Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

"I was very active with charitable work, and of course you know about my nursing unit. You could say my husband, not wanting for wealth, indulged me, though my work was always with the best of intentions. I went across to France as often as I could. I wanted to play as big a part as possible in the day-to-day running of the hospital, and I made a commitment to personally support my staff." She looked at Maisie as if to underline that she would not draw back from telling her story.

"It was by chance that I saw them. I had accompanied a small group to Paris on leave and stopped for a cup of coffee in one of those lovely cafes they have there-have you been to Paris, Miss Dobbs?"

Maisie nodded. "Yes. I love the city, it's quite beautiful."

"Then you know it has its own intoxicating qualities. I watched them, the young couple, and-oh, dear, I know this sounds quite awful-but I was at once envious. I wanted to know that young love, that…effervescence of the heart. You see, though I had been in love with my husband when we married, because he was much older, his love was more measured, not youthful. In truth, he wanted an heir, and I was of an age, but of course we had two girls." She reached for her coffee, sipped, and placed the cup on the tray. "Later I heard, through the unit's grapevine, that the girl-Elizabeth Peterson-had brought an end to the affair. Youthful exuberance followed by a fear of what might come around the corner. Very sad."

"Yes, I suppose it is."

Ella Casterman looked at Maisie, her head to one side. "Ah, you know."

"Yes, I know."

"I'd better finish my story, before I lose courage. When I returned to Paris, I made a point of staying in the same area. I went to the same cafes as I had before, and though I would not admit it to myself in the looking glass, I was hoping to bump into that young American. I imagined us sitting together over coffee with hot milk, dipping our croissants and laughing over shared jokes. It did not occur to me what I might do if the imaginings became real. But they did. I was at the cafe, the one where I had seen him with my young nurse, and there he was. But there was no joy in his face; in fact, he was absently stirring his coffee and staring at the cup. I went over, introduced myself, and sat at his table. He seemed happy to have company-he was clearly homesick. We talked and talked, and soon he confided that he had recently seen his brother-in-law, who had frequently caused him much concern over his financial dealings. I suggested I should treat him to supper that evening, to take his mind off unpalatable matters before he returned to his unit, and I to mine. Suffice it to say, I remained in Paris for several days, until it was time for him to leave. We were inseparable, and it was as if the years just melted away-friends had often said that I looked like my daughters' older sister, not their mother, and for once I felt like it. And my heart was lifted out of the mire of age that I was stuck in at home, and the terrible sadness of the war. We both knew it could not go on forever, though perhaps I knew that more than Michael; but there were intimacies shared that I would never have wanted my husband to know about."

Ella Casterman spoke with a calm forcefulness, as if to bolster her resolve and not draw back from the truth.

"Michael Clifton and I were lovers. I was some twelve years older than him and I was a married woman, but for four short days we knew love and we experienced the joys that come with a new deep attachment."

"Then?"

"When I was expecting my daughters, on both occasions I knew the very moment I was with child. The very moment. Shortly after leaving Michael I felt those same sensations within my whole body-and indeed, before more proof was needed, the usual indisposition followed. In short, I was as sick as a dog. As soon as I could, I returned home and assumed relations with my husband. Almost nine months later our son was born."

"Michael's son."

"Yes. Michael's son. Of that I have no doubt."

"And your husband never knew?"

"If he suspected, he never said."

"So the secret remains with you."

"As it will with you, Miss Dobbs."

Maisie nodded. "Michael's parents are in London. Let me tell you what has happened to them, and to their family since they last saw their son." She recounted the story of Michael Clifton's death and the subsequent events since discovery of his remains by a farmer in France.

"I had no idea he came from such wealth. And I never connected Clifton's Shoes with Michael Clifton. I mean, he spoke of his property in a valley in America, but I imagined a smallholding, a farm, that sort of thing."

"He loved land, loved exploring. Rather like Christopher, if that collection of books is anything to go by."

"Will you keep the secret, Maisie? I have much to protect. I have a son who is still more boy than man, and there is also the question of his inheritance."

"I will not reveal any details of our conversation; however, I do hope that one day Christopher might know more about the man who was his true father. I think Michael deserves such respect." Maisie reached into her bag. "Here you are-the address of Edward and Martha Clifton in Boston. They are getting on, especially Edward, and I think their years are numbered, especially following the attack. You must do what you feel is right."

The woman who had been Michael Clifton's lover took the piece of paper, folded it and placed it within the pages of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poems. She turned to Maisie.

"Truth, not cruel to a friend."

It was Maurice who had taught Maisie that, following the closure of a case, it was important to ensure that she was at peace with her work, and that she had done all in her power to bring a conclusion to the assignment in a way that was just and kind. This process, known as her "final accounting," would also help to wipe clean the slate, so that lingering doubts might not hamper work on the next case.

With Maurice's funeral just one week away, Maisie wanted to complete her final accounting sooner rather than later. It was not only with regard to the case that she sought to bring peace to her heart, but to the most recent weeks in her life. So, following a visit to Scotland Yard, and the time spent making a statement in the presence of Detective Inspector Caldwell, her first stop was to see Edward Clifton in his room at The Dorchester Hotel.

Charles Hayden greeted Maisie in the foyer of the grand hotel.

"Maisie, how are you? I was so sorry to hear of Dr. Blanche's death-I never met the man, but from your letters, I knew of your affection for him."

"Thank you, Charles. It's been a very sad time for everyone who knew Maurice. I miss him so much already." She shook her head, as if to dislodge the painful thoughts that gathered at the mention of Maurice's name. "Anyway, I came to see Mr. Clifton-how is he?"

"Anxious to see you. I gave him as full an account of events as I could following your telephone call. He is so grateful to you, Maisie-as am I. I never thought you would find the man responsible for Michael's death, though I knew you'd find the woman who loved him. Anyway, Edward is waiting for us, and Teddy is with him."

She put her hand on his arm. "Before we go up-how is Mrs. Clifton?"

Hayden nodded. "Now that she's out of the woods, she's making progress every day. It will be slow-I'm trying to sort out a suitable place for her continued convalescence. Of course, she wants only to go home, but I am loath to give my blessing to the passage until she is completely well again."

"There are some lovely convalescent homes out in the countryside. I could have my assistant look into it for you."

"Would you?"

"Consider it done. Shall we go up now?"