The Mapping of Love and Death

by Jacqueline Winspear

  There were times when Maisie wished she could simply pick up a telephone from her home and place a call to Maurice. He had always kept late hours, before this more recent illness, and there was a time when she knew he would have been sitting by the fire in his study, a glass of single-malt whiskey in his hand, a book or some papers in the other. When she had lived at Ebury Place, using the telephone at a late hour did not present a problem. Now to do such a thing necessitated a walk along the road to the kiosk--and Maurice would be in bed anyway. She wished it were otherwise, that she could lift the receiver and in a minute be talking to her mentor, telling him the story of her case and waiting for his advice, which always came in the shape of a question. How might it be if you look at the problem from this vantage point, Maisie? And even though she was not with him, at the end of the conversation she knew he would be smiling. That knowing smile would not be due to the fact that he had given her clues, but because he was aware that his questions had helped break down a wall so that she could see a door--and they both knew the knowledge she had in the palm of her hand had been there all the time; it had just taken a conversation with Maurice to enable her to recognize it.

  Over the past two years, since the time of discord in their relationship, those telephone calls placed late at night had been few and far between, and more often because Maisie knew that Maurice missed his work to some degree, and--as he often said--could live vicariously through his former assistant as she journeyed thought the twists and turns of her cases. But now she would have been grateful for his counsel.

  Maisie read on for a while, then made ready for bed. Before slipping between the bedclothes, she sat on a cushion already placed on the floor in her bedroom. She crossed her legs and closed her eyes in meditation. Though she tried to keep up with her practice, in recent weeks she had worked late and fallen asleep without first quieting the mind so the soul could be heard. But tonight, as she felt the day slip away and her consciousness descend to a place beyond her own immediate existence, she saw an image of Maurice standing before her. Her eyes were closed, yet she was aware of his presence, and felt his smile as he spoke. "You know the truth, Maisie. You know the truth, but you need the proof. The facts are there, Maisie, between the lines. The evidence is always between the lines, whether it is written or not. Look between the lines."

  She remained sitting for a while, clearing her mind so that any nuggets of insight tucked away in her subconscious could come to the fore; then she opened her eyes, stood up, and returned to the dining table where Michael Clifton's journal and his lover's letters had been stacked. Many of the letters were difficult to read, so she had set them aside in favor of those whose pages had come apart with only the slightest slip of the finger along an adhesion. Now she went to the kitchen for a table knife and began to work on those letters where the paper was fused and the ink faint, despite her earlier attempts at careful drying. With a steady hand she divided pages joined by the years since Michael Clifton wrapped them in paper and waxed cloth, as if they were jewels to be cherished.

  Priscilla, good morning to you!" Maisie twisted the telephone cord between her fingers as she greeted her friend.

  "Heavens above, what on earth is the time? My toads are on their way to school, and I had just settled down to a quiet cup of coffee while I read this morning's dire warnings of the demise of the world, and there you are, bright and early and far too chipper." Priscilla paused. "I know, I bet Ben telephoned and you are over the moon."

  "No. Well, Ben has telephoned, but that's not why I'm calling."

  "You sound very bright."

  "Am I usually so dour?"

  "Not dour, just, well, let's say thoughtful. A bit less thinking and more having a bit of fun might not do you any harm."

  "That's what you always say. In any case, I'm going to Brooklands on Saturday, for a motor racing meet."

  "I never took Ben for the racing type."

  "He probably isn't. I'm going with James Compton. He invited me last weekend."

  "James Compton? Good lord, Maisie, that's not half bad."

  "Just a friend, Pris. And probably not even that."

  "Then why did he ask you?"

  "I think he's lonely."

  "Hmmmm." Priscilla paused, and Maisie heard her lift her cup to her lips to sip her coffee, which was always brewed strong, with hot milk added. She continued. "I've managed to pave the way for your introduction to Lady Petronella. Of course, you could have just picked up the telephone yourself, but as we both know, the path is often easier when trodden down earlier by those who are close to the subject."

  "You sound like an old hand."

  "I feel like one. Let me just grab my notebook--I have a 'Maisie' notebook now. Right, here we are: call her at this number--Mayfair five-three-two-oh--and make the arrangements with her butler, though I am told she often answers the telephone herself. Has them all over the house. She's very approachable, but at the same time no-nonsense, as you can imagine--you don't get things done in the way that she gets things done if you are wishy-washy."

  "Anything else you can tell me about her?"

  "Very active socially, as Julia said. She's quite the philanthropist and supports several mother-and-baby homes for wayward girls. Hmmm, wonder why no one ever mentions the wayward boys who put them there? Her two adored daughters are grown up, as you know, and she has the much younger son, to whom she is devoted. While not exactly the merry widow, she hasn't let the grass grow under her feet either."

  "Thank you, Pris."

  "Anything else?"

  "Can I come round later, for tea perhaps?"

  "Darling, you know you don't have to ask--you're family! I would love to see you--part of the joy of being back in London is having you in the same town, though frankly I never know where you are, with all your gallivanting around."

  "See you this afternoon, then."

  "Au revoir, Maisie."

  Maisie had arrived at her desk early, and when Billy walked into the office, she was sitting at the table where the case map was pinned out, jotting notes on the length of paper. She stood back to see if any links or associations could be established where she might not have seen a connection before.

  "Morning, Miss. I'm not late, am I?" He pulled up his sleeve to check the hour, always pleased with an opportunity to demonstrate that the timepiece she had bought for him was being used.

  "No, I'm early, that's all."

  "Cuppa the old char for you?"

  "That would be nice, Billy. Then let's talk about Edward Clifton--and the shoe business he left behind."

  Soon they were both seated alongside the table, mugs of tea in hand, and Maisie was ready to begin with a recap of information already gathered.

  "I've found out a bit more about that Sydney Mullen." Billy flicked through several pages in his notebook until he found the entry he was looking for. "There we are. Right then, it turns out our Sydney might have got himself in over his head, as they say. As far as I can make out, he went about his business more or less like Caldwell told it; a bit of knowledge here, pass it on there, money changes hands with a contact; putting this person in touch with that one, being the middleman between people who would never have come across each other in the normal course of things."

  "Something of an ambassador crook then."

  "Ah," said Billy, "but no one plays fast and loose with Alfie Mantle."

  "Mantle? From the Old Nichol?" Maisie raised her eyebrows. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn.

  "Yes, him. Born in the Old Nichol at the Shoreditch end. They tore down the slum to build the Boundary Estate, but not before Alfie had stepped on the first rung of the ne'er-do-well ladder. You had to be light-fingered to survive in that terrible place, and Alfie was a right Artful Dodger; he moved up to running some rackets, careful all the time not to tread on anyone else's turf. If you know anything about Mantle, Miss, you'll know he was sharp. There'd be a slap on the back for everyone and lots of making nice conversation with the
hounds doing business across the water and them others who had the West End by the tail. After the war, when a lot of blokes he wanted out of the way were a few feet underground, he went for bigger fish--and that's where Caldwell would know more from his Flying Squad mates."

  "And Mullen was mixed up with him?"

  "Here's how I reckon it happened: Mantle was once a bit of a loan shark, and he decided to spread his wings. Now, knowing he couldn't take on new business by working another man's manor, if you know what I mean, he decided to move up in the world, scout around for marks that were a bit better off--if someone wants money that bad, they don't care where it came from. So his blokes start watching the clubs and the hotels, they see who's spending money and who looks like they need a bit extra, and they make their move. Alfie Mantle had an in with more than a few of the more posh establishments, and as he moved up, so he looked more the part; he dresses in Savile Row suits, has his shirts and shoes handmade, and is loved by all who came from the Old Nichol. You'll hear people say, 'He's so good to his old mum.' Mantle looks after his own, but I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of him."

  "So Mullen was one of his runners." Maisie paused. "But he didn't work exclusively for Mantle, did he?"

  "Probably not--and that could have been where he went wrong. I reckon he was a go-between, like I said. Someone who puts this person in touch with that person, the sort of fella who's always got another train of thought going on, you know, wondering what he can make out of knowing you."

  Maisie tapped her fingers on the desk, then looked up at her assistant. "I wonder--"

  "What, Miss?"

  Maisie shook her head. "Nothing. Just thinking. Thank you, Billy. This information has stirred up the river, no two ways about it. That was good work." She penned a series of dots on the edge of the case map, first an inward spiral, then outward. She sighed, then spoke again. "Now then, let's get back to Edward Clifton."

  Billy picked up a colored crayon as Maisie began.

  "So, Edward Clifton left home at, what, nineteen? He could see only more shoes and whale oil to soften the leather in his future, and fled to the promise of America."

  "Lucky fella."

  "It would seem so," said Maisie. "And while he didn't exactly land on his feet, it didn't take him long to establish a life for himself, though I imagine he had to conquer more than a few mountains before he could rest on his laurels."

  "He married well," said Billy.

  "Of that there's no doubt. But what about the family in England? They must have been shocked at the loss of a son and brother--if someone emigrates, it's tantamount to having them taken from you in death. You assume you'll never see them again. People cannot conceive of the distance--I know I can't. And when I think of James Compton sailing back and forth once or twice a year to and from Canada--it's a long way."

  Billy sighed. "I wish me and Doreen and the boys could sail to Canada. I've never wished for anything more in my life--except in the war, when I didn't want to die over there in France, and when I've wished for Doreen to get better. Then there was wishing for Lizzie to live."

  Maisie understood Billy's anxiety regarding his dream of emigrating to Canada, and realized the extent to which the story of Edward Clifton's journey as a young man must have added fuel to his desire to start anew in a land that held the promise of opportunity. It was as if Doreen's full recovery, together with accumulating enough money to gain a foothold on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, was his guiding light.

  "I know how much you want to go, Billy. Doreen will get well in her own time, and while she's on the mend, you can make up the money you spent on the doctors." She smiled, hoping to inspire some optimism on his part, a sense that all would be well. "But in the meantime, we've got to get to the bottom of this case, so let's put our heads together. Now, where were we? Yes, the family Clifton left behind. Did you manage to find anything out about them?"

  "I was talking to an old bloke who works in that big shoe shop down Regent Street," said Billy. "He remembered that when he was an errand boy for the shop, there was talk about young Edward Clifton, as he was then, leaving the country and the business behind him. There was a lot of wondering about what would happen to the company, being as he was the only heir. Apparently, his grandfather and father cut him off, and the family were forbidden to reply to any letters or telegrams; they said that nothing good would come of him, and good riddance."

  "That's more or less what he told me. No wonder he sets a lot of stock in keeping his family together and happy."

  "His sister--who was about twenty-one--stepped forward and began working with her father, and then she took over the business. Name of Veronica Clifton."

  "Did you find out anything about her marriage?"

  Billy nodded. "Yes. It was a bit unusual; she kept her maiden name, never became a missus until after her husband died--quite young he was, apparently. By that time the business was not doing very well, so she sold it and got herself hitched to a Mr. John Paynton. They say the strain of her brother leaving and then her having to step up in his place sent her to an early grave."

  "Did she have any children, do you know?"

  Billy shook his head. "I asked the old boy, and he didn't know. He said that even if she did, according to them who knew more about her, she wouldn't have publicized the fact, being as she had a company to run, and she didn't want anyone trying to take advantage of her just because she was a woman."

  "Yes. Yes, I can see why she would make that decision."

  "Do you, Miss? I can't say as I can see anything normal about their goings-on--'cept of course old Edward running off on a ship. Funny old world, ain't it?"

  Maisie sighed. "Could you dig a bit deeper for me, find out about other family members, cousins, aunts and uncles by marriage? There might have been stepchildren, for example. Oh, and if you could plough through a bit more of your list of those women who wrote letters to the Cliftons, it would help. I'll attack mine this afternoon, though I may have an appointment with your Lady Petronella of the telephones. I should call her now."

  As Maisie stood up to walk to her desk, the telephone began to ring.

  "Funny how that always happens, ain't it, Miss? You mention the word call, and off it goes." Billy went back to his notes.

  Maisie picked up the black Bakelite telephone receiver, but did not have a chance to greet the caller with either the number or her name before Frankie Dobbs began speaking.

  "Maisie, love, can you hear me?" Frankie shouted in his usual manner, never quite believing that the miracle of modern telephony could connect him to his daughter, who was in an office over eighty miles away.

  "Dad! Dad, is everything all right?" Maisie felt the skin at the base of her neck grow cold, along the still-livid scar that remained from wounds she'd suffered in the war. "Are you unwell? What's happened?"

  "I just thought you would want to know--" She could hear her father breathing as if he had been running, and there was a rawness to his voice.

  "Dad...Dad--take a deep breath, and sit down on that chair by the telephone. Have you been running?"

  "I came back here as soon as I heard. As I said, I knew you'd want to know."

  "As soon as you heard what, Dad?" Maisie felt her heart beat faster, and a pressure on her chest. She took a deep breath in an effort to radiate calm from the center of her body.

  "Dr. Blanche has been taken into hospital. A clinic in Tunbridge Wells. For observation. Apparently his lungs are just filling up."

  "I'll come straightaway--"

  "No, you can't do that. No visitors. No one's allowed to see him, from what I've heard."

  "I'll talk to Lady Rowan. And I'm coming down to Kent as soon as I can."

  "He wouldn't want you to come rushing--"

  "It wouldn't be the first time I've done something he wouldn't like. I'm on my way."

  "You drive careful, Maisie. And--"

  "Dad--rest. I don't want two of you in hospital. I'm hanging up the telephone now,
Dad. All right? I'll be in touch again later. Have a cup of tea, sit down, and put your feet up. Everything will be all right."

  "I'd better be off then. Take good care, my Maisie."

  Maisie held on to the receiver, and pressed down the bar to disconnect the call. She began dialing again.

  "That's bad news, Miss, ain't it? Is your dad all right?"

  Maisie nodded. "It's Maurice."

  The color drained from Billy's face.

  The call was answered on the second ring, and Maisie did not wait for a greeting. "May I speak to Lady Rowan, please, Mr. Carter."

  "I thought it would be you, Maisie," said the Comptons' butler.

  "Do you know how he is?"

  "Her Ladyship is more informed than I. I'll tell her you're on the line."

  Maisie heard a series of clicks, then another before Lady Rowan picked up the receiver.

  "Maisie. I was just about to telephone you, counter to instructions from dear Maurice. He didn't want to worry you."

  "Didn't want to worry me? Oh, dear...how is he?"

  "The nurse summoned the doctor early this morning, and he arranged for Maurice to be transferred into the clinic. According to Maurice's specific instructions in such an eventuality, Dr. Dene has been asked to attend him. The news I've heard so far is that, all being well, he should be out in a few days. He's had some difficulty breathing, as you know, and his health simply continued to get worse."