Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

"Of course, Miss." Billy fingered the edge of the case map, the offcut of plain wallpaper where all evidence, thoughts, hunches, and observations on any given case were noted using colored pencils. Some words were written in capital letters, others with a star next to them. Then clues were linked this way and that, as if the person creating the map were trying different pieces in a jigsaw puzzle to see if they might fit.

Maisie replaced the telephone receiver. "Is everything all right, Billy?"

"Y-yes, of course. Nothing wrong."

"Do you need to leave early?"

"No, no, it's not that."

Maisie stepped towards the table and sat down opposite her assistant. "Doreen's coming home soon, isn't she?"

Billy nodded and continued to rub the paper between thumb and forefinger.

"It's been a long time since she went away. But she's done well of late, during her weekend visits home, hasn't she?"

"Very well, all things considered."

"It's natural to be worried, Billy. You've all got to get used to living together again, and there isn't exactly a book to guide you."

Billy leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Maisie could see he was afraid.

"That doctor, the one you sent us to-Dr. Masters-said that once the anniversary of our Lizzie's passing had come and gone, she'd make better progress. And she has. It was as if there was a nasty old abscess full of memories in her head that had to open up. But that don't stop me feeling two things at once. On one hand, I'm pleased as punch that she'll be back with us, and on the other, I'm worried to the bone for our boys. They've done well, Miss. Her goings-on before she was taken away had made them like little ghosts around the house, never knowing what was going to happen next. They didn't know whether she'd be all sunshine and light, or whether she'd be ready to give them a stripe across the backs of their legs. They want their mum to come home, but I can see they're dreading it too."

Maisie did not respond at once, but allowed silence to follow Billy's confession. To speak with immediacy would suggest his words had no import, that such fears were unfounded. And he had good cause to be concerned.

"Those feelings are to be expected." When she spoke, it was with tenderness in her voice. "You and the boys have been on your own for four months, and they've become accustomed to a new rhythm to their days, and your mother is very good with them-solid as a rock, isn't she? Now you have to bring Doreen into your circle and welcome her home-which is so hard when you have such troubling memories of her before she was committed. Just take each day as it comes, Billy. Give Doreen time to negotiate her own path back into the fold-and remember, she's been in a place where she's found the healing she needed, so she must be scared too."

"It's not as if you can all talk about it, is it? I mean, you've just got to get on with it, like they say."

Maisie took a deep breath. "Don't be afraid to talk to each other. Talk to the boys before Doreen gets home, and talk to Doreen. After something like this happens, things rarely go back to the way they were before, but it doesn't mean it's all bad. Take it as it comes. Slowly. You're on fresh ground, Billy, so give yourself a chance to see the road ahead, and be ready to change course."

Billy scratched his head. "I reckon I can see what you mean, Miss. Canada was the only place I'd had my sights on for years. All I wanted to do was to get us all out and emigrate, just like my mate did with his family. But now Doreen's got to get back to her old self, and I've got to get more money put away before we can make a move anywhere." He sighed. "And London might be my home, and I might be Shoreditch born and bred, but now all I can see is a big ship going to Canada and all of us on it."

A bell ringing above the door indicated the arrival of a visitor.

"I bet that's the messenger from the Cliftons. Bring up the parcel, and then you go on home, Billy. You've got a lot to do before Friday, so you'd best be off."

Billy left the office and returned with a brown-paper-wrapped box. "Here it is, Miss." He placed the package on Maisie's desk. "I reckon you won't be in until tomorrow afternoon, if you're going down to see Dr. Blanche."

"Probably around two tomorrow. I just have to nip home to pack my case, and I'll be off down to Chelstone. The letters have to be warmed and opened very carefully. I know they may seem dry, having been out of the ground for a few months, but that kind of damp fuses the paper, and very hot air can cause the paper to crumble. I'll take them home and leave them near the radiator. Then we'll see what we can do. Oh, and in the meantime, could you start going through the list of respondents to the advertisement? Their letters should be in the parcel. We need to separate the wheat from the chaff."

"How do I know what's what?"

"Good question. Trust your instinct. Some stories will obviously take wide turns, and can be easily identified as the work of rogue claimants; others may be sob stories. Don't be taken in by the sad tales of lost love, but look for a ring of authenticity. I have a feeling that if Michael Clifton's girl saw and responded to the advertisement, she would have taken care to mention something personal to identify her knowledge of him-though we will need the Cliftons' help to confirm such a marker." Maisie gathered her belongings and paused at the door. "And I think that Michael's lady friend might offer more than solace to his parents. She might well hold the key to the identity of the person who took his life."

Maisie arrived at her flat in Pimlico and went straight to the radiator in the sitting room, where she pressed her hands to the thick iron pipes. They were lukewarm, a perfect temperature to dry the recently unearthed papers. The box sent from the Cliftons contained several items, including three smaller packages, each wrapped with brown paper and tied with string. One was marked "Letters from Claimants" and had been left with Billy to go through. The second was marked "Letters to Michael, found with his belongings," and it was this package that Maisie now began to unwrap, without first even removing her coat. She had planned to pack with haste and drive straight to Chelstone, but now wavered, the letters piquing her curiosity.

Maisie had read many letters during the course of her work. A client might bring a crumpled missive found in the pocket of a husband believed to be unfaithful, or a distraught caller might present her with a collection of letters from a relative, communication he hoped might prove wrongful omission from a will. Letters were submitted to prove innocence and guilt, to indicate intentions, whether untoward or kindly. And where letters were written over the course of some months or years, Maisie could follow the passage of a relationship between writer and recipient, could read between the lines and could intuit what the recipient might have penned in return. A collection of letters offered a glimpse across the landscape of human connection at a given time. But the letters written to Michael Clifton offered a seed of fascination for her even before she pulled the string and began to unwrap the paper, for they were written from the heart by a girl to her love-and Maisie had once been a girl in love, in wartime.

Sitting at the table, Maisie drew back the brown paper to reveal the collection of letters, still in their original envelopes, unopened since Michael Clifton himself had received each letter. In the third package, several photographs of Michael showed him to be a young man of some height, strong across the shoulders, a confidence to his stance. His hair was fair, short and combed back, though in one photograph it appeared as if the wind had caught him unawares, and a lock of hair had fallen into his eyes-in that image he reminded her of Andrew Dene, with whom she had walked out some eighteen months earlier. She had ended the relationship, but heard that he had since married the daughter of a local landowner.