Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

"Will you be coming to see Edward? He's been released to a room here at the Dorchester. A nurse is with him, and I have taken responsibility for his care. I know he is anxious for word from you."

"This news will tell him almost all he needs to know. I have to go down to Kent on a matter of some personal urgency, but I expect to be back in later in the day tomorrow. Might I be able to see him in the evening?"

"As long as it's not too late."

"No, it won't be late, Charles. I have something to give to him, something very important."

"Maisie-thank you. If anyone could see through this mess, I knew it would be you."

"I'm not quite finished yet, Charles."

"Of course. Tomorrow then?"

"Indeed. Tomorrow."

Maisie ended the call and left the telephone kiosk. And as she started the MG and pulled away into traffic, she spoke aloud to herself. "No. No, I'm not quite finished yet."

She ran directly to The Dower House after greeting her father upon arrival at Chelstone. Andrew Dene came to her side as soon as Maurice's housekeeper announced her arrival.

"That was quick!"

Maisie half smiled. "What do you mean?"

"I only telephoned James Compton an hour ago. I knew he could pull strings, but he got you here pretty quickly."

"But I-I haven't heard from James. I was awake all last night, I kept thinking of Maurice and decided to come as soon as my work was finished today." She reached for his hand. "Andrew…Andrew, please-"

Dene reached for her and took her in his arms. "He's going, Maisie. I am so very sorry, I know-"

He led the way to the conservatory, which had been set up with all the necessary accoutrements of care for the acutely ill invalid. Maisie went to Maurice's bedside.

"Maurice, it's me, Maisie. I'm here."

She grasped his hand and felt his bony fingers clasp hers.

"I knew you would come."

"I should have been here earlier, I should have come this morning."

He turned towards her, his movements slow, deliberate. She could see the cracked skin around his lips, and eyes that still seemed all-seeing, despite being sunken in paper-thin gray skin.

"No, you shouldn't. You would just have been sitting in silence listening to a rattle in the chest of an old man."

"But you're not old, Maurice, you're only-"

He began to laugh, but coughed instead. Maisie reached for the glass of water at his bedside, and lifted his head to enable him to drink. He settled back on the pillow and began to speak again.

"It's a strange phenomenon, that we always think of people as being the same age as they were when we first met them. It has not always been easy for me to see the accomplished woman before me now, because I tend to see a young girl so thirsty for knowledge that she would risk her livelihood."

Maisie nodded, unable to speak.

"Will you tell me about today? It was today, wasn't it, that you brought your case to a close?"

"Almost," she whispered.

"Almost?" He paused, coughed once, then looked at her again. "Ah, yes, there is always that final speck of dust to be cleared, isn't there? And it can be so elusive."

"That's how I expect it to be."

"Then tell me about the case, the outcome."

"But, Maurice, you're not well. Surely-"

"Let us talk, Maisie, as if we were sitting by the fire, you and I. It would not be fair of you to keep the denouement from me. Imagine me as well, and please, go on."

Maisie felt hardly able to breathe, but she set forth the events of the day as if she were once again reporting to him, as she had in the days of her apprenticeship. When she brought the story to a close, Maurice, who had listened with closed eyes, nodded.

"You could not have hoped for a better conclusion, though the death of the man Mullen is regrettable. He seemed to be a most unlikely player in Whitting's game."

"He was one of those people who managed to get himself in a tangle that he just couldn't unravel," said Maisie. "He was a small-time crook who had found some sense of himself in the army, and discovered a skill in cartography. But it was difficult for him to find work after the war, and he still had the dream of a new beginning, which had been seeded by Michael Clifton. He'd seen Michael's drawings, his maps, and he thought he could still get there even after Michael was listed as missing." Maisie paused, wondering whether to cease her account. Maurice raised his hand for her to continue.

"I suspect Mullen had uncovered Whitting's connection to the Clifton name, and realized that, if they were in league, and in possession of documents of title, a will in favor of Whitting could be forged. A story of long-lost cousins finding each other on the battlefield would have been quite compelling. Whitting and Mullen sought to find Michael's wartime love, rightly assuming she might know something about the papers they needed. As time went on, Mullen became desperate-I am sure Whitting was putting pressure on him-so when Mullen went to the hotel room to see what he could find and was disturbed by the Cliftons, he panicked. Once the attack had taken place, he was a liability to Whitting. As we know, the Mullens of this world are opportunists, speculators of a type. He would have kept his contacts separate, so there would have been no blurring of gains from association with Whitting and Libbert, for example."

"And Libbert himself?"

"I don't think of Libbert as evil, as conniving as Whitting. I think he's a weak man, a man who was trying to be every bit as clever, witty, and accomplished as the Cliftons. He was married to Anna, but wanted to have something of that Clifton ease with each other and life itself. Yet I suspect everything he tried turned to dust in his fingers-yes, he worked for the family corporation, but any power was due to his wife's name rather than his ability. Probably if he and Anna had lived at some distance from her family, he could have been his own man."

"People who do not have the resources of character to draw upon are easy prey for the trickster-and they become lesser tricksters themselves."

"The family are strong, they will recover," said Maisie.

Maurice nodded. "And that final speck of dust?"

Maisie was quiet for several moments, during which Maurice turned to look at her again.

"There is no completely satisfactory conclusion. I have wondered if I should leave well enough alone," said Maisie.

"That path is always available to you."

"I know."

Maurice coughed again, his frail body seemingly racked with pain at each convulsion in his lungs. Maisie held a bowl to his mouth as Dene came to his side and supported him. She drenched a cloth in cold water from a bowl set to one side, and pressed it to his brow and neck. He struggled to breathe for another moment, then lay back against the pillows as the coughing finally subsided.

"I'm not finished yet. There is more to say." Maurice's voice was barely more than a whisper.

Dene held Maurice's wrist to take his pulse, then listened to his chest with a stethoscope. He looked at Maisie and shook his head.

"Maurice, you need to rest now," said Maisie. "Close your eyes, and I will remain here at your side."

Again she felt the force of his will as he took her hand.

"No. Stay and listen. Sit and talk. Until I am dead, I am alive."

Dene and Maisie exchanged glances, before he nodded and left the room.

"Good." Maurice's voice reflected pain in his throat. "I love Andrew, he is a fine doctor-he was born a doctor. To my advantage, he fortunately remains a little scared of me."

Maisie half laughed. "I think he's scared of me, too."

"I don't doubt he is."

Maurice tried to laugh with her, but coughed once more before speaking again.

"Maisie, I would like us to talk about you."

"Oh, Maurice, I-"