Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

"That's lovely of you, Pris, and I will, soon. Look, I must go now, lots to do. I'll talk to you later."

"Has Ben telephoned you?"

"Oh, Pris, I doubt very much if he will."

"Don't be too surprised."

Maisie promised to telephone again later in the day, and had just reached out to take Billy's list from his hands when the telephone rang. This time she gave only the number.

"Maisie, it's Ben Sutton here. How are you?"

"Mr. Sutton, good morning." Maisie smiled and nodded at Billy, who returned to his desk to continue working. "What can I do for you?"

"I think it's what I can do for you that's of the essence here. I've been talking to my friend Henry Gilbert this morning."

"Oh yes, the man with the cine film." Maisie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Sutton had been in touch with his friend at an early hour.

"That's right. He's busy throughout most of the week, unfortunately. He's out at the Twickenham Film Studios until Friday, when he said we could come to his house to view the old cine films you were interested in."

"Oh, that is excellent news. Thank you very much, Mr. Sutton."

"Please, let's not stand on ceremony again, Maisie-do call me Ben."

"Of course, Ben-and I am most grateful to you for talking to your friend."

"I thought we could meet at eleven at his home in Notting Hill-and, um, how about a bite to eat afterward?"

Maisie's reply was not immediate. "Yes, a lovely idea-though I am afraid I might not be able to stay long."

Sutton replied as if he had heard only her acceptance, rather than the limitation of time. He gave her the address and then said. "Excellent, see you at eleven on Friday."

"Eleven it is."

As Maisie set down the telephone receiver once again, Billy pulled two chairs up to the table by the window, ready to go through the list of names and make notations on the case map, as was their practice when they worked together on a given assignment.

Maisie joined him and reached for his notes, at first trying to avoid eye contact. Then she gave a half-smile and shrugged. "Oh well, sometimes you have to meet with eligible men just to get on in a case." She felt almost like Priscilla.

Soon Maisie and Billy had eliminated more names from the list of respondents to the Cliftons' advertisement.

"So, we've arrived at ten women who might be telling the truth." Maisie set the notes on the table and looked at Billy.

"Yes."

"All right, as our friends at Scotland Yard might say, it's down to shoe-leather detective work. Fortunately, apart from one in Harrogate and one in Chester, these women are all from London and the immediate home counties, so at least we won't be incurring great travel expenses. Let's start close to home first and concentrate on the ones either in or within striking distance of London, then move out. You take the first five, and I'll take the rest. And if I am to see Lady Petronella Casterman-"

"Lady who?"

"Casterman."

"I mean the first bit."

"Petronella?"

"I know her."

"You know her?"

"Certainly do," said Billy. "I did a bit of private work for her, few years ago now, not long after I came home from the war. She'd had a telephone put in and wanted it all wired so she had one in her bedroom and one somewhere else, and what with one thing and another, she wanted it done on the quick and a mate of mine knew the butler. Next thing you know, I was asked to see him, and I put a dog and bone in about three rooms for her. Took me a couple of days, it did, what with all that old plaster to look after, and them high ceilings, and of course, the rooms she wanted rigged up weren't exactly next to each other. Not that I saw her, mind, but she came into the library while I was working one day. Had what they call the common touch. Her youngest, the boy, must have been only about three years old at the time-they had two older girls, if I remember rightly. And while I was there, reckon it must've been the second day, a couple of young women came to visit. They'd worked with her during the war. Apparently she took care of them who worked for her." Billy's eyes widened. "Now I see what you're getting at-she had something to do with nurses in the war, didn't she? Here, you don't reckon-"

"No, I don't reckon, not definitely," said Maisie. "But it's a pretty strong lead, given that she sponsored a nursing unit in the war." Maisie went on to recount her conversation with Priscilla, and what she had gleaned thus far from reading the letters from the young woman for whom Michael Clifton had great affection.

By the time she left the office to meet with Thomas Libbert at the Dorchester, Billy's list was divided, and she was in possession of the names of five women, now in their early thirties: Ivy Acton, Sybil Bates, Anne Callan, Harriet Evans, and Barbara Harte. Billy took those whose surnames beginning with letters from the second half of the alphabet: Ethel Jempson, Sylvia Lance, Elizabeth Peterson, Rose Stephens, and Theresa Tolliver.

Atop-hatted and uniformed doorman welcomed Maisie to the Dorchester with a smile and "Good morning, madam," as he drew back the doors to allow her to enter. Though there were a few men in the foyer, she knew straightaway which one was Thomas Libbert, but did not approach him-she wanted to observe him first, to judge his mood and gather information about his frame of mind before they met. She stood to one side behind a flower arrangement. Libbert was dressed in a suit of light brown wool, with an open-collared shirt and a cravat at his neck. His brown hair was combed back and oiled in place, and his otherwise polished shoes were scuffed with mud at the heel and sides-she surmised he had likely taken a walk in Hyde Park before returning to meet her at the assigned hour. The American paced back and forth, his eyes on the ground in front of him, then looking towards the entrance. His left hand was pushed into his trouser pocket, and in his right he held a cigarette, which he smoked not as a man relaxed and enjoying his tobacco, but as if it were vital that he inhale as much smoke as possible. He looks like a train, thought Maisie. But more than the smoking or his pacing, Maisie could feel his nervousness, as if his composure were hanging by a thread-which was to be understood, considering the attack on his wife's parents, and the fact that his brother-in-law had not yet arrived in the country to share the burden of concern. At that moment Libbert, who was now looking at the floor as he paced, collided with a young clerk who was walking at speed to deliver an envelope set on a silver tray.

"Hey, watch out, pal!" Libbert admonished the clerk, who was offering profuse apologies while kneeling down to pick up the tray and envelope, which he had dropped in the collision. "Just look where you're going-I'll have you fired, you idiot."

Maisie stepped forward, smiling as she approached and speaking his name so that he looked towards her. "Mr. Libbert? Good morning-Maisie Dobbs." She held out her hand, then turned to the clerk. "Are you all right? You almost came a cropper there."

The young man nodded, apologized once more, and walked on, clutching the silver tray and letter.

"I could have his job for that."

"But it's good of you not to complain-he might be the sole supporter of his family in these times, so I am sure he's grateful to you for just letting him off with a reprimand." She looked around. "You must be under tremendous strain-shall we talk over a cup of coffee?"

Libbert rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so rough on the kid-too much on my mind." He nodded. "I could use a cup of coffee."

So, you're working for my father-in-law, but you can't tell me what he's asked of you?"

"Only that it is in connection with his son, Michael. There are some outstanding questions regarding his estate, and Mr. and Mrs. Clifton wanted to be in touch with anyone who might have known him in his final days." Maisie smiled in acknowledgment as a waiter poured two cups of coffee, and cast her eyes around the opulent surroundings, at the swags of fabric decorating the walls and the marbled pillars. She turned to Libbert again. "I suppose you could say they are trying to close the book on his life in a manner that allows them, and their son, to rest in peace."