely,

The English Nurse

‘The English Nurse?’ Maisie said aloud. ‘The English Nurse? Don’t you have a name? Why are you calling yourself “The English Nurse” – and why no address?’ Then she reminded herself that during the war she had never given an address at the top of the page; the official ‘Somewhere in France’ had seemed both insipid and melodramatic at the same time. And in her chest she felt a tightening, imagining the tall American with the broad smile on a sunny day laughing with this girl, perhaps teasing her … ‘my English nurse’.

Maisie folded the letter and placed it in the envelope once again. She brought an old newspaper from the box room and laid it out on the floor, then took the letters and set them on the paper as if she were placing cards for a game of patience. They were close enough to the radiator to benefit from the shallow heat, yet away from any damp that might be leaching through the wall from outside. Each letter had enough space around it for air to flow freely, and when she returned, she would open the letters one by one, peel away the pages and set them to dry in the same way.

Though rain clouds threatened to slow the drive to Kent, the promise of better weather ahead was signalled by shafts of sunlight breaking through shimmering new leaves on the tree canopy overhead. Maisie began to feel more settled as she made her way through Sevenoaks, and down River Hill towards Tonbridge. Her recent visits to Chelstone had been brief, and she had visited Maurice only occasionally since the beginning of the year. She was anxious, as always, to see her father, who would be both pleased to see her and worried that she was visiting in the middle of the week. He was a man who liked the rhythm of routine, and any deviation gave him cause for concern.

At the sound of wheels crunching on the gravel lane leading from the manor house drive to his small cottage, Frankie Dobbs was quick to open the front door. ‘Maisie, love—’ He walked towards the MG, his dog at his side.

‘Hello, Dad – you’re looking well! And so’s Jook.’ Frankie Dobbs leant forward to kiss his daughter on the cheek, and carried her overnight case into the house while she made a fuss of the dog. Soon father and daughter were in the kitchen, the kettle on the stove to boil, and Frankie had opened the range door so that Maisie could feel the benefit of hot coals.

‘This weather doesn’t know what to do, does it? One minute you think it’s spring, the next minute you’re banking up the fire.’

‘That’s exactly what Billy said only today.’

Frankie nodded. ‘Here to see Maurice?’ There was no resentment in his voice, for Maisie’s father had long ago come to understand that the bond between Maisie and her former teacher and mentor was an enduring one, though tested at times.

‘Yes, I want him to look at a report, just to see what he has to say.’

‘Must be urgent, if it couldn’t wait until Friday.’

Maisie nodded, reaching out to take the mug of tea offered by her father. ‘No, I didn’t want to wait.’

‘He’s been right poorly, you know.’

‘I thought he was getting better.’ Maisie set down her mug after one sip.

‘To my mind, it was all that going over to France what did it. I told him, “You can’t be going over there when you still feel rough.” He said he had to go, had to get some affairs sorted out, and the next thing you know, Lady Rowan gets a message that he’s staying there because he’s gone down again – well, you know, don’t you?’

‘How is he now?’

‘As soon as he came home, they brought a bed into the conservatory for him, so he could rest during the day – it’s very warm in there when sun shines right through, plus there’s that nice fireplace. I reckon the ailment’s sitting on his chest and just won’t be moved. Nasty cough he’s got – and it’s such a shock, because he’s always been your busy sort, hasn’t he? If he’s not over there in France, or on business in London, he’s out with his roses, or you can see him reading a book up there by the window. Always one to pass the time of day, he is. But this has knocked him for six, I can see that.’

‘I’ll go up and see the housekeeper this evening, ask if it’s all right to call tomorrow morning. I should have telephoned, but I thought—’

‘I know – this isn’t like him. And Lady Rowan is all beside herself. You know how she is, what with her “I am beside myself”.’

Maisie laughed upon hearing her father’s imitation of his employer, whom he held in high regard, a respect that was mutual.

‘What’s caught her attention now?’

‘James is home from Canada?’

‘James is home?’ She reached for her mug again. ‘Well, that is a surprise, given that he hates sailing in what he calls the “iceberg months”. I thought he wouldn’t return until summer, and then perhaps not until next year.’

‘No, he’s back, and they say – them downstairs – that he’s back for good. There’s talk of the London house being opened up for him, and Lady Rowan is said to be very happy because his lordship is going to retire.’

‘Well, I never.’ Maisie leant back in her chair. ‘I don’t visit for a few weeks, and look what happens. I wonder how things might change around here.’

‘We all wonder. It’s like the changing of the guard – out goes one lot, and in comes another.’

‘I doubt it will be that bad. Lady Rowan loves Chelstone and hates going up to town now – even for the season.’

‘You watch. Next thing you know, James will be matched up, mark my words.’

Maisie laughed. ‘He’s about thirty-six now, Dad, and he’s been engaged three times already. He won’t be easily pressed into marriage.’

‘Another one who lost his heart nigh on twenty-odd years ago.’ Frankie shook his head and looked out of the window across the fields.

‘Well, that’s as may be.’ Maisie stood up, rinsed her mug under the cold tap, and set it on the draining board. ‘Now then, I think I’ll nip up to see if I can have that word with Maurice’s housekeeper.’

‘Is that Maisie?’ Maurice’s voice could be heard calling from the conservatory as Maisie spoke with the housekeeper in the entrance hall.

‘One minute, Dr Blanche.’ Mrs Bromley, the housekeeper, scurried away, returning a few minutes later. ‘He wants to see you now, Miss Dobbs. I was just about to bring him in from the conservatory – he does like to sit there until it’s dark, and even though it’s warm and we’ve plugged it up so there’s no drafts, I do worry about him. The nurse comes in at about eight o’clock – she should be here any minute – and makes sure he’s comfortable for the night, so you’ve time for a little chat. He’s been waiting for you to come home.’

Come home. Even though she had her own flat in London, even though she was London born and bred, when she came to her father’s house, to all intents and purposes she was considered to be home. Maisie smiled. He’s been waiting for you to come home. It was true, she always felt a sense of belonging at Chelstone, and particularly when she reflected upon the hours spent with Maurice at the Dower House.

Together with Mrs Bromley, Maisie helped Maurice into a wheelchair, then to his favourite chair alongside the fireplace in his study. As he sat down, she noticed how frail he looked. His shoulder blades seemed sharp against the fabric of his dressing gown, and his eyes milky, sunken like those of an old dog.

‘Maisie, I am so happy to see you.’

‘And you too, Maurice.’ She leant towards him, and they kissed on both cheeks. ‘I wish I had known that you were so poorly – I thought you were getting well again.’

He lifted a hand towards the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, Maisie’s usual seat; then he shook his head. ‘I did not want you to be worried, so I asked that you not be alerted to my ill health. I am sure that as soon as summer comes, I will be as fit as a fiddle.’ He coughed, reaching into the pocket of his woollen cardigan for a handkerchief, which he held to his mouth. Maisie could hear the rasping in his chest, the wheeze as he caught his breath. ‘I beg your pardon.’ He paused before continuing. ‘I saw the light from your torch as you came along the path. I’m glad you’ve come. Now then, Maisie, what is it you want to discuss? Give an old campaigner something to chew on; I’m fed up with being the resident invalid.’

Maisie pulled an envelope from her pocket, slipped out Michael Clifton’s post-mortem report, and passed the pages to Maurice, who squinted to see the words even though he had set his spectacles on his nose. He read in 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 leant 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 – map-making 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 map-maker, 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