The Mapping of Love and Death

by Jacqueline Winspear

  "Intuition?"

  "Yes, that's it. I think she had that feeling you have when you just know something will happen one day, and though you're not exactly hanging around the gate waiting, there is that sense of anticipation."

  "And do you think she has come to any harm as a result of the revelation? After all, her grandmother could easily have located you all before the discovery was made."

  "No, I don't think she sees it like that. She was just so excited about having a family, and of course she loves her grandmother. I think it was me who felt shortchanged, not knowing that my brother had fathered a child in the war, a child I might have known since infancy, a child who might have helped fill the gap left by his loss. But I'm being selfish. Old granny Chantal did what she thought was best for Pascale. Of course, it doesn't work out that way for everyone--there were many children born out of wedlock in France during the war, and I am sure in England too. War and love--or perhaps I should say declarations of love--seem to go hand in hand, don't they?"

  "Yes, I suppose you're right."

  "And I have a feeling I'm to forget you ever asked me these questions, and never mention them again."

  "It would be better."

  "Lunch later in the week, then?"

  "I'd love to. Oh, and Pris--I am so glad you're living in London."

  "Me too, Maisie. After a troubled start getting us all settled, me too."

  "I'll call tomorrow."

  "Cheerio, Maisie."

  "'Bye, Pris."

  Maisie continued with her work for a while longer, but looked up when she heard the front door open and close, and a moment later, Billy returned to the office.

  "That was quick."

  "Didn't take long, Miss. And look, two birds with one stone--I was just opening the front door, and a messenger came along with an envelope for you. It's from the Compton Corporation." He held out the plain manila envelope with the company's insignia and address.

  "Just what I was waiting for." She took the envelope and reached for her paper knife, nodding to Billy to take the chair in front of her desk. "What did you find out?"

  "I thought I would have to go out to double-check against some parish records, but I found everything I needed at Somerset House. Here you are, all the particulars you asked for on Christopher Adam Giles Casterman. Born 1917."

  Maisie put down the envelope and took the sheet of paper from Billy. "Hmmm."

  "Something missing?"

  She shook her head. "No, it's all here. It says he was born at the family's London home."

  "His dad must have been right chuffed, you know, finally getting the son and heir, after having two daughters," said Billy.

  "Yes, he must have been delighted."

  "And it's really sad, when you think of it. That he didn't live to see his son grown up into a man."

  Maisie nodded as she read. "Yes, it was."

  They were interrupted by the doorbell.

  "What, again? It's like Piccadilly Circus in here. I'll go and see who it is."

  While Billy went downstairs, Maisie put the paper to one side, continued opening the envelope, and sat down to read through the notes sent by Lord Julian's contact. She was returning the pages to the envelope when Billy came into the room.

  "Chap by the name of Roland came with this for you, from Henry Gilbert. Said Mr. Gilbert wanted you to have it straightaway. Nice bloke, told me all about how they had to get this done by bringing in another camera and--"

  "Thank you, Billy. I've been waiting for this." Maisie reached for the envelope and took out the photograph. The image was blurred at the edges and still grainy, but as Gilbert explained in the accompanying note:

  One of my contacts was able to do this for you. As you can see, the image being smaller than on the screen gives it more definition. I think you can see our raging ogre's face a little better.

  She sat with the photograph in front of her, then set it down and went back over her notes and read for a while before picking up the telephone receiver. Upon connecting with the Scotland Yard exchange, she was put through to Detective Inspector Caldwell without delay.

  "Miss Dobbs, what a nice surprise. I'm having a testing day, so I do hope you have some good news for me. If I have to see that embassy chap one more time, I will have to start singing the American national anthem."

  "I have the information I've been waiting for." She looked up at the clock. "If you can be here later on this afternoon, I will go through my findings with you, and we should be ready to make our move."

  "We should be ready to make our move?"

  "Yes, Detective Inspector. I daresay you can break down the door without me, but you won't get anything else. I'll tell you what I know and what I think we should do. We can be at the home of the person at the heart of the attacks on Edward and Martha Clifton by lunchtime tomorrow and have the laundry washed and dried, so to speak, by mid-afternoon. I'll leave you to put it away, if I may, as I have an appointment at half past three, but I'll come to the Yard afterward for a debriefing, if that suits you."

  "And what if I don't agree to this plan you've been cooking up in your head?"

  "Do you know another way to get the embassy chap off your back by teatime tomorrow?"

  "I'll see you later, then."

  "I'll be here, Inspector. Oh, and Inspector, the person we're planning to bring in is a murderer, of that I am sure."

  Maisie set the receiver on the hook, picked up the dossier from Lord Julian's office, along with Billy's notes, and walked across the room to the case map. Billy joined her.

  "Is it all falling into place, Miss?" asked Billy.

  Maisie nodded, but said nothing.

  "You all right, Miss?"

  She swallowed back tears that could come all too easily if she allowed them to fall. "I was just thinking about Maurice, how we would always talk before a time such as this. He once said to me that it was my equivalent of going off into battle, you know, clambering out and into the no-man's-land where you don't know what might happen, what the outcome might be. You only know that you are marching off and trusting that it will all come right in the end."

  Billy looked down, embarrassed by his employer's candor. "Don't mind me saying, Miss, but life's always a bit like that, ain't it? You never know what's going to happen. You just hope everything turns out for the best. And I reckon if Dr. Blanche were here, he'd just ask if you've taken all precautions to look after yourself. And he'd say to have a bit of time on your own today, you know, before the whistle blows." He turned away. "I'll go and put the kettle on, so you can have a quick five minutes to yourself. All right?"

  She nodded. "Thank you, Billy."

  When he had left the room, Maisie sat back in the armchair. She closed her eyes and tried to still her mind. But the vision that came to her was not one of nothingness, or even of an empty night sky. Instead the vision was that of a valley in a place far away, a fertile land rich with sycamores and oaks amid golden pastures, and earth kissed by the fragrance of blossom from plentiful orchards, and the salty warmth of air carried across mountains from the Pacific Ocean.

  NINETEEN

  Maisie's first task the following morning was to make the appointment she hoped would lead to an arrest. At noon she left the office in Fitzroy Square to meet Detective Inspector Caldwell, as arranged during their meeting the previous afternoon. Billy walked her to her motor car.

  "You reckon you'll be all right, Miss?"

  "I'll have a lorry-load of burly policemen at my back. In any case, don't worry about me."

  "What do I say if Viscount Compton calls here for you?"

  Maisie looked at her assistant, her head to one side. "What made you say that?"

  Billy shrugged. "I dunno, Miss. It's just the sort of thing that might happen, ain't it? I mean, there's you going off into your no-man's-land, and it'll be just my luck that if anyone's bound to get on the old dog and bone and put me on the spot, it's him."

  "Why him?"

  "Well, Mi
ss, it's obvious he's taken a shine to you, and he won't want to know you're putting yourself in danger, will he?"

  "Let's assume my life is far from being in danger, and I am just going about my work. If he telephones, tell him I am out--which is exactly what I am--and that I'm having tea with Lady Rowan this afternoon at half past three." She took her keys from her shoulder bag. "That should give him plenty to think about."

  "Take care, Miss."

  "Don't worry, Billy, I will be perfectly safe. And I will telephone you as soon as I can after the police have completed the arrest--I won't keep you waiting for news."

  Maisie arrived at the designated meeting place--at the end of a street of grand terraced homes in Hampstead--and waited for the black Invicta police vehicle to arrive. She envisioned the conversation that would soon take place with Peter Whitting, running back through her planned lines as if she were rehearsing a play, and hoping her words would draw him out. He was a man whose anger seemed parasitic, as if it were eating away at him from a place deep inside his being. She knew the only way to achieve the confession she needed was to goad him.

  A tap on the window interrupted her thoughts, causing her to start.

  "Detective Inspector--did you park around the corner?"

  "Better to be out of sight."

  "Yes, of course." She stepped from her MG. "Ready?"

  "My men are getting into position, so let's go along to the house."

  "And Major Temple?"

  "Military police have been briefed, and he should have been taken for questioning half an hour ago."

  "Thomas Libbert?"

  Caldwell looked at his watch. "Should be being picked up about now by the Flying Squad boys. I spoke to your old friend Detective Chief Inspector Stratton, now of Special Branch. He has contacts where I need them--at the American embassy--and we'll be questioning Libbert in the presence of a consular representative who also happens to be a lawyer trained here in England. As you will appreciate, because the man is the citizen of another country, there are certain channels to be respected."

  "Yes, of course. So, we're ready to go then?"

  "When you are."

  Maisie nodded. "Good. Let's get on with it."

  "And hope we're right."

  Maisie turned to Caldwell. "I'll accept full responsibility if you're unable to bring charges, and--"

  "Yes, I know all that, Miss Dobbs. Against my better judgment, I am confident that we won't need to do anything of the sort. Shall we?" He paused. "And one final word before the balloon goes up: As much as I can't abide a screaming woman, I expect you to let us have it with both lungs if that man poses a threat to you at any time."

  She laughed. "I've a confession--he can do that simply by looking at me. Come on, let's get this over and done with."

  Maisie walked up the steps and pulled the bell handle. A wait of one minute seemed to take an hour, but soon the butler answered the door.

  "Ah, Miss Dobbs, on time again--"

  Caldwell stepped in front of Maisie, and held out a search warrant. "If you don't mind, Mr. Dawson, my men will accompany you into the kitchen, Miss Dobbs will find her way from here."

  Two policemen flanked the butler, who was now florid of face and stuttering his complaints as they moved him towards the stairs that led to the kitchens. Two additional policemen preceded them to ensure the cook was prevented from leaving.

  "All right?" asked Caldwell.

  Maisie nodded.

  Caldwell and his assistant followed her up the stairs towards Peter Whitting's room, the makeshift battlefield where all manner of conflagrations and skirmishes were fought and refought day after day. At the door between artists' renditions of the battles of Trafalgar and Marston Moor, Maisie made a fist with her hand and knocked.

  "Come!"

  She nodded to Caldwell, opened the door, and stepped into the room, taking care to leave the door ajar as she entered alone.

  "Why, Miss Dobbs, isn't Dawson with you? I apologize for our lack of manners." Whitting looked up from the table, where a mock Flanders battlefield had been set up, with model houses, forests, and armies laid out and ready to be moved at any moment, dependent upon the outcome of Whitting's alternative opening salvos.

  "He said he would bring tea and suggested that, as I know my way and you were expecting me, I should come straight up."

  "He's probably had to check on the cook. She's turned out some less than palatable dishes in recent days."

  "That might explain it." Maisie smiled. "Thank you for seeing me, Major Whitting."

  He held out his hand towards one of the two chairs alongside the fireplace, and as soon as he sat down opposite Maisie, the calico cat stepped out from under the table and crawled up onto his lap.

  "What can I do for you this time, Miss Dobbs?"

  Maisie drew breath and began speaking, knowing she would have to inspire an eruption of anger in Whitting, who was now stroking his purring cat. She hoped his fuse was as short as she expected it to be.

  "I am here in search of the truth."

  "What on earth do you mean?"

  "First of all, may we talk about Michael Clifton?"

  "Is that the American you were asking about when you came here before?"

  "Yes, and--"

  "I told you, I don't bloody know him."

  Maisie could see that Whitting's increased tension had provoked the calico into extending her claws and sinking them into the trouser fabric at his knee. Whitting did not lift the cat's paws as she turned towards Maisie, yawning to reveal needle-like teeth.

  Maisie sighed. "The thing is, Major, I think you do know him. He is your cousin by birth, though he probably wasn't aware of the connection until the day you took his life. Is that not so?"

  "Leave my house now, woman." Whitting did not shout, his temper as measured as his reaction to the cat's outstretched claws. "You are a pest, a nasty pest, and I don't have to--"

  The cat made a low screeching growl as Whitting stood up, brushing her off his lap to the floor. She ran under the table. Maisie was already on her feet.

  "I'll leave when you've told the truth. Michael Clifton was your cousin, wasn't he?"

  "How the hell do you know?" Whitting snapped.

  Maisie could not breathe with ease. He hadn't said enough yet. In temper he had revealed only part of the truth. She saw the throbbing vein at his right temple, and pressed her luck.

  "It's what I do. I find things out, and I know your mother was Edward Clifton's sister, and her life was changed forever by his emigration to America."

  "Emigration? Ha! Running away, more like. He was a yellow-bellied coward who took off to the other side of the world because he couldn't face his responsibilities. Changed forever, my eye! I was still a boy when it killed her."

  "Is that why you took Michael's life?"

  "What? Do you think I am going to stand here in my own home and take this from a bit of a girl playing with fire?"

  "But you did, didn't you, Major? You heard that he had land, that the land was worth money, and you saw a chance to get something back from the Cliftons--your family had been left virtually penniless by the collapse of Clifton's Shoes."

  "Get out of my house!"

  Maisie remained calm. "Not yet, Major. I haven't finished yet. With Michael gone--and because he was a chatty sort, Lance Corporal Mullen had passed on information on the holdings owned by Michael and his wealth held in trust--you thought you could stake a claim on his property right under the noses of the Cliftons."

  Color rushed to Whitting's face as anger enveloped him, and as he stood over Maisie, he held up his hand as if to strike. "And so bloody well what. So what? You can't make it stick, can you?" He brought his hand to his side, his fists still clenched. "Dear sweet Michael Clifton, brought up in the lap of luxury with a dozen silver spoons hanging out of his mouth. Big, kind Michael, who missed his family. Do you have any idea of the suffering--suffering--I saw in my family? My mother and father pained themselves trying to ma
ke a go of the business. And my mother worked. Worked. While that American woman probably did no more than go to her lunches and sit in her big house in Boston. And my mother kept her maiden name because 'a Clifton has to take care of Clifton's Shoes.' She was like an untrained captain on a sinking ship, and she didn't want me to go down with it."

  Maisie felt Whitting's volatility, but knew she had to push him further. "So why did you kill Michael?"

  He mumbled a response as sweat drenched his brow. She raised her voice in an attempt to press him again.

  "I asked you a question. Why did you kill Michael Clifton?"

  Whitting snapped. "I killed him because he wouldn't believe a word I said. Wouldn't have it that his father was a coward." He wiped a hand across his brow. "And because he was just so smug. I had watched him for weeks after I was put in charge of the area--and yes, I engineered the posting after seeing his name on a list of cartography units. From the moment I arrived in France, as far as I could, I kept my eyes on his every move, and when I couldn't stand it anymore, I went to see him down in the dugout. He pushed me, Miss Dobbs. Pushed me into it. He wouldn't accept his father's culpability in my parents' early deaths and in the ruination of my childhood. The army was the only place for me to go." He gasped for breath, as if all air had escaped his lungs. "But he wouldn't have it. Precious Michael Clifton wouldn't have any of it. He showed no respect for my position and just turned away from me. And to be frank with you, Miss Dobbs, I lost my temper with him."

  "So that's when you hit him with an item of equipment--perhaps the theodolite."

  "How do you know?"

  "I read the postmortem report and saw the inconsistencies. His skull was smashed by something with the heft of a theodolite. You must have left shortly before the shelling began, shelling that took the lives of the other men in his unit."