Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

She sat down in a chair set alongside the fireplace, and leaned forward to turn on the gas jets, but as she sat back in the chair once again, she became restless, and moved instead to her desk, where she picked up the telephone and dialed Scotland Yard.

"Detective Inspector Caldwell, please."

There was crackling on the telephone line, and soon a voice boomed into the receiver.

"Caldwell!"

"Maisie Dobbs here, Detective Inspector Caldwell." The words felt like glue in her throat. Detective Inspector Caldwell. She needed an ally at Scotland Yard, and her interactions with Caldwell had always been far from cordial.

"Miss Dobbs-to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I was wondering-how are Mr. and Mrs. Clifton?"

"Mr. Clifton is much improved. Sadly, Mrs. Clifton has not made progress and is still in a very poor state. It would not be over-egging the pudding to say that she might not last the night, though I am told that each hour she's alive gives the doctors some level of hope."

"I see."

"Anything else, Miss Dobbs? I am a very busy man, as you must know."

"Yes, there is-when may I visit Mr. Clifton?"

Maisie heard Caldwell sigh. "Leave it with me. I'll try to get you in tomorrow."

"That's most kind of you, Detective Inspector."

"I'll be in touch."

"Oh, and one more thing-do you have any information about the Cliftons' son-in-law that you would be willing to divulge?"

Caldwell sighed again. "If I refuse, I know you'll find out anyway. We've been talking to him, and there's nothing he can add to the statements from staff. He's upset, obviously-they're a close family-so tread carefully."

"I won't get in your way."

"The name is Thomas Libbert-they call him Tommy-and as you already know, he's at the Dorchester."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector."

Caldwell offered no words to close the conversation. Maisie replaced the telephone receiver, and shook her head. Despite his sharpness of tone and Billy's summation of his manner, it occurred to her that Caldwell had changed somewhat since his promotion, now that the struggle to move beyond Stratton's shadow had ended with the latter's move to Special Branch. He might yet prove the ally she needed.

Before leaving for home, Maisie made one more telephone call.

"Priscilla."

"Maisie, darling-how are you?" Maisie heard the clink of ice against glass, and as she was about to speak, Priscilla was quick off the mark. "And I know what you're thinking-'Pris is at the sauce again.' Do not fear, my friend, I have kept to my resolution, and having partaken of my one evening cocktail, I am now drinking soda water with angostura bitters-monumentally disgusting, but it's a jolly-looking little beverage. I'm told that grenadine might be better, or lime cordial, but that's a children's drink."

Maisie laughed, glad that her friend seemed to have a semblance of control over the drinking that had dulled the fear of losing her sons. Though they were young and far from an age at which young men are sent into battle, Priscilla had lost three beloved brothers to the war, and a concern for the well-being of her sons had grown unchecked into an obsession with keeping them safe at all costs.

"I must say, I do love it when you laugh, Maisie, and I'm glad to have been of service. When will you come to see us again? The boys have been asking for Tante Maisie, though I believe it may have something to do with that delicious homemade toffee you brought last time. It certainly helped to bring out an errant baby tooth from the mouth of my youngest."

"I'm driving down to Chelstone tomorrow, so how about Sunday evening? I could detour on the journey back to Pimlico."

"Excellent. Come for supper. Douglas will doubtless scurry away to his study afterwards-he's composing an essay for the New Statesman , in fact, it might well turn out to be a book-so once Elinor has the toads tucked up in bed, we can retire to my sitting room for a good old chat."

"That sounds just what I need. Oh, and Priscilla, I think I'm going to have to pick your brains."

"Me? The intrepid Maisie Dobbs wants Priscilla Partridge, drinker of silly pink joyless cocktails, to help her on a case?"

"Yes, I do. In fact, you can start putting the gray matter to work if you like. I want to compile a list of all the nursing units in France in 1915. It's a bit tricky, as there were not only the government-sanctioned units but privately sponsored ones, and some of our nurses went to work for the French and Belgian medical corps-and of course, there was your lot, the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry."

"Not so much of the 'your lot.'" Priscilla lifted her glass to take a sip, and Maisie heard the ice clink again. "That's not as easy a job as it first sounds, is it? I mean, as you've said, there were groups of women who just went out and set up shop, so to speak-and God bless 'em, eh?"

"Put your mind to it, Priscilla, and use your old contacts-but be circumspect."

"Oh, you know me, 'circumspect' is my middle name." Priscilla laughed before continuing. "Who are you looking for?"

"I don't know, not yet."

"That's a good start."

"I said 'yet'-I'll have a name soon."

"Sunday-come when you like. Supper at half past six-inhumanely early, but as you know, we eat with the children in this house, unless they've been really, really naughty."

"See you then, Pris-and thank you."

"Gives me something to do-I might even get to use my fluent-and-without-an-accent French. Au revoir!"

Maisie arrived home at seven o'clock. Her flat was cold and dark when she entered, so before taking off her coat, she turned up the radiator and ignited the gas fire. Over the winter months, Maisie had taken to walking soon after arriving home in the evening. The exercise warmed her, and when she opened the door to her flat upon her return, it was as if she were returning to a snug cocoon.

There were those who might have cautioned her against leaving her home in darkness, pointing out that there were too many people cold and with empty bellies who would attack a young woman for the coat off her back, if only to sell it again. And in walking alongside the river, one could catch one's death-why, the stench alone would lead to consumption. But Maisie was drawn to walk the streets, in part, by Maurice's teaching that problems were best solved when one was moving, because if one is trying to find the key to a troubling case, moving the body will move the mind. In the early days of her learning, she was confused by the apparent contradiction of teachings from Maurice and Khan, but it was Maurice who explained: "When you are sitting in silence, you open the door to a deeper wisdom-the knowing of the ages. When you are walking, with the path to that wisdom already carved anew by your daily practice, you find that an idea, a thought, a notion, comes to you, and you have the solution to a problem that seemed insoluble."

But Maisie was also drawn to walk because she sought out the warmth of companionship, if only by proxy. She might stroll past a house where the family were gathered in the drawing room, perhaps talking by the fire, the scene illuminated by soft oil lamps. She passed another house where people were sitting at table, the spirited conversation audible from the street. And in the next house, the children, in nightclothes and dressing gowns, sat on their father's lap as he read a story. In each house, a fire, a family, and the blanket of companionship drawn close. She pulled up her collar, turned, and walked home. The flat would be warm by now.

Maisie prepared a supper of thick oxtail soup and bread, then with care gathered the letters she had placed close to the radiator and set them on the small table adjacent to her armchair by the fire. She had already turned down the radiator for the sake of household economy, and pulled a shawl around her shoulders as she sat down. She reread the first letter, and picked up the second.