Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

" You know the truth, Maisie. You know the truth, but you need the proof ."

Maurice's words echoed again in her mind. She put the index cards and pencil in her shoulder bag, and began to run when she saw the bus coming along. And even as she clambered on board and the conductor rang the bell for the bus to be on its way, it was as if Maurice were with her. " The evidence is always between the lines, whether it is written or not. Look between the lines. "

Maisie checked the time on a clock above a shop window as the bus passed along the street, and decided that it would be a good idea to detour via The Dorchester Hotel, to see if she could meet with Thomas Libbert again. At this time of day many men of commerce were returning to their hotels, perhaps to rest before venturing out for supper with colleagues. She stepped off the bus at the next stop and walked to the underground station, from which she traveled to Marble Arch by tube, then made her way down Park Lane to the hotel. She found that she rather missed the very grand Dorchester House that had been demolished to make way for the new hotel. It had spoken of the limitless ambition of old wealth, and though it might have looked more at home in Venice, she had rather liked the building, which looked out over Hyde Park as if it were an elderly lady surveying her garden from the comfort of a soft old chair while feeling very pleased with herself as she regarded each tree, shrub, and flower bed planted over the years.

Maisie entered the hotel and asked a clerk if a guest by the name of Mr. Thomas Libbert might be available.

"Ah, yes, madam, I believe you will find him in the bar. He's been expecting you."

"He-" Maisie almost revealed her surprise, but instead thanked the clerk and began to walk towards the bar. Libbert had obviously informed the clerk that he was in the bar, should his expected guest arrive soon. She was not the anticipated arrival, but she was curious to see who it might be. Should she approach Libbert? Or should she seclude herself in a corner with a vantage point from which to observe the comings and going of the clientele? She did not want the clerk to question her if he returned, so she decided to continue with her plan.

"Mr. Libbert?"

Libbert turned, and frowned when he saw Maisie.

"Oh, Miss Dobbs."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Libbert-were you expecting someone? I was passing the hotel and thought I might drop in and take my chances as to whether you might be here. If you've a moment or two, I have a couple more questions-but only if you've time."

Libbert glanced at his glass, which was full, signifying that he was not in a hurry. "Yes, of course. Drink?"

"Thank you. A ginger ale would be lovely, please. I have been rather busy today, and I'm parched." The lie came with ease, though Maisie was far from thirsty, having had two cups of tea with Ella Casterman.

Libbert raised a hand to the barman, ordered the ginger ale, and turned to Maisie, who was now seated alongside him. "So, are you making progress, Miss Dobbs?" He took a sip of Scotch and let it linger in his mouth before swallowing the liquid.

"Yes, there's been some progress." She thanked the barman, who placed a glass with one cube of ice and the effervescent ginger ale in front of her. "I am curious, though, Mr. Libbert-I know you've spent a lot of time in Europe on business, and I'm wondering if you ever visited Michael while he was in Paris on leave."

Libbert rubbed his forehead, and Maisie thought he might be considering whether she knew of a visit, or whether she was engaging in investigative brinkmanship. "Paris. Lovely city. My wife and I went there for our honeymoon. Idyllic."

"Were you there during the war?"

He shook his head. "Not that I can remember. So much traveling, you see, on behalf of the company."

"Yes, I see. I must say, though, I don't think I will ever forget a moment spent in Paris. Especially had I been there in wartime. And especially if my brother-in-law was on leave there."

"Sorry, Miss Dobbs, you've rather caught me at a bad time. I've a lot on my mind-Anna's parents are still fighting for their lives, and my brother-in-law is due here tomorrow."

"I'd heard that Mr. and Mrs. Clifton were improving-much to the relief of the doctors."

"Y-yes, yes, they are, but there's no guarantee you know, with blows to the head. They could go like that." He snapped his fingers.

Maisie nodded and reached for her ginger ale. She took another sip, set down the glass, and had just drawn breath to ask another question when Libbert looked past her, distracted.

"I must go, Miss Dobbs. My business associate has just arrived, and I do want to get this deal sewn up before Teddy arrives tomorrow-it's rather important for our company."

"Of course, Mr. Libbert." Maisie smiled, and held out her hand. "And thank you for accommodating my unexpected arrival, and for the refreshment."

"You're welcome." He shook her hand, nodded good-bye, and hurried from the bar.

Maisie thanked the barman as he came to collect the glasses, then walked back towards the foyer. As she came out into the low spring sunshine of late afternoon, she saw Libbert clamber aboard a taxi-cab, and though she could not be sure, it seemed the man with him, at that moment caught in a ray of sunshine that lightened the otherwise shadowed interior of the vehicle's passenger compartment, was wearing a cravat at his neck, a white shirt, and a blazer. He was a man one might have described as distinguished, and Maisie thought that if she saw him walking along the street, he would strike her as a man who knew how to hold back his shoulders and step forward with some purpose. And in that shaft of light, she saw a man who was probably used to giving orders. Orders that were always carried out to the letter.

Maisie prepared a simple evening meal of soused mackerel and vegetables, with a slice of bread and jam for pudding. In general, she did not mind a solitary repast, often taken on a tray while she sat in one of the armchairs, a fork in one hand and a book in the other. And she was under no illusions regarding the significance of the book, whether a novel or some work of reference. As she turned the pages, the characters or the subject matter became her company, a distraction so that the absence of a dining companion-someone with whom to share the ups and downs of her day, from the surprising to the mundane-was not so immediate. Guests to her home were few, and after such a visit, during which a linen cloth would be laid on the dining table and cutlery and glasses set for two, the vacuum left by the departing visitor seemed to echo along the hallway and into the walls. It was at those times, when her aloneness took on a darker hue, that she almost wished there would be no more guests, for then there would be no chasm of emptiness for her to negotiate when they were gone.

This evening, though, as soon as she had finished supper and the glass, plate, and cutlery were washed, dried, and put away, Maisie sat at the dining table in front of Michael Clifton's letters and journal, which she had opened at the beginning and was reading once more. She found herself smiling at certain excerpts-his mimicry of his soldiers' accents, which, when written out phonetically, were certainly humorous. A listing of new words learned along the way had led him to observe, "And I thought they'd be speaking the same language. I might as well have joined up with the French."

I don't know where the idea came from that the English are subdued. The boys-the mates-I've met aren't afraid to let you know exactly what they're thinking. Mind you, they all keep quiet when the inspecting officer makes the rounds of the billets and says, "Any complaints?" That's a stupid question, when you've got "cooties" running along the seams of your shirt and driving you crazy. If you say, "Well, sir, I do have a complaint," you're likely to find yourself up on some kind of disciplinary action. And as for cooties, they're the nasty little bugs that get into everything. I'd never heard that word before. I think Dad must have lost his native language by the time I was born.