Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

"Yes, so I understand."

"I don't know if you are aware of the problems we faced in the early months of the war," said Temple.

"It has been explained to me."

Temple went on as if he had not heard. "The French were the world's best mapmakers, yet the maps of their own country were pitiful, and we were working to different scales-it was a nightmare."

Maisie nodded, but her interest was more immediate. "I'd like to know more about Lieutenant Clifton's record vis-a-vis personal interaction with his peers and superiors. Was he liked? What did his commanding officer say about him?"

Temple shrugged. "I get the impression he was well liked, an affable chap." He opened the folder again. "Typical of those Americans, eh? Says here that he was always one to keep the spirits up, would help out, and was exceptionally brave-he and his men had been targeted by a sniper in the weeks before he was listed among the missing, and he had carried a badly wounded soldier back to the dugout with him, then went out again to bring back the body of another. He apparently did not want to leave the man to the rats of no-man's-land."

"Major, I wonder, do you have the names of the other men who died alongside Lieutenant Clifton? I'm particularly interested in a man named Mullen."

Again Temple consulted the notes and flicked through the pages. "Hmmm, yes."

Maisie leaned forward. "You have him listed?"

"As you probably know, we received notification that the bodies of Clifton and others in the unit were recently discovered, but Mullen isn't listed here. However-" He turned the pages to one he had looked at earlier. "Yes, here it is, thought I'd seen that name before. The wounded man, the one who Clifton brought back, was named Mullen. Seems he owes his life to Clifton, but I obviously have no record of his whereabouts after his medical discharge."

"Of course, yes." She paused. "And who was Lieutenant Clifton's commanding officer?"

"His immediate superior was a Captain Jeremy Lockwood, and according to the file, Lockwood was killed several weeks before Clifton was listed as missing. Single sniper bullet to the head."

"That's all in Clifton's notes?"

"Not all held as part of his military record, but I thought I'd try to dig further, in anticipation of your questions."

"That was good of you to go to the trouble. Thank you."

Temple looked at his watch, at which point Maisie stood up and held out her hand. "Thank you for your time, Major. You have been most helpful."

"Doesn't seem much, really. Mind you, his father must be well-heeled-if you excuse the pun-being from Clifton's Shoes."

"Is that sort of information held as part of his military service record?" Maisie thought for a moment. "It's not an uncommon name, though I suppose Michael might have mentioned the connection to support his claim of British ancestry."

Temple looked down at his notes once again and closed the file. "Well, it must have been written up somewhere." He cleared his throat, then looked up. "Let me escort you to your motor car. The weather looks as if it will hold for a clear journey back to London. Are you a Londoner by birth, Miss Dobbs, or…" Temple continued the conversation as they made their way downstairs, along the paneled corridor, and out into the afternoon light. Maisie barely said a word, aware that the very correct army officer was allowing her little opportunity to interject, or put another question to him. He had given her sufficient information, then a little bit more to keep her happy, though she thought the comment regarding Clifton's Shoes was a slip he regretted. It was, she thought, an interview with a man quite used to dealing with questions from outside the establishment, and his responses-just enough here, a snippet more than requested there-were designed to ensure there would be no more inquiries forthcoming.

W here do we look for Mullen? Maisie knew that such a search could be lengthy and lead to a dead end, but she thought it was important to find the man who owed his life to Michael Clifton, and who-she hoped-would be able to identify the officer with whom Clifton had experienced some antagonism. The journal entries might offer a clue to Mullen's origins, some mention of where he came from, any loose thread of information that could be unpicked.

As Temple predicted, the weather was kind for the rest of the day, and Maisie enjoyed the drive, which at one point commanded a view across the North Downs before she went on to London. The way in which the light moved across the hills caused Maisie to pull onto the side of the road for a few moments. As clouds crossed the sun, each beam slanted down on the earth's folds and inclines, giving an impression of movement, as if searchlights were in pursuit of a vanishing day. She wondered if this was how a cartographer might begin his work, simply by standing at a vantage point and regarding the land he must interpret for others to find their way. It occurred to Maisie that, just as Whitting had described, the cartographer must be both the artist and the technician. He must be the storyteller and the editor, seeing the curves and movement of the land with a practiced eye, and then bringing a mathematical precision to the page. If he was wrong, then people would become lost on their journey. And if the mapmaker had been charged with interpreting a field of battle, then his errors would cause men-many, many men-to die.

Maisie resumed her journey, and soon, with the country behind her, she drove first through the ever-growing suburbia, then into London and along the Old Kent Road towards the West End. She arrived at four o'clock, in time to see Billy walking across the square.

"Hello, Billy!" Maisie called out and waved as she entered the square from Fitzroy Street.

"Afternoon, Miss." He smiled as she approached. "How did you get on this morning?"

"It was interesting, I'll say that for my day so far. Let's get up to the office, and I'll fill you in on what I've found out. Any luck with those names?"

They continued talking as they went up the staircase to the first floor.

"I managed to find to three of them who were in London, but it didn't take an awful lot for their stories to crumble, I can tell you. Two of them were alone, one living in a bed-sit and one at a ladies' boardinghouse. One was looking for a way out of her circumstances, and the other one said her friend put her up to it, and she didn't want to get into any trouble. The third was a nanny to two nippers. She looked a bit pale, I must say-they were a right pair of tearaways. Little villains who could talk proper. I tell you, Miss, my boys might not sound upper-crust, but they know their manners and would put those two to shame. Anyway, she was another one looking for the golden path to another life."

Maisie unlocked the door and pushed it open, walked to her desk and took off her hat.

"Blimey, Miss, what've you done to your face? You look like you'd stopped at one of them boxing clubs down the Old Kent Road for a few rounds with a heavyweight. Ow, I bet that hurts."

Maisie touched her cheek. "You know, it's funny you mention it, but it stopped stinging today, so I forgot about it for a while-yet the officer I saw at the School of Military Engineering didn't blink an eye, didn't say a word. He could have been trying not to embarrass me, though."

"Nah, Miss. That's a nasty old scrape, is that. You'd have to mention it to stop yourself looking at it. What happened? Did you fall?"

"Actually, Billy-I was pushed. And robbed."

While they sat alongside the case map, Maisie recounted the events of the past two days to Billy.

"I reckon we should be looking out for this Mullen. Want me to see what I can find out? I can ask around some of my old mates, you never know, someone might know something, 'specially with all of us being sappers. I can do a bit of snooping to see if I can locate his medical details. And then there's that other bloke, Jeremy Whatsisname. I know them mapping blokes were sitting ducks, so it don't surprise me that he was caught by a sniper. But you never know, he might've been the one that Michael Clifton had words with-unless he wrote it in his journal when it first happened, when he had a head of steam, and it wasn't much more than a storm in a teacup."