Maisie sat alongside the gas fire and smiled as she read Priscilla's notes, often with snippets of opinion scribbled alongside. "I think you ought to try to see her. Would you like me to telephone? I am sure Julia Maynard knows her." Another read: "Can you imagine waking up to that?" And, "I bet that soldier dined out on that story for years."
The nurses were sent to Paris for rest, and their employer-benefactor saw to it that they were lodged in comfortable hotels and that no expense was spared in ensuring they rested in some style. According to the account, it was not unusual for Petronella ("'Ella' to her friends") to drop in on her nurses at any point and push a few coins into their hands with the instruction, "Do something with your hair while you're in Paris."
"Very nice, I must say," Maisie spoke aloud to the empty room. "That's where I should have enlisted."
The most interesting point about Petronella Casterman was not her eccentricity, but her early life. She was the daughter of a shopkeeper who had premises in the village close to the Casterman ancestral seat. Her parents had been anxious to see their children transcend their lot in life and had encouraged education. They had hoped that Petronella might become a governess. Instead their daughter became the object of Giles Casterman's affection when he saw her in the village. Furthermore, it was clear that the subsequent marriage was a good one; the couple became parents to two daughters and later on a son, all of whom were known for being somewhat outrageous and often opinionated, if undeniably likable-especially the youngest, who was barely two years old when his father died.
Maisie was anxious to meet Lady Casterman, and made a note to telephone Priscilla to see if she could facilitate an introduction. She hoped the former shopkeeper's daughter would have kept complete records of her staff.
Putting Priscilla's notes to one side, Maisie picked up the collection of letters found close to the body of Michael Clifton. She had intended to read through them at speed, noting points that might help her discover the identity of his lover, as well as clues to what had happened in the dugout where he died. But she found that when it came to unfolding the letters, she was not drawn to such swift analysis, and instead she approached each communique as if she were turning the pages of a much-admired book, indulging in the slow revealing of the love affair as if the writing itself had come from the pen of a favorite author.
My dear Lt. Clifton,
Perhaps I should call you "The American Mapmaker." Or do you call yourself a Yankee? Your letter arrived today, and I was very pleased to be in receipt of good news and am delighted to hear that you will be in Paris at the same time as I-what a coincidence.
Maisie bit her lip to control the welter of emotion rising in her chest. It was not just the journey back in time, but a sense that she was something of an interloper, a person who might linger outside an open window at nighttime, and who would watch, hand on heart, while a young couple professed their love for each other. As she read the letter sent to a man who was now dead, she could feel the excitement that the English nurse must have felt, the sudden joy of knowing that she would soon see the one who had caused such butterflies in her stomach; who had teased and delighted her, and who had, perhaps before they had declared themselves to each other, caused her to fall in love with him-because Maisie could feel, even as she touched the still damp, brown-edged pages, that Michael Clifton's English nurse loved him dearly.
As you know, I will be spending my leave at the usual hotel, and with the usual chaperone. My employer is quite good to us, though we all work very hard. Our chaperone said to me, "What I do not see, I shall not harbor concern about." So I think we will be able to stay out at that lovely cafe until closing…
The following morning, Maisie had only just closed the front door behind her when she heard the telephone ringing in her office above. She ran up the stairs, unlocked the door, and reached for the telephone before it fell silent.
"This is Maisie Dobbs." It was not the usual greeting: in general, the accepted manner of answering the telephone was to announce the telephone number first.
"Ah, yes, Miss Dobbs, I have a message here saying that you called and wanted to talk to me." The accent was unmistakably American. "Thomas Libbert."
"Mr. Libbert, how kind of you to return my call, I-"
"Are you from the press?" Libbert's tone was curt, sharp to the ear, his words cutting into the silence with a bladelike edge.
"No, I am not from the press." Maisie tempered her voice, keeping it low and steady. "I telephoned because I know your parents-in-law, and I wanted to ask if there was anything I could do for them at the present time. They are both lucky to be alive, I know, and I wondered how I might best help, in the circumstances."
"You know them?" Libbert cleared his throat, and Maisie was relieved when he went on in a manner that suggested he had relaxed. "Yes, it's been a terrible time. Their son, my brother-in-law, Edward, is en route from Boston to Southampton."
"According to the reports I've read, it was a terrible business." Maisie made her move. "Look, Mr. Libbert, I wonder if you might be able to assist me. I am actually working for your parents-in-law, a small matter of helping to locate an item of some value to them, and I thought-"
"An item of some value? What do you mean?"
"I think I would rather we met in person, Mr. Libbert-might I see you at your hotel later this morning?"
"I'm at the Dorchester, but-are you some sort of dealer?"
"Yes, I suppose that's a good description. Shall we say eleven?"
Libbert cleared his throat. "Eleven it is. I'll meet you in the foyer."
"Very good."
"How will I know you?"
"I think I'll know you, so don't worry-I'll find you."
Billy Beale walked into the office as Maisie replaced the receiver.
"Morning, Miss." He stopped before removing his cap. "Bad news?"
"No, not bad news. That was Thomas Libbert. I've just arranged to see him this morning."
"What was he like?
Maisie shrugged and began removing her raincoat. "I'm not sure."
"I know that look, Miss. You think he's up to something." Billy reached out to take Maisie's coat as he spoke.
"I don't want to jump to conclusions, Billy." She passed her coat to him, took two manila folders from her document case, set them on the desk, then sat down, placing the case alongside her chair. She looked up at her assistant. "How have you been getting on? How's Doreen?"
"As well as can be expected, Miss." Billy turned away. "We went for a nice bus ride with the boys yesterday, got out of Shoreditch for a bit, you know. It's early days yet, eh?" He placed their coats on hooks behind the door and went to his desk. "I did some more work on that list, and I think I've whittled down them names again for you-you know, the women who wrote to Mr. and Mrs. Clifton."
Maisie nodded, noting the quick change of subject. "I should call Caldwell and find out how they are, but first I must telephone Mrs. Partridge." She lifted the receiver and proceeded to make two quick calls, first to leave a message at Scotland Yard for Detective Inspector Caldwell, then a brief conversation with Priscilla, asking if she could use her connections to put her in touch with Lady Petronella Casterman.
"Should be a piece of cake, darling. Ella loves new people, according to Julia. I'm amazed I haven't met her myself, though we Partridges do tend to scramble out of London on Friday evenings, so we miss quite a few social goings-on, and while I'm at it, you must come out to the country with us again."
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