The Mapping of Love and Death

  "Just a dash of milk," said Maisie.

  When they were both equipped with tea and a small plate bearing a single macaroon, Maisie offered more information. "The young man, Michael Clifton, was killed, though his remains have only been discovered quite recently. His parents are in possession of a collection of letters from the young woman in question, and would like to trace her."

  "Don't they have her name and address?"

  "She used a pseudonym throughout the letters--it seemed to be an affectionate nickname used by her lover. He called her 'The English Nurse,' which then became 'Tennie.' It appears they used methods other than the available postal services to exchange letters. The censor was avoided, so that was another reason for her to keep her name private."

  "Ah, I see," said Lady Petronella. "And because my unit was known as The English Nursing Unit, with the initials T-E-N, which might then become 'Tennie,' you thought I might know the girl in question."

  "That's the measure of it." Maisie paused. "I realize it's a long time ago now, and rather a leap, but I was hoping you might recall if one of your nurses was involved in such a liaison. I was informed that you took a personal interest in all of those who worked for you."

  Lady Petronella sighed. "I wish the whole thing didn't seem so immediate sometimes--do you know what I mean?" She looked at Maisie directly. It was not a rhetorical question.

  Maisie nodded. "Yes, I do. I know exactly what you mean. You'll be going about your daily round, and then, for one reason or another--" She shrugged. "I don't know--possibly an aroma in the air, or the way the wind is blowing, or even something someone said--you feel as if you're back there, in the midst of it all, and that it will never end." Her cheeks became flushed as she recognized her own candor.

  "It's so refreshing to speak to someone who knows. Sometimes one really needs to have a good chat with someone else who has gone through a similar experience and is willing to talk about it." She stared out towards the piano, as if she could see into the gardens beyond, then turned back to Maisie. "I sometimes think that we--the whole country--would have benefited from just talking, all of us having a good old chat about it all and what we all lost instead of simply wading on through. I'm rather fed up with this 'buck up and put your best foot forward' approach to the terrors that face one in life." She reached forward to pour more tea. "Mind you, I am probably not a good example. People always say I am rather accomplished at just getting on with things."

  Maisie smiled, for the woman's honest account of her feelings had given substance to her first impressions.

  "Lady Petronella, I--"

  "Do call me 'Ella.' Petronella is such a mouthful. I rue the day my mother picked up that book she was reading prior to going into labor on the day I was born. The heroine was a Petronella, and I have always wished someone had given her a copy of Jane Eyre. It would have made life so much simpler."

  Maisie edged forward. "Lady Ella--"

  "Ella. I insist."

  "Ella, then--and thank you for according me the privilege, Ella. Your attitude to memories of the war would be a source of some optimism among a few doctors I know who work with the damaged psyche. Not all, mind, but those who are at the forefront of new research." She took a sip from the just-poured second cup of tea. "As I said, I understand you had something of a matriarchal approach to the care of the doctors and nurses who were retained to work in your unit, so I thought you might recall hearing about a courtship between one of the nurses and an American. After all, the fact that he was an American was one thing, but he came from a very good family."

  "Did he?" Ella frowned. "How extraordinary."

  "What's so extraordinary?"

  "No, nothing." She shrugged. "There were chaperones, you know, so that when the nurses went away for some well-earned rest, they didn't get into any troubling situations, if you know what I mean."

  "Yes, I think I do," said Maisie.

  "You see, that's one of the things people never talk about afterward--or even when it's all happening--that these events lead people to do things, take chances that they might never take if they didn't think they were going to die, or were afraid that they might lose someone they loved. There's always that last good-bye, that final kiss, that promise of a future spoken in the heat of the moment and in the fear of dying, that leads to all manner of problems later. The girl who is left with a broken heart when her sweetheart returns to his fiancee in Australia, the young man who discovers that the woman who pledged to wait for him cannot face him when he returns with terrible wounds--and after those earlier fervent protestations of never-ending love. Then there are the children, the innocent fatherless children."

  "I understand." Maisie spoke quietly, aware that her voice was barely more than a whisper. Too many of her own memories converged into the present, along with a more recent encounter that gave weight to the opinions of the woman before her. "Eighteen months ago, my best friend met her niece for the first time. The child was born in the war, in France. My friend's brother had been killed, and the child's mother was shot by the occupying German army. The girl is the image of her aunt, my friend. Fortunately, they now enjoy summers together, and are close."

  "Ah, a story with a happy ending. Not all are so fortunate."

  "Is that why you came back and set up the homes for unwed mothers?"

  "More or less. I saw no reason why such women had to be branded as wanton. There had to be a means by which they could be with child without disapproving eyes upon them, and we also provided additional care when the children were adopted. There is so much to account for here." She laid a hand on her chest. "One cannot abandon a girl in that situation, one can only look after her and then set her on the path of life again--a good path, a path that might lead her forward to a reasonable future, and not the gutter."

  "Did you start the first home during the war?"

  She shook her head. "Before the war, actually. But with all those soldiers flooding into the country from all over the world, I asked my husband if he would help me support another two homes for girls in trouble." She looked up at the charcoal drawing. "He was a wonderful, most generous man. One in a million."

  Maisie cleared her throat. "So, going back to the issue of our English nurse, you don't think she was one of your employees?"

  Lady Ella shook her head again. "They were a fine group of young women, all of them, and I am sure they were pursued by many a soldier, but I am equally sure I would have heard through the grapevine if an American was involved. I worked in the unit too, you know. Of course, I wasn't there all the time--otherwise my husband and I would not have had our darling Tuffie! But I did my bit. I don't believe in asking someone to do something you couldn't or wouldn't be willing to do yourself." She smiled. "The staff here know I would be quite capable of turning my hand to any job in this household, if it came to it. And there's a certain strength in that, my dear."

  "Lady--Ella, I understand you kept very precise records of your staff. Would it be an imposition for me to peruse them? I don't doubt your conclusion that 'Tennie' was not one of your nurses, but I would like to see the files, if possible. Just in case anything resonates with other evidence I've gathered."

  Lady Ella smiled, put her hands on her knees, and stood up. "Let me take you to the library, where I have a cabinet containing a dossier on each of the women--both doctors and nurses. We can go through them together."

  "Thank you, I appreciate your help."

  "Not at all." She waved a hand as if to brush away any concern regarding the intrusion. "As I said, it's good to be in the company of someone who was there--and you were there, weren't you, my dear? I have spent a considerable amount of time with nurses. I can tell one a mile off, even if she is doing something quite different now." She beckoned Maisie to follow her. "Let's go to the library."

  The women spent another hour together, with Maisie seated alongside as Ella passed the records to her one by one, supplementing the notes with her own recollections: "She was a lovely girl,
Cornish farming stock, and this one--so committed to her work, she's a matron now, you know.... Ah, this girl married her sweetheart. He's in a wheel-chair, but that hasn't stopped them having three children, and this one has really done well for herself, she's a secretary to someone terribly important...."

  Maisie made notes on index cards, and tried to commit to memory the images set in front of her. A photograph of each employee was attached to the top right-hand corner of a dossier containing her personal information and employment history, and it seemed that Ella Casterman remembered every single one of her nurses.

  When they had gone through the files, the two women remained seated at the table exchanging stories of the war, and their thoughts about life since the Armistice. Maisie had just pushed her chair back to stand up when the door to the library opened with a thump that caused it to bounce back against the wall.

  "Mama, you will never guess--oh, I am terribly sorry, I didn't know you had a visitor." The boy-man who had just entered was still dressed as if for an afternoon's rowing. His brownish blond hair looked as if it would benefit from an appointment with a barber, and his ungainly long arms and legs were an indication of his age. Maisie knew without being informed that this was Christopher.

  "Tuffie, how many times do I have to tell you--"

  He turned to Maisie, his smile wide and with no trace of embarrassment. "Do forgive me, madam. That entrance did nothing to support my claim to be the gentleman my mother always hoped I would be."

  Maisie laughed. "You're forgiven, young man, though I suspect your ear might be in for a chewing when I depart."

  Ella nodded. "It will indeed. Do run along, darling, and change out of those clothes--you reek of river."

  Christopher Casterman nodded, with a grin and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He bowed to Maisie, kissed his mother on the cheek, and was gone, slamming the door behind him.

  "If you ever have a son, be advised, that age represents the best of times and the worst of times. I am sure we will all come through it in one piece, though I am not sure about every door in the house, or indeed the bathroom floor."

  Maisie smiled. "I think I'm getting on a bit to worry about that."

  "Nonsense! I was thirty-seven when Tuffie was born. Elizabeth Barrett Browning was forty-three when she had her first child, and she was not only far from being a picture of health, but also rather fond of opiates."

  "Well, anyway..." Maisie held out her hand. "You were most kind to allow me so much of your time. With your family and your charitable work, you are a busy woman."

  "And about to be busier--we have a new baby due soon, my first grandchild."

  "Many congratulations, Ella."

  "Do let me know if I can be of further assistance."

  "I will. Most certainly."

  As Maisie walked towards the bus stop, in her mind she replayed different stages of her conversation with Lady Petronella Casterman as if she were reading chapters in a book. She would go back over a sentence, a look, a gesture in response to a question, a comment. And when she saw a bench, she sat down and took out her index cards to make notes while the memory was still fresh in her mind. She liked Petronella--Ella, to her friends--and found herself drawn to the woman's honesty when questions were put to her. She was sure she had a solid family life, with children she loved and who loved her. When she recalled the photographs atop the piano, it was clear that they all resembled their mother more than their father. Yes, Ella had responded with straight answers throughout their meeting. But then, it was also true that Maisie had drawn back from asking two or three questions that occurred to her, because she thought she already had the answers.

  "You know the truth, Maisie. You know the truth, but you need the proof."

  Maurice's words echoed again in her mind. She put the index cards and pencil in her shoulder bag, and began to run when she saw the bus coming along. And even as she clambered on board and the conductor rang the bell for the bus to be on its way, it was as if Maurice were with her. "The evidence is always between the lines, whether it is written or not. Look between the lines."

  Maisie checked the time on a clock above a shop window as the bus passed along the street, and decided that it would be a good idea to detour via The Dorchester Hotel, to see if she could meet with Thomas Libbert again. At this time of day many men of commerce were returning to their hotels, perhaps to rest before venturing out for supper with colleagues. She stepped off the bus at the next stop and walked to the underground station, from which she traveled to Marble Arch by tube, then made her way down Park Lane to the hotel. She found that she rather missed the very grand Dorchester House that had been demolished to make way for the new hotel. It had spoken of the limitless ambition of old wealth, and though it might have looked more at home in Venice, she had rather liked the building, which looked out over Hyde Park as if it were an elderly lady surveying her garden from the comfort of a soft old chair while feeling very pleased with herself as she regarded each tree, shrub, and flower bed planted over the years.

  Maisie entered the hotel and asked a clerk if a guest by the name of Mr. Thomas Libbert might be available.

  "Ah, yes, madam, I believe you will find him in the bar. He's been expecting you."

  "He--" Maisie almost revealed her surprise, but instead thanked the clerk and began to walk towards the bar. Libbert had obviously informed the clerk that he was in the bar, should his expected guest arrive soon. She was not the anticipated arrival, but she was curious to see who it might be. Should she approach Libbert? Or should she seclude herself in a corner with a vantage point from which to observe the comings and going of the clientele? She did not want the clerk to question her if he returned, so she decided to continue with her plan.

  "Mr. Libbert?"

  Libbert turned, and frowned when he saw Maisie.

  "Oh, Miss Dobbs."

  "I beg your pardon, Mr. Libbert--were you expecting someone? I was passing the hotel and thought I might drop in and take my chances as to whether you might be here. If you've a moment or two, I have a couple more questions--but only if you've time."

  Libbert glanced at his glass, which was full, signifying that he was not in a hurry. "Yes, of course. Drink?"

  "Thank you. A ginger ale would be lovely, please. I have been rather busy today, and I'm parched." The lie came with ease, though Maisie was far from thirsty, having had two cups of tea with Ella Casterman.

  Libbert raised a hand to the barman, ordered the ginger ale, and turned to Maisie, who was now seated alongside him. "So, are you making progress, Miss Dobbs?" He took a sip of Scotch and let it linger in his mouth before swallowing the liquid.

  "Yes, there's been some progress." She thanked the barman, who placed a glass with one cube of ice and the effervescent ginger ale in front of her. "I am curious, though, Mr. Libbert--I know you've spent a lot of time in Europe on business, and I'm wondering if you ever visited Michael while he was in Paris on leave."

  Libbert rubbed his forehead, and Maisie thought he might be considering whether she knew of a visit, or whether she was engaging in investigative brinkmanship. "Paris. Lovely city. My wife and I went there for our honeymoon. Idyllic."

  "Were you there during the war?"

  He shook his head. "Not that I can remember. So much traveling, you see, on behalf of the company."

  "Yes, I see. I must say, though, I don't think I will ever forget a moment spent in Paris. Especially had I been there in wartime. And especially if my brother-in-law was on leave there."

  "Sorry, Miss Dobbs, you've rather caught me at a bad time. I've a lot on my mind--Anna's parents are still fighting for their lives, and my brother-in-law is due here tomorrow."

  "I'd heard that Mr. and Mrs. Clifton were improving--much to the relief of the doctors."

  "Y-yes, yes, they are, but there's no guarantee you know, with blows to the head. They could go like that." He snapped his fingers.

  Maisie nodded and reached for her ginger ale. She took another sip, set
down the glass, and had just drawn breath to ask another question when Libbert looked past her, distracted.

  "I must go, Miss Dobbs. My business associate has just arrived, and I do want to get this deal sewn up before Teddy arrives tomorrow--it's rather important for our company."

  "Of course, Mr. Libbert." Maisie smiled, and held out her hand. "And thank you for accommodating my unexpected arrival, and for the refreshment."

  "You're welcome." He shook her hand, nodded good-bye, and hurried from the bar.

  Maisie thanked the barman as he came to collect the glasses, then walked back towards the foyer. As she came out into the low spring sunshine of late afternoon, she saw Libbert clamber aboard a taxi-cab, and though she could not be sure, it seemed the man with him, at that moment caught in a ray of sunshine that lightened the otherwise shadowed interior of the vehicle's passenger compartment, was wearing a cravat at his neck, a white shirt, and a blazer. He was a man one might have described as distinguished, and Maisie thought that if she saw him walking along the street, he would strike her as a man who knew how to hold back his shoulders and step forward with some purpose. And in that shaft of light, she saw a man who was probably used to giving orders. Orders that were always carried out to the letter.

  FOURTEEN

  Maisie prepared a simple evening meal of soused mackerel and vegetables, with a slice of bread and jam for pudding. In general, she did not mind a solitary repast, often taken on a tray while she sat in one of the armchairs, a fork in one hand and a book in the other. And she was under no illusions regarding the significance of the book, whether a novel or some work of reference. As she turned the pages, the characters or the subject matter became her company, a distraction so that the absence of a dining companion--someone with whom to share the ups and downs of her day, from the surprising to the mundane--was not so immediate. Guests to her home were few, and after such a visit, during which a linen cloth would be laid on the dining table and cutlery and glasses set for two, the vacuum left by the departing visitor seemed to echo along the hallway and into the walls. It was at those times, when her aloneness took on a darker hue, that she almost wished there would be no more guests, for then there would be no chasm of emptiness for her to negotiate when they were gone.