Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

"Then please dispose of it when it has served its purpose as far as Scotland Yard is concerned."

"Sorry about that. After all, it meant a lot to you."

Maisie nodded. "Yes. It held a lot of memories, but at least they can't be stolen or destroyed. I'd like the other items back, though-the knife was a gift from my father."

"Right you are. In the meantime, I'll keep you apprised of the Cliftons' progress. I know you're working in their best interests. The elder son will be here soon; however, one more thing-don't be surprised if you receive a visit from an American embassy official. The fact that two American citizens were attacked has given rise to their own internal investigation, and I've already had representatives from the embassy under my feet."

"Forewarned is forearmed, Inspector. Thank you."

"Now then, I've got work to do here."

"Thank you for your telephone call, your consideration is much appreciated."

Maisie replaced the receiver and turned to Billy.

"Mullen copped it then?"

"Yes. Blunt object to the head, significant loss of blood, and most of it drenched my document case."

"Aw, that's rotten, Miss."

"Mind you, I have the examiner's name. We might need to see him at some point. In the meantime, Billy, I'd like you to see what you can turn up on Mullen. I know Caldwell is being very accommodating, very friendly, but that's not to say he'll share and share alike with the most pertinent information. And you think you can see those other women on your list by the end of tomorrow?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Good. I suppose you'll start with the watering holes in the search for more on Mullen."

"I keep it to a half a pint for me, and as much for the other blokes as it takes for them to totter down memory lane and reveal all." Billy tapped the side of his nose and winked in a conspiratorial fashion. "That's one thing about us East Enders, Miss, we've got the gift of the gab, and we're good at telling stories. I just have to find the blokes who are good at the telling-as long as it's the truth. Being a Londoner, I can always tell. Might even be a gut feeling."

"And you'll let me know if there's anything I can do for Doreen?"

Billy pulled his coat from the hook behind the door and turned to Maisie as he placed his cap on his head. "I'm sure she'd like to see you, Miss, if you can spare the time. It always meant a lot to her, that you came over to Shoreditch for our Lizzie, and that you did so much for her." He looked down at the floor. "And it meant a lot to me, that you sorted it all out for Doreen, that you got her out of that terrible asylum and into a decent hospital with a doctor who could really help her. So, if you can come over, I'd-"

"Of course I can, Billy. How about Friday afternoon, as soon as I've finished with the man with the cine film?"

Billy smiled. "Thanks, Miss. I'll see you tomorrow morning, then."

"Bright and early."

Mullen's been good to me. They're all pretty good to me. There's a bit of teasing here and here, but I get along fine with everyone-well, almost everyone. I don't know that Mullen and I would ever have become friends in civvy street, but here in France, and out there when we're working, Mullen has become my friend, and it's good to have a buddy-or a mate. As Mullen said, "You and me's mates." I told him that, when all this is over and I go out to California again, I'll need good men to work with me, and he said he'd come like a shot ("Couldn't keep me back, guv'nor," he said). The fact is that I've talked about my land so much now, I am sure Mullen knows every last inch of it, almost as if he'd been there himself. He's a good worker, a man to depend on. This war might have created soldiers of some and officers of others, but it also mixes people up, blends them together. I think Mullen might have been in a bit of trouble before the war, which is probably why he enlisted, and I reckon it's why he would like to hightail it out of Blighty when this whole thing is done. He's palled up to some of the officers, which is okay, whatever he wants to do, but some of the other lads don't seem to like it. They tell him off for sucking up. It doesn't hurt me-so long as we all do our jobs and get out of here, I don't mind what people do. I'm okay when there's no one around to get at me because he's got more pips on his shoulder.

Maisie turned the pages of Clifton's journal, once again cocooned within the quiet evening solitude of her flat. In the distance she could hear foghorns drone their song of warning along the river, their call like that of fairy-tale mermaids to boatmen navigating the sometimes treacherous waterway.

She wondered about Mullen and thought he was, perhaps, a man easily led, and probably by a yearning for a better life-after all, wasn't something better what most of a certain station wanted, if not for themselves, then for their children? But would Mullen have betrayed Michael Clifton's trust? If Mullen was the man who had attacked her-and without doubt evidence pointed in that direction-she did not sense that he could kill. The incident in the park seemed to have been an error; playing the memory back in her mind, as if it were a moving picture, she recalled the man turning to look back as she fell, a certain shock registered on his face, his eyes wide, as if in other circumstances he might be the first to come to her aid. And then he was gone, running away with his catch: her document case. What was he after? Indeed, if he was working for someone else, what did they think they would find? She had just left the hotel and her meeting with Thomas Libbert, so it was fair to assume that she had been observed entering and later exiting the hotel. Could Libbert be involved, perhaps informing a waiting Mullen that their quarry was on her way out? Had he instructed him to the effect that the old black case she carried must be obtained at all costs? Or was Mullen-a "tea boy" to more powerful men, according to Caldwell-working for someone else altogether? All in all, as she leafed through the journal, she thought Mullen might have been a likable rogue but a weak man, a man who would follow the scent of a quick shilling earned by dishonorable means.

There were times when Maisie wished she could simply pick up a telephone from her home and place a call to Maurice. He had always kept late hours, before this more recent illness, and there was a time when she knew he would have been sitting by the fire in his study, a glass of single-malt whiskey in his hand, a book or some papers in the other. When she had lived at Ebury Place, using the telephone at a late hour did not present a problem. Now to do such a thing necessitated a walk along the road to the kiosk-and Maurice would be in bed anyway. She wished it were otherwise, that she could lift the receiver and in a minute be talking to her mentor, telling him the story of her case and waiting for his advice, which always came in the shape of a question. How might it be if you look at the problem from this vantage point, Maisie? And even though she was not with him, at the end of the conversation she knew he would be smiling. That knowing smile would not be due to the fact that he had given her clues, but because he was aware that his questions had helped break down a wall so that she could see a door-and they both knew the knowledge she had in the palm of her hand had been there all the time; it had just taken a conversation with Maurice to enable her to recognize it.

Over the past two years, since the time of discord in their relationship, those telephone calls placed late at night had been few and far between, and more often because Maisie knew that Maurice missed his work to some degree, and-as he often said-could live vicariously through his former assistant as she journeyed thought the twists and turns of her cases. But now she would have been grateful for his counsel.