Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

As they left the office and walked to Maisie's motor car, James reached for her hand.

"James, do you know anything about land, inheritance, and such in America?"

"Oh, inheritance-that's a bit of a dark legal tunnel wherever you are."

"I wonder," said Maisie. "If someone died without family-or anyone else for that matter-knowing whether they had left a will, or indeed the deeds to their property, would it be difficult gaining access for those who might inherit?"

"There are laws of probate that might make it tricky, I do know that. These cases can carry on for years-and that's when you have proof that the deceased is actually no longer drawing breath."

"That's what I've been told." She was thoughtful as they approached the MG. When they had taken their seats and Maisie had started the engine, she turned to James. "And if someone else gained access-of sorts-to the deeds, would they have grounds for a claim?"

"They might, yes. Especially if they had a will." He turned to her. "I can see where your mind is going-and no, it might not take much to prove authenticity. The judges in such cases might just look at the paperwork and with a couple of thumps of the gavel let it go through. Or money could change hands somewhere along the line. I'm in the business of land, Maisie, and though we find that maintaining our ethics leads to less trouble in the long run, I have seen all sorts of bribery and other under-the-table goings-on in my time-and by people who are in positions made particularly vulnerable by such action. Comes down to greed. Pure greed." He shrugged. "And of course, there are other motivations, so you could go through several of the deadly sins. Sometimes people assume something is theirs by right simply because they deserve it. But I think it's the likes of you and Maurice who are the experts on that sort of thing, not a humble office boy like me."

Maisie looked at him and smiled, before slipping the MG into gear.

"Thank you, James, I think that tells me everything I need to know."

It was late by the time Maisie and James left Bertorelli's.

"Do I have to wait long to see you again?" asked James.

"I think this case will be more or less wound up soon. I hope you can bear with me."

He pulled her to him and kissed her, then held her in his arms.

"I knew what I was letting myself in for, Maisie, so of course I don't mind waiting."

"Shall I run you back to your club?" offered Maisie.

He shook his head. "No, not to worry. I'll find a taxi-cab. You're tired, so go home." He kissed her again. "Sweet dreams, my darling."

Maisie took her seat in the MG, waved once more, and drove slowly down Charlotte Street. She did not have to turn to know that James Compton would watch her drive away until he could no longer see her crimson motor car.

She arrived back at her flat in Pimlico, took off her coat and hat, and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. Soon she was seated in front of the fireplace, and though the evening was not cold, she ignited a row of jets on the gas fire, to see and feel the comfort of warmth. She rubbed her neck as she considered the events of the day. The pieces were falling into place. She was almost ready to make her move.

After making a cup of tea, she took up Michael Clifton's journal again, and reread certain entries. He seemed unafraid to put his feelings down on paper, to share with no one but himself the emotions he experienced both on the battlefield and during the few short spells of leave he had in his two years in France. There were entries that made her laugh-observations of his new British friends, the way they spoke, their mannerisms; or impressions of the more senior officers. Yet his homesickness was palpable, and after a while it seemed to seep from between the lines, until his confession in the later pages:

It's cold here, a cold that goes right to your bones and eats away at them. It's not like the cold in Boston. Back home you can wrap yourself in warm clothing and fight it, and there was always a warm house to come back to-hot chocolate and marshmallows, coffee cake right out of the oven. But I want to go out west again, back to the valley. Every time I close my eyes, I see the valley. I want to feel that heat on my skin and the breeze that skims across your arms and feels like warm silk. I want to ride across the hills with the ocean in the distance. I guess I don't care about the oil anymore. I just want to build a cabin on my land and live there for as long as it takes to get this place, this mud and rain and terrible, terrible killing out of my system. I want to spend my days under one of those California oaks and know that I am far away from here. I want to go back to my beautiful valley.

Maisie could sense the ache in Michael's soul to be in a place that was his home. She thought that, young as he was, he knew that the valley had been the place where he belonged from his first view across its golden hills. And she thought that, though he had lost his life, he was blessed in such knowing-to have traveled far and found home.

At her desk the following morning, Maisie took a deep breath and picked up the telephone receiver to place a call to Chelstone Manor. It was answered by the butler, Mr. Carter, whom she had known since her first day of employ at 15 Ebury Place.

"Good morning, Mr. Carter, how are you?"

"Very well. Do I take it you would like to speak to Lady Rowan?"

"Lord Julian, actually."

"Right you are, Maisie." He cleared his throat.

"Is everything all right, Mr. Carter? You sound as if you have a sore throat."

"Fit as a fiddle." He coughed again. "I was going to say, though, we'll be calling you by another name soon, won't we?"

Maisie's stomach turned. "Might there be rumors going round about me, Mr. Carter?"

"No, not a rumor, Maisie, but-"

"I trust you know how to nip them in the bud, don't you?"

"I won't give credence to a word I hear spoken about-"

"I knew I could depend upon you. Now, may I speak to his lordship?"

"One moment. Very nice to talk to you, Maisie."

"You too, Mr. Carter. You too."

Maisie waited for a few moments, then heard the telephone receiver in the library being picked up, and the main receiver replaced.

"Maisie, how are you, my dear?"

My dear? Maisie was taken aback. Had Lord Julian ever called her "my dear" before? He was always cordial and more than helpful, but "my dear" was not an expected greeting.

"Very well, thank you, Lord Julian."

"What can I do for you?"

"I'm after information again, I'm afraid."

"Go on, I have a pen and paper at the ready."

"I'm interested in a Major Temple. He is currently at the School of Military Engineering in Chatham. I'd like to know who his commanding officer was during the war. I expect he was a first lieutenant then, or perhaps a captain. I believe he was in the artillery, but worked closely with a cartography unit, or perhaps working between several units-to tell you the truth, I am not sure, but I do want to know the chain of command above him."

"Right you are-I will see what I can do."

"Thank you, I am grateful for anything you can dig up for me."

"Anything else?"

"Um, yes. How is Maurice today?"

"Oh, dear, I was hoping you wouldn't ask, but I should have known you would want to remain apprised of his condition." He sighed. "He's not at all well. The doctor-that chap called Dene-has been to see him today, and he's comfortable. Maurice being Maurice, he's said he won't go back to the clinic, that he wants to remain at home for the time being. Of course, in my day, unless you were poor, you were treated at home, but now the doctors have more modern equipment at their disposal, don't they? So you have to go into hospital if you want that top-notch medical care with all the bells and whistles."