The Mapping of Love and Death: A Maisie Dobbs Novel

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Temple looked down at his notes once again and closed the file. "Well, it must have been written up somewhere." He cleared his throat, then looked up. "Let me escort you to your motor car. The weather looks as if it will hold for a clear journey back to London. Are you a Londoner by birth, Miss Dobbs, or..." Temple continued the conversation as they made their way downstairs, along the paneled corridor, and out into the afternoon light. Maisie barely said a word, aware that the very correct army officer was allowing her little opportunity to interject, or put another question to him. He had given her sufficient information, then a little bit more to keep her happy, though she thought the comment regarding Clifton's Shoes was a slip he regretted. It was, she thought, an interview with a man quite used to dealing with questions from outside the establishment, and his responses--just enough here, a snippet more than requested there--were designed to ensure there would be no more inquiries forthcoming.

  Where do we look for Mullen? Maisie knew that such a search could be lengthy and lead to a dead end, but she thought it was important to find the man who owed his life to Michael Clifton, and who--she hoped--would be able to identify the officer with whom Clifton had experienced some antagonism. The journal entries might offer a clue to Mullen's origins, some mention of where he came from, any loose thread of information that could be unpicked.

  As Temple predicted, the weather was kind for the rest of the day, and Maisie enjoyed the drive, which at one point commanded a view across the North Downs before she went on to London. The way in which the light moved across the hills caused Maisie to pull onto the side of the road for a few moments. As clouds crossed the sun, each beam slanted down on the earth's folds and inclines, giving an impression of movement, as if searchlights were in pursuit of a vanishing day. She wondered if this was how a cartographer might begin his work, simply by standing at a vantage point and regarding the land he must interpret for others to find their way. It occurred to Maisie that, just as Whitting had described, the cartographer must be both the artist and the technician. He must be the storyteller and the editor, seeing the curves and movement of the land with a practiced eye, and then bringing a mathematical precision to the page. If he was wrong, then people would become lost on their journey. And if the mapmaker had been charged with interpreting a field of battle, then his errors would cause men--many, many men--to die.

  Maisie resumed her journey, and soon, with the country behind her, she drove first through the ever-growing suburbia, then into London and along the Old Kent Road towards the West End. She arrived at four o'clock, in time to see Billy walking across the square.

  "Hello, Billy!" Maisie called out and waved as she entered the square from Fitzroy Street.

  "Afternoon, Miss." He smiled as she approached. "How did you get on this morning?"

  "It was interesting, I'll say that for my day so far. Let's get up to the office, and I'll fill you in on what I've found out. Any luck with those names?"

  They continued talking as they went up the staircase to the first floor.

  "I managed to find to three of them who were in London, but it didn't take an awful lot for their stories to crumble, I can tell you. Two of them were alone, one living in a bed-sit and one at a ladies' boardinghouse. One was looking for a way out of her circumstances, and the other one said her friend put her up to it, and she didn't want to get into any trouble. The third was a nanny to two nippers. She looked a bit pale, I must say--they were a right pair of tearaways. Little villains who could talk proper. I tell you, Miss, my boys might not sound upper-crust, but they know their manners and would put those two to shame. Anyway, she was another one looking for the golden path to another life."

  Maisie unlocked the door and pushed it open, walked to her desk and took off her hat.

  "Blimey, Miss, what've you done to your face? You look like you'd stopped at one of them boxing clubs down the Old Kent Road for a few rounds with a heavyweight. Ow, I bet that hurts."

  Maisie touched her cheek. "You know, it's funny you mention it, but it stopped stinging today, so I forgot about it for a while--yet the officer I saw at the School of Military Engineering didn't blink an eye, didn't say a word. He could have been trying not to embarrass me, though."

  "Nah, Miss. That's a nasty old scrape, is that. You'd have to mention it to stop yourself looking at it. What happened? Did you fall?"

  "Actually, Billy--I was pushed. And robbed."

  While they sat alongside the case map, Maisie recounted the events of the past two days to Billy.

  "I reckon we should be looking out for this Mullen. Want me to see what I can find out? I can ask around some of my old mates, you never know, someone might know something, 'specially with all of us being sappers. I can do a bit of snooping to see if I can locate his medical details. And then there's that other bloke, Jeremy Whatsisname. I know them mapping blokes were sitting ducks, so it don't surprise me that he was caught by a sniper. But you never know, he might've been the one that Michael Clifton had words with--unless he wrote it in his journal when it first happened, when he had a head of steam, and it wasn't much more than a storm in a teacup."

  Maisie nodded. "Yes, do what you can to find Mullen, and more on Jeremy Lockwood." She picked up a wax crayon and made some notations on the case map, linking two names with a red line. "Be on the lookout for anything that doesn't seem right regarding Lockwood's death. I don't know what you might find, but I think you'll know it when you see it--pay attention to your gut."

  "My gut?"

  "Yes. Most people don't realize that they feel something is wrong before they think something is wrong, but by the time they've finished trying to ignore the physical sensation, they've pushed that particular nudge from their mind."

  "I know what you mean, Miss. I did that with my Doreen. I could feel it here." He touched his belt buckle. "I knew she wasn't right in the head. Felt it before I ever admitted it to myself, and by then it'd got a lot worse. I just kept saying to myself that it was all normal, that she would get over it and be as right as rain the next day."

  "She's getting better now, that's the main thing. How is she faring at home?"

  "She has her bad days, but nothing like before," replied Billy. "Mind you, I wish I had a little book with instructions in it. Whenever I get worried, if I see her doing something that looks dodgy, like folding only half the laundry, then leaving the rest while she sits by the fire or something--I wish I had something to go back to, you know, a manual that could answer my questions: 'Is this all right?' 'Is she going backward?' Or, 'Is this normal?'"

  Maisie nodded, thinking of the searchlight sunbeams across Kent's undulating terrain. She nodded. "Wayfinding...," she said, her voice almost a whisper.

  "I beg your pardon, Miss?"

  "Oh, just thinking out loud. I was reading about maps, when we first took on the Clifton case, and it said that the primary role of the map is in wayfinding." She looked at Billy. "It seemed such an interesting word: wayfinding. Not 'to find our way' but 'wayfinding.' It occurred to me that that's exactly what you need--a wayfinder of sorts, to negotiate the journey ahead with Doreen. But you don't have such a thing to fall back on. There's no map, just the doctors' knowledge of previous similar cases, so they can only advise you to a certain point along this road. You have to depend upon your sense of what is right and what is wrong--and as I said, you'll feel that before you think it."

  "I reckon I see what you mean, Miss." Billy scratched his head.

  "It's what we're trying to do with this map, isn't it?" Maisie tapped the case map with the red crayon. "Wayfinding." She paused. "I wish I had one for life," she whispered to herself.

  "Sorry, Miss?"

  "Oh, nothing, Billy. Nothing at all. Let me know if I can be of any help with Doreen." She looked down at the map and circled Priscilla's name. "And in the meantime, I'll see if Mrs. Partridge has managed to wheedle an introduction to Lady Petronella!"

  Billy stood up and stepped towards his desk. "You shouldn't have any trouble
getting her on the dog and bone. I did the job over at her house to last a lifetime, and she can hear the ring from any room in that house."

  Maisie smiled as she moved from the case map table to her desk in the corner. "You're a good man, Billy. Now then, let's see if we can cover more ground in this case--I want to know who attacked me and why, and I want to know why half the people I've spoken to seem to be lying to me. Call that a gut feeling."

  As she was about to take her seat, the telephone on her desk rang.

  "Miss Dobbs--Detective Inspector Caldwell here. Have you a moment?"

  "Of course, Inspector. Do you have some news for me?"

  "Some good and some not quite so good."

  Maisie sat down, curious regarding possible developments in the case, while at the same time pleased that relations with Caldwell seemed to be moving in a positive direction. Even on the telephone she felt his manner was more conducive to collaboration than it had been in the past.

  "I'm not sure which I'd like to hear first."

  "Let's start with the good: We've found your case."

  Maisie shivered. Her senses heightened to the darker side of Caldwell's purpose for calling.

  "And now you have to tell me about the circumstances in which it was recovered."

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Go on."

  "The police were called to a flat just off the Edgware Road where a disturbance had been reported. I'll be frank, it was a miserable cold-water flat, a right slum--and I've seen a few glory holes in my time, I can tell you. Anyway, the men had to force entry--the door was locked--and when they broke in they found the body of a man, close to which was your case."

  "Have you identified him yet? And what was the cause of death?"

  "Multiple wounds to the skull, your usual blunt object wound--might have been a cosh, a poker, you name it. Something heavy, no doubt about it. Dr. Barrow--the examiner--will be able to give more information, though I can tell you now, he's no Maurice Blanche, so we don't expect the same sort of breadth of speculation in the report that we were used to when your former employer was advising us. I can tell you there was extreme loss of blood, and most of it seems to have washed across your nice leather case, I'm afraid."

  "Oh--"

  "And the deceased goes by the name of--" Maisie heard Caldwell turn pages as he looked for the name. "Sydney Mullen."

  "Mullen?" She looked across the room at Billy, whose eyes were wide.

  "Small-time market trader and even smaller-time crook. More of a tea boy to certain higher-up villains over in the East End that we'd like to have longer let's-get-to-know-you conversations with, if only we had something to pin on them. Know him?"

  "Not personally. But he knew Michael Clifton in the war. He owed his life to Clifton."

  "That's all I need, a bloody maze to get lost in."

  "I know how you feel, Inspector." Demonstrating a willingness to collaborate might not be such a bad thing, thought Maisie. "I'll do my best to find a way through at this end. Has a motive been established?"

  "Could have been someone he was working for, come to see what he'd brought in from his day's work. He could have owed money to the sort of person you should never owe money to. Who knows, with a fellow like that? Our men are talking to the neighbors, and they're looking for anyone he associated with. Seems he'd been seen with a woman lately. Bit of a nice-looking woman, according to a report. Apparently she was nicely turned out, even if her clothes weren't brand spanking new."

  "Did she have dark hair?"

  "Yes, she did. Know anything?"

  "It might be nothing, but Mr. Clifton said he saw a man and woman arguing in the hotel foyer on the day of the attack. He remembered her dark hair."

  "The hotel should have their names."

  "I don't think they were guests. But they were there for a reason--you don't just wander into the Dorchester unless you are staying there or meeting someone. In any case, they were asked to leave, I understand. That sort of racket isn't appreciated by guests at the Dorchester."

  "I could have done with a different sort of crime to launch my promotion." Caldwell sighed. "What would you like me to do with this document case, when we're finished with it?"

  "Was it empty?'

  "There's a Victorinox knife--a good one, I can see. And a small bag of tools. I won't ask what you might use these for. No papers, but a couple of those medical masks."

  "A pair of rubber gloves?"

  "No, but now I know why we didn't find any dabs other than those of the deceased."

  "And the case is badly stained."

  "Put it this way, Miss Dobbs. My wife accuses me of being a hoarder, of keeping things that are old, don't work, or are beyond repair--and I would throw this in the dustbin without looking back, particularly with that man's blood all over it."

  "Then please dispose of it when it has served its purpose as far as Scotland Yard is concerned."

  "Sorry about that. After all, it meant a lot to you."

  Maisie nodded. "Yes. It held a lot of memories, but at least they can't be stolen or destroyed. I'd like the other items back, though--the knife was a gift from my father."

  "Right you are. In the meantime, I'll keep you apprised of the Cliftons' progress. I know you're working in their best interests. The elder son will be here soon; however, one more thing--don't be surprised if you receive a visit from an American embassy official. The fact that two American citizens were attacked has given rise to their own internal investigation, and I've already had representatives from the embassy under my feet."

  "Forewarned is forearmed, Inspector. Thank you."

  "Now then, I've got work to do here."

  "Thank you for your telephone call, your consideration is much appreciated."

  Maisie replaced the receiver and turned to Billy.

  "Mullen copped it then?"

  "Yes. Blunt object to the head, significant loss of blood, and most of it drenched my document case."

  "Aw, that's rotten, Miss."

  "Mind you, I have the examiner's name. We might need to see him at some point. In the meantime, Billy, I'd like you to see what you can turn up on Mullen. I know Caldwell is being very accommodating, very friendly, but that's not to say he'll share and share alike with the most pertinent information. And you think you can see those other women on your list by the end of tomorrow?"

  "Yes, Miss."

  "Good. I suppose you'll start with the watering holes in the search for more on Mullen."

  "I keep it to a half a pint for me, and as much for the other blokes as it takes for them to totter down memory lane and reveal all." Billy tapped the side of his nose and winked in a conspiratorial fashion. "That's one thing about us East Enders, Miss, we've got the gift of the gab, and we're good at telling stories. I just have to find the blokes who are good at the telling--as long as it's the truth. Being a Londoner, I can always tell. Might even be a gut feeling."

  "And you'll let me know if there's anything I can do for Doreen?"

  Billy pulled his coat from the hook behind the door and turned to Maisie as he placed his cap on his head. "I'm sure she'd like to see you, Miss, if you can spare the time. It always meant a lot to her, that you came over to Shoreditch for our Lizzie, and that you did so much for her." He looked down at the floor. "And it meant a lot to me, that you sorted it all out for Doreen, that you got her out of that terrible asylum and into a decent hospital with a doctor who could really help her. So, if you can come over, I'd--"

  "Of course I can, Billy. How about Friday afternoon, as soon as I've finished with the man with the cine film?"

  Billy smiled. "Thanks, Miss. I'll see you tomorrow morning, then."

  "Bright and early."

  ELEVEN

  Mullen's been good to me. They're all pretty good to me. There's a bit of teasing here and here, but I get along fine with everyone--well, almost everyone. I don't know that Mullen and I would ever have become friends in civvy street, but here in France, and out there
when we're working, Mullen has become my friend, and it's good to have a buddy--or a mate. As Mullen said, "You and me's mates." I told him that, when all this is over and I go out to California again, I'll need good men to work with me, and he said he'd come like a shot ("Couldn't keep me back, guv'nor," he said). The fact is that I've talked about my land so much now, I am sure Mullen knows every last inch of it, almost as if he'd been there himself. He's a good worker, a man to depend on. This war might have created soldiers of some and officers of others, but it also mixes people up, blends them together. I think Mullen might have been in a bit of trouble before the war, which is probably why he enlisted, and I reckon it's why he would like to hightail it out of Blighty when this whole thing is done. He's palled up to some of the officers, which is okay, whatever he wants to do, but some of the other lads don't seem to like it. They tell him off for sucking up. It doesn't hurt me--so long as we all do our jobs and get out of here, I don't mind what people do. I'm okay when there's no one around to get at me because he's got more pips on his shoulder.

  Maisie turned the pages of Clifton's journal, once again cocooned within the quiet evening solitude of her flat. In the distance she could hear foghorns drone their song of warning along the river, their call like that of fairy-tale mermaids to boatmen navigating the sometimes treacherous waterway.

  She wondered about Mullen and thought he was, perhaps, a man easily led, and probably by a yearning for a better life--after all, wasn't something better what most of a certain station wanted, if not for themselves, then for their children? But would Mullen have betrayed Michael Clifton's trust? If Mullen was the man who had attacked her--and without doubt evidence pointed in that direction--she did not sense that he could kill. The incident in the park seemed to have been an error; playing the memory back in her mind, as if it were a moving picture, she recalled the man turning to look back as she fell, a certain shock registered on his face, his eyes wide, as if in other circumstances he might be the first to come to her aid. And then he was gone, running away with his catch: her document case. What was he after? Indeed, if he was working for someone else, what did they think they would find? She had just left the hotel and her meeting with Thomas Libbert, so it was fair to assume that she had been observed entering and later exiting the hotel. Could Libbert be involved, perhaps informing a waiting Mullen that their quarry was on her way out? Had he instructed him to the effect that the old black case she carried must be obtained at all costs? Or was Mullen--a "tea boy" to more powerful men, according to Caldwell--working for someone else altogether? All in all, as she leafed through the journal, she thought Mullen might have been a likable rogue but a weak man, a man who would follow the scent of a quick shilling earned by dishonorable means.