Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

Maisie, how lovely to see you again-looking radiant as usual." Douglas leaned forward to kiss Maisie on both cheeks, before drawing back and introducing her to his friend. "Maisie, may I introduce Benedict Sutton-all-round good chap!"

"Miss Dobbs, a pleasure to meet you-Priscilla has told me a lot about you."

"That's a frightening thought!" Maisie smiled. Sutton was a good six feet tall and, she thought, better looking than she had expected. Though his swept-back hair was somewhat mousy, deep brown eyes and clear, pale skin gave him a more interesting countenance.

"All good, Miss Dobbs, it was all good."

"Oh, dear, do let's get over the 'Miss Dobbs' and 'Mr. Sutton'-otherwise supper will drag on like a turgid opera." Priscilla claimed the group's attention. "Maisie-Ben; Ben-Maisie. Now, let's have a glass or two of bubbly, shall we?"

The butler stepped forward holding a silver tray topped with four glasses filled to the brim with champagne.

"Who needs room to let the champers breathe, when it won't be that long in the glass?" Priscilla took two flutes of champagne and passed one to Maisie.

Benedict Sutton reached towards Maisie with his champagne, and allowed their glasses to touch with a clink that was so resonant, she feared they might shatter.

Soon supper was announced, and Priscilla put her arm around her husband's waist as they led their guests into the dining room. Douglas Partridge had suffered an amputation to his arm in the war, and used his remaining hand to wield a walking stick. His wife never considered the protocols of society matrons when accompanying her husband and thought nothing of putting an arm around his shoulder or waist.

Conversation was light while the first course-a spinach mousse-was served; then as more wine was poured, Sutton began to quiz Maisie.

"I understand you engage in rather interesting work, Maisie. Are you allowed to tell me about it?"

Maisie lifted her glass and took a sip of wine before responding. "Yes, it is interesting-to me, in any case. I don't generally discuss my work, though, given that my clients expect a certain high level of confidentiality."

"I see-and you liaise with Scotland Yard?"

"On occasion. There are times when I am asked to provide assistance on a given case-and it works both ways, because I have contacts there who have provided me with valuable help in the past."

"Bit dangerous, isn't it?"

Maisie twisted her wineglass, and then looked up at Sutton. "And which newspaper do you work for, Ben? Or are you paid according to the value of the scoops you uncover?"

Sutton laughed, joined by Priscilla and Douglas.

"Not so clever now, are you, Ben?" Priscilla shook her head and put her hand over her glass as the butler stepped forward to pour more wine. Maisie smiled in acknowledgment-Priscilla had been struggling to control an excessive drinking habit, and now took only one or two glasses of wine on occasion.

"No, I suppose not-but who can blame me for trying to sniff out a story when in the company of a charming inquiry agent?"

"Psychologist and investigator, so mind your p's and q's," said Priscilla.

"Priscilla-" Maisie blushed at Priscilla's correction.

"Don't try to stop her, Maisie-she's incredibly proud of you, though I doubt she'd tell you that." Douglas laughed and raised a glass to his wife and, as intended, the laughter defused Maisie's embarrassment.

Again conversation changed direction, with politics, books, and current theater offerings all coming up for discussion. Sutton demonstrated an interest in moving pictures, and soon the group was engaged in talk of improvements in cinema.

"When I think how far it's all come-it's amazing." Sutton had picked up a spoon and was holding it above the syllabub served for the pudding course. "A great friend of mine was working with cine film during the war-for the government, as you might imagine. He always said to me, 'It's just as well we didn't have sound. The punters could see their heroes at the front, but if they could hear them, they'd have known it wasn't all beer and skittles, and there would have been an outcry.'" He paused to sink the spoon into the smooth, pale yellow syllabub, then continued talking. "In fact, he's kept a lot of film. I was over there watching just the other day. We went through reels of film-it was incredible, what he had managed to record." Sutton shook his head. "There was film of some wounded horses being cared for by the army veterinary service-you never think of that sort of job, do you? And that's what was interesting, he filmed soldiers doing the things you never think about; it wasn't all guns, trenches, and 'Over the top, boys.' He even filmed a cartography unit. Now there's a job you wouldn't want to do, but you should see the maps they produced in terribly difficult circumstances-some of them are like works of art. Henry filmed them and he's exceptionally good with a camera, brought the lens in very close so you could see the details. But one wonders what he could have done with sound to accompany the cine film."

Having delivered his soliloquy, Sutton tucked into his pudding. Maisie had put down her spoon and leaned forward.

"Mr. Sutton-Ben-do you think you might be able to introduce me to your friend? I would love to see his cine film."

"Aha-has it to do with a case?" Sutton lifted his table napkin and drew it across his lips.

Maisie shook her head. "No, not at all." She paused. "I've just always been interested in cine film, and I would imagine your friend's work is incredibly interesting." She avoided meeting Priscilla's eyes, knowing her friend would comment on her subterfuge later.

"All right, I'll have a word with Henry-I am sure he'll jump at the chance, though you'll probably need a chaperone, knowing him."

"I can look after-"

"I think it's time we left the men to their port, Maisie," said Priscilla. "And gentlemen, we have some business of our own to attend to, so we'll join you for coffee in the drawing room."

What a load of tosh, Maisie-when did you garner an interest in moving pictures?"

"When I learned that someone called Henry had been in France in the war and accompanied a cartography unit. There weren't many of those units, Pris-and I have a feeling that this meeting with Mr. Ben Sutton might just be a serendipitous gift."

"I was right, he is dishy, isn't he?"

"That's not exactly what I was thinking." Maisie pointed to a collection of papers set to one side with "For Maisie" printed on top. "Now then, let's look at your notes-I can't thank you enough."

"Yes, you can."

"What do you mean?"

"If he asks, do go out with him."

"Who?"

"Ben bloody Sutton, for goodness' sake!"

"Oh, Pris…"

By the time Maisie returned home, she was feeling more positive about the direction of her inquiries. She had once described her work to her father as "finding my way along the Embankment in a thick pea-souper." There were times when she imagined she was reaching out in the dark, her fingers moving to touch something firm, anything solid to give her a landmark. Sound was distorted in the ocher blend of smoke and fog. Sometimes a noise that might have come from the river echoed as if between buildings, or vision was compromised and one strained the senses to find a path that led somewhere. With the Clifton case, though there were pages of information and snippets of knowledge, she hadn't thus far felt the tug in her gut. But now, after the discussion with Priscilla, she could feel a familiar excitement welling, as if, now that she'd uncovered that one thread of possibility, a vein was not too far away, even though it was still out there in the thick, swirling mist of unknowing.

Priscilla had discovered that The English Nursing Unit had been founded by Lady Petronella Casterman, a former suffragist who had been disgusted when so many of her fellow agitators had supported the war as a means to greater freedom for women-they had foreseen that women would take on the jobs vacated by men and boys, and in the process assume a measure of the independence enjoyed by men. Casterman had ploughed much of her not-inconsiderable wealth into founding a medical unit staffed entirely by women, which she sent to France in early 1915. Her husband, whom she married in 1898, when she was eighteen and he was thirty-five, had died in 1919 of a heart attack. Throughout their marriage he had, apparently, supported his wife's endeavors, partly out of guilt, given his predilection for long hours spent in his library, with friends at his club, or riding to hounds in the hunting season. According to Priscilla's notes, penned in her large eccentric script, having nursed her husband following a serious fall from his horse, Petronella Casterman had felt qualified to help in the unit herself, though she never donned the distinctive uniform supplied to her nurses. It was said that many a wounded soldier had regained consciousness as a bejeweled hand was laid on his forehead, and a woman of about thirty-five, dressed as if she were going to lunch at Fortnum and Mason, leaned over and said, "Lovely to have you with us again, Private. Now, let's see if we can knock you out for an hour or two more." The morphine would be administered and sleep would claim the soldier once again.