Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

A tap on the window interrupted her thoughts, causing her to start.

"Detective Inspector-did you park around the corner?"

"Better to be out of sight."

"Yes, of course." She stepped from her MG. "Ready?"

"My men are getting into position, so let's go along to the house."

"And Major Temple?"

"Military police have been briefed, and he should have been taken for questioning half an hour ago."

"Thomas Libbert?"

Caldwell looked at his watch. "Should be being picked up about now by the Flying Squad boys. I spoke to your old friend Detective Chief Inspector Stratton, now of Special Branch. He has contacts where I need them-at the American embassy-and we'll be questioning Libbert in the presence of a consular representative who also happens to be a lawyer trained here in England. As you will appreciate, because the man is the citizen of another country, there are certain channels to be respected."

"Yes, of course. So, we're ready to go then?"

"When you are."

Maisie nodded. "Good. Let's get on with it."

"And hope we're right."

Maisie turned to Caldwell. "I'll accept full responsibility if you're unable to bring charges, and-"

"Yes, I know all that, Miss Dobbs. Against my better judgment, I am confident that we won't need to do anything of the sort. Shall we?" He paused. "And one final word before the balloon goes up: As much as I can't abide a screaming woman, I expect you to let us have it with both lungs if that man poses a threat to you at any time."

She laughed. "I've a confession-he can do that simply by looking at me. Come on, let's get this over and done with."

Maisie walked up the steps and pulled the bell handle. A wait of one minute seemed to take an hour, but soon the butler answered the door.

"Ah, Miss Dobbs, on time again-"

Caldwell stepped in front of Maisie, and held out a search warrant. "If you don't mind, Mr. Dawson, my men will accompany you into the kitchen, Miss Dobbs will find her way from here."

Two policemen flanked the butler, who was now florid of face and stuttering his complaints as they moved him towards the stairs that led to the kitchens. Two additional policemen preceded them to ensure the cook was prevented from leaving.

"All right?" asked Caldwell.

Maisie nodded.

Caldwell and his assistant followed her up the stairs towards Peter Whitting's room, the makeshift battlefield where all manner of conflagrations and skirmishes were fought and refought day after day. At the door between artists' renditions of the battles of Trafalgar and Marston Moor, Maisie made a fist with her hand and knocked.

"Come!"

She nodded to Caldwell, opened the door, and stepped into the room, taking care to leave the door ajar as she entered alone.

"Why, Miss Dobbs, isn't Dawson with you? I apologize for our lack of manners." Whitting looked up from the table, where a mock Flanders battlefield had been set up, with model houses, forests, and armies laid out and ready to be moved at any moment, dependent upon the outcome of Whitting's alternative opening salvos.

"He said he would bring tea and suggested that, as I know my way and you were expecting me, I should come straight up."

"He's probably had to check on the cook. She's turned out some less than palatable dishes in recent days."

"That might explain it." Maisie smiled. "Thank you for seeing me, Major Whitting."

He held out his hand towards one of the two chairs alongside the fireplace, and as soon as he sat down opposite Maisie, the calico cat stepped out from under the table and crawled up onto his lap.

"What can I do for you this time, Miss Dobbs?"

Maisie drew breath and began speaking, knowing she would have to inspire an eruption of anger in Whitting, who was now stroking his purring cat. She hoped his fuse was as short as she expected it to be.

"I am here in search of the truth."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"First of all, may we talk about Michael Clifton?"

"Is that the American you were asking about when you came here before?"

"Yes, and-"

"I told you, I don't bloody know him."

Maisie could see that Whitting's increased tension had provoked the calico into extending her claws and sinking them into the trouser fabric at his knee. Whitting did not lift the cat's paws as she turned towards Maisie, yawning to reveal needle-like teeth.

Maisie sighed. "The thing is, Major, I think you do know him. He is your cousin by birth, though he probably wasn't aware of the connection until the day you took his life. Is that not so?"

"Leave my house now, woman." Whitting did not shout, his temper as measured as his reaction to the cat's outstretched claws. "You are a pest, a nasty pest, and I don't have to-"

The cat made a low screeching growl as Whitting stood up, brushing her off his lap to the floor. She ran under the table. Maisie was already on her feet.

"I'll leave when you've told the truth. Michael Clifton was your cousin, wasn't he?"

"How the hell do you know?" Whitting snapped.

Maisie could not breathe with ease. He hadn't said enough yet. In temper he had revealed only part of the truth. She saw the throbbing vein at his right temple, and pressed her luck.

"It's what I do. I find things out, and I know your mother was Edward Clifton's sister, and her life was changed forever by his emigration to America."

"Emigration? Ha! Running away, more like. He was a yellow-bellied coward who took off to the other side of the world because he couldn't face his responsibilities. Changed forever, my eye! I was still a boy when it killed her."

"Is that why you took Michael's life?"

"What? Do you think I am going to stand here in my own home and take this from a bit of a girl playing with fire?"

"But you did, didn't you, Major? You heard that he had land, that the land was worth money, and you saw a chance to get something back from the Cliftons-your family had been left virtually penniless by the collapse of Clifton's Shoes."

"Get out of my house!"

Maisie remained calm. "Not yet, Major. I haven't finished yet. With Michael gone-and because he was a chatty sort, Lance Corporal Mullen had passed on information on the holdings owned by Michael and his wealth held in trust-you thought you could stake a claim on his property right under the noses of the Cliftons."

Color rushed to Whitting's face as anger enveloped him, and as he stood over Maisie, he held up his hand as if to strike. "And so bloody well what. So what? You can't make it stick, can you?" He brought his hand to his side, his fists still clenched. "Dear sweet Michael Clifton, brought up in the lap of luxury with a dozen silver spoons hanging out of his mouth. Big, kind Michael, who missed his family. Do you have any idea of the suffering- suffering -I saw in my family? My mother and father pained themselves trying to make a go of the business. And my mother worked. Worked. While that American woman probably did no more than go to her lunches and sit in her big house in Boston. And my mother kept her maiden name because 'a Clifton has to take care of Clifton's Shoes.' She was like an untrained captain on a sinking ship, and she didn't want me to go down with it."

Maisie felt Whitting's volatility, but knew she had to push him further. "So why did you kill Michael?"

He mumbled a response as sweat drenched his brow. She raised her voice in an attempt to press him again.

"I asked you a question. Why did you kill Michael Clifton?"

Whitting snapped. "I killed him because he wouldn't believe a word I said. Wouldn't have it that his father was a coward." He wiped a hand across his brow. "And because he was just so smug. I had watched him for weeks after I was put in charge of the area-and yes, I engineered the posting after seeing his name on a list of cartography units. From the moment I arrived in France, as far as I could, I kept my eyes on his every move, and when I couldn't stand it anymore, I went to see him down in the dugout. He pushed me, Miss Dobbs. Pushed me into it. He wouldn't accept his father's culpability in my parents' early deaths and in the ruination of my childhood. The army was the only place for me to go." He gasped for breath, as if all air had escaped his lungs. "But he wouldn't have it. Precious Michael Clifton wouldn't have any of it. He showed no respect for my position and just turned away from me. And to be frank with you, Miss Dobbs, I lost my temper with him."