Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

"The only big outstanding question is that land. There have been probate problems over the years, given his status. I've been out there with Teddy, and as far as I can see, it's all desert and a bit of scrubby forest-nothing like the East Coast. That's what you call forest."

"I thought it might be an area rich with possibility."

Libbert shook his head. "Union Oil has the most valuable land tied up with its mineral rights and it's snapped up anything of worth. And I can't see Michael knowing more than these people, so heaven only knows why he bought the land. Not that we can sell it anyway, not until the legals are all sorted out."

"We?"

Libbert shrugged. "It's a pretty safe bet that, in his will, Michael would have left the land to my wife-after all, she was his favorite sister. We'll sell as soon as we can."

"Was there a will?"

"Yes and no."

"What do you mean?"

"When Michael enlisted-the fool that he was-like all soldiers, he was asked to make a will. After his death, Edward discovered that Michael had simply written, 'Done.' Now that his remains have been found, we hope this can all be sorted out-but let me tell you, the banks don't give up anything without every single last document in place."

"It's clear that Mr. and Mrs. Clifton would want to honor Michael's will, rather than jump to conclusions about his wishes regarding distribution of his wealth."

Libbert shook his head. "Like I said, everyone knows that we-I mean, my wife-would have been the number-one beneficiary."

A waiter approached and poured more coffee, and as Libbert picked up his cup once more, she put another question to him.

"Were you aware that Michael had a very strong association with a young woman while overseas?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, great! If anyone was going to fall in love with a penniless girl in wartime, it would have been our romantic Michael, wouldn't it?" Libbert sipped his coffee, then reached forward and placed both cup and saucer back on the tray. "No doubt there's some money-hungry woman out there right now trying to get her hands on her deceased lover's wealth."

"I think if the woman in question was going to do such a thing, she might not be so hard to find. And in any case, if she is not specifically mentioned in Michael's will, surely she would have no claim."

"Oh, trust me, Miss Dobbs, as far as the Clifton money is concerned, you would not believe the people who might come out of the woodwork. And even though Edward's family shoe company over here closed down years ago, people still remember Clifton's Shoes-heck, there are people out there still wearing them. Of course, that was half their trouble, they made shoes to last. They didn't seem to understand that if shoes don't wear out, then people don't buy more shoes."

"They did very well for over a century, Mr. Libbert, and certainly I have never heard of making shoes that do not last-after all, what do we have a cobbler for, if not to repair a good pair of shoes?"

Libbert shook his head. "That's not how it's going to work if people want to make money-you wait and see." He looked at his watch. "Now, is this all you wanted to see me about? To talk about Michael?"

Maisie set down her cup and saucer and picked up her gloves, shoulder bag, and document case. "Yes, that's more or less it." They stood up together, and as they walked towards the foyer, Maisie asked another question.

"I understand you were here at the Dorchester when Mr. and Mrs. Clifton were attacked."

Libbert cleared his throat, and Maisie thought his color heightened a little. "I was staying here, but not here at the time. I'd gone out earlier for a walk across the park-can't just sit in business meetings all day, can I? I was planning to join them for dinner later, but had yet to see them on the day it happened." He shook his head. "I just wish I'd seen them earlier, gone out with them…anything to stop them going back to their room when they did. It's a tragedy, a family tragedy."

Maisie nodded. "They are in excellent hands, Mr. Libbert."

"So I've been told, but Teddy is bringing a family friend across with him-man called Charles Hayden. Brain surgeon and one of the best."

"Charles Hayden?"

"Heard of him?"

Maisie smiled. "I met him in France, when I was a nurse. He was a friend of a friend."

Libbert shrugged. "Small world, Miss Dobbs. Very small world. Now, I've got work to do."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Libbert."

"You're welcome," said Libbert. Then he turned and walked away.

Maisie pulled on her gloves and stepped out into spring sunshine breaking through the clouds. She thanked the doorman and they exchanged a few words about the weather, and that spring seemed to have sprung at last. And when she looked across towards the park and saw the last of the daffodils, she thought she would walk and consider the conversation with Libbert. But instead, the words that came to her were those of Edward Clifton, when she visited him at St. George's Hospital and asked him to recollect the day's events leading up to the attack in their hotel room: " …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 ."

As she walked in Hyde Park, Maisie's thoughts were on Edward Clifton and his wife, and she thought she would make her way to Hyde Park Corner and St. George's Hospital, where she might be able to learn more of their progress, and-if luck favored her-even see Edward again. The image of the hospital and the elderly man she hoped to see reminded her of Maurice. She confessed to herself that she had been pushing all consideration of his ill health to the back of her mind-she did not want to entertain the implications of his not getting well again. She felt as if she were on a trapeze at the circus, flying through the air, but with no net below to catch her. She stopped on the path, and as she closed her eyes, she felt the tears well up once more. Who would be there if she fell? Maurice had picked her up from the cold, wet ground when she collapsed at the site of the casualty clearing station where, in the eyes of the dead and dying, she had seen a terror she could never have imagined, and where an already compromised youthful innocence was lost to her forever. He had remained with her, had ministered to her when she needed him most-was she failing him now by not being at his side?

Maisie tried to shake off the chill that had enveloped her, and walked on along the path, so consumed by her powerlessness against the march of time and sickness that she did not hear the steps behind her, nor had she considered that the earlier sensation had been anything more than a physical manifestation of her fear. The attack was sudden, the shove between her shoulder blades sending her lurching forward and crashing to the ground. She felt her cheek strike the path, and as she fell forward, she released her grip on her document case to break the impact of her fall.

Maisie gathered her thoughts within seconds, pushed down on the ground with her hands, and came to her feet. The document case was gone, and in the distance she could see a man running towards the gate. She gave chase, shouting, "Stop! Thief! Stop that man-stop that thief!"

As she ran, Maisie felt the air scratch her throat and her chest began to burn, but she did not relinquish speed to discomfort. She ran out through the gate in time to see the man dodge through Marble Arch traffic; then he was gone.

"Damn!" She looked down at her hands, the deep grazes and scrapes along the base of her palms, and as a policeman came towards her, she brushed the back of her hand against her cheek and felt the wetness of blood where gravel had torn at her skin. "Oh, that's just lovely!" she said to herself.

"Are you all right, Miss?"