Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

"The police said I could see you for a moment or two, Mr. Clifton."

He nodded, licked his lips, and then spoke in a cracked voice. "Do you think the police will find out who did this?"

"I know they are working on it-and so am I."

"Thank you. I suppose-" He coughed, and winced as the pain reverberated through his body. "I suppose you want to ask me a few questions, or however the saying goes."

"If you don't mind."

Clifton nodded again.

"And I know you've probably been asked these same questions before, so forgive my repetition," said Maisie. "Can you tell me if you recollect anything about the person who attacked you?"

He paused before answering the question. "That's an interesting thought-the police asked me if I remembered anything about the man ."

"We need to cast the net wide before dragging it back to the boat to inspect the catch."

He sighed. "I've tried to remember, but it's a blur-I just remember the movement, the struggle, hearing Martha scream, as if she were trying to stop someone attacking me. Then everything went black."

"Yes, I see." She looked at Clifton and wanted to lay her hand on his, as she would with Maurice or her father. Instead she went on. "I know this is terribly difficult for you, Mr. Clifton. I can see you are weary and in pain, and I would not ask you to press on if it were not important. Do you think you can cast your mind back a bit?"

"I know it's important. I'll try."

"I'll be quick. Now, what do you remember before you returned to your room? Let's start with when you left to go out."

"Oh, I don't know, I can't-"

She reached out and touched his arm. "Mr. Clifton, close your eyes for a moment-not tight, but just allow your eyelids to touch." Maisie paused as Clifton followed her instructions. "Now, imagine you and Mrs. Clifton are leaving your room, see it as if you were at the picture house-what happened next?"

"I-I locked the door. Yes, and I can remember Martha asking if I was warm enough because I looked cold-always worrying, my Martha."

"Go on."

"We went downstairs, through the lobby."

"Let's linger there for a while. Look around, who was there?"

Clifton nodded. "Well, there was a darker gentleman-looked like a Spaniard-signing the register. Martha said she thought he must feel the cold, if he came from somewhere warm." He coughed and winced as the pain reverberated from his chest to his head, but struggled to continue. "She remarked on the flowers in a vase. Lovely flowers, with big blooms. She thought they must have been brought in from your Channel Islands."

Maisie said nothing, though she found herself closing her eyes as if she, too, could conjure the scene being brought forth from Edward Clifton's deepest memory.

"There's a boy struggling with a woman's luggage, and she's talking in a loud accent-reckon she was from New York. Martha whispered that it was embarrassing to come from the same country." He laughed. "And I said, 'It's your country, my love!'" He wiped his eyes with the backs of his fingers, and flinched at the feel of bandages.

"Do you want to stop, Mr. Clifton?"

"No, no." He paused and took a deep breath. "Now, where was I? Yes, there was the man to the left. I remember him. Very correct. Very English, as if he was in the Guards. Wore an open-neck shirt and a-" He held his hand to his neck. "I've forgotten what you call them here? Cravat. Yes, he was wearing a cravat. At his neck. Shoes polished. I remember him because of the way he looked at Martha, and I thought to myself, Look at her, sixty-eight and she can still draw a guy's attention."

"Can you tell me about his hair, his eyes-can you remember?"

"Darkish graying hair, silver at the sides. Then I heard the couple arguing, near the door, so I looked away."

"Arguing?"

"Don't know what about. They didn't look as if they belonged, if you know what I mean. And it wasn't so much the woman as the man. I remember thinking he looked like someone you wouldn't want to meet on a dark night with those broad shoulders, but he looked as if he could do with a good meal all the same. She didn't want him to come into the hotel, and was trying to pull him away; then one of the hotel clerks took care of it, told them to leave, I reckon. It was all done very quietly. Can't say as I remember much after that." He opened his eyes. "Except, when they'd gone, Tommy-he's our son-in-law-called out to us. He'd just come down to the lobby. He wanted to know when we'd be back." Clifton touched his head.

"Do you have a headache?"

"Starting to." He closed his eyes again.

"Then let's stop, Mr. Clifton. You've been very kind to see me, and I cannot thank you enough for trying so hard to remember. Perhaps when you feel well enough-"

Maisie leaned forward to check Clifton's pulse. He was already asleep. She stood up and lifted the chair to one side so as not to scrape the legs against the floor, then tiptoed towards the door. It was Clifton's voice, speaking low but with a forced strength, that stopped her.

"Find whoever did this to Martha, Miss Dobbs. And find the man who murdered my son."

"I will, Mr. Clifton. Don't worry, I'll find them."

On the drive down to Chelstone, Maisie barely noticed the landscape around her, and at times realized that she could not remember driving past some of the usual landmarks on the journey. In her mind she was playing and replaying the scene described by Edward Clifton. Of course, each of the people he described seeing-the man with the cravat, the man with a dark complexion, the arguing couple, and Thomas Libbert-could be completely innocent. But someone had gained entrance to the Cliftons' room, and had been so intent that his or her identity remain secret that he or she had left the couple for dead before escaping. It was clear that the person was looking for something specific, and it was possible that the very item being sought was in the hands of either the police or Maisie. Could the letters from women who had responded to the Cliftons' advertisement have inspired the attack? Or perhaps Michael Clifton's personal effects? Somewhere there was something of great value to another person-what was it, and where was it? And who wanted it so much that they would kill to have it?

Stalled in her quest until Monday, Maisie planned to spend time with her father, and Maurice. As her thoughts transferred to her ailing mentor, Maisie's eyes filled with tears. She had known him for so long, and had it not been for Maurice Blanche, she might never have walked through the doors that had been opened for her time and time again. It was as if, the moment they were introduced when she was still only thirteen years of age, he had led her to a table heaped with knowledge-only there never seemed to be a point at which her hunger to learn was sated. He had shown her a path that, in her wildest imaginings, she might never have found alone, had offered her counsel when she returned from war wounded in both body and spirit; and he had chosen her to become his trusted assistant, and taught her so much.

A recent estrangement in their relationship had been healed, and though she felt strength in her independence, she was also glad that he was still there to offer advice, to hold up the looking glass to her innermost thoughts so that she could see that what was already within her had merit and worth. If her father was her rock, then Maurice Blanche was the witness to her journey, and for that she accorded him great affection.

Maisie's thoughts came back to the present as she reduced speed to turn in to the entrance to Chelstone Manor. To her left was The Dower House, Maurice's residence, which he had bought years before when the old Dowager Lady Compton, Lord Julian's mother, died. Once she had passed The Dower House, Maisie would turn off the carriage sweep that led to the manor and into a downward-sloping lane to the left, at the end of which was her father's cottage. The gardens of the two houses bordered each other, and Maisie would often take the path from her father's garden up to The Dower House. The conservatory where Maurice spent warm days overlooked the gardens, and Maisie knew her old mentor would be aware of her arrival at Chelstone, and would be awaiting her visit.