The Mapping of Love and Death

  Clifton nodded and leaned back on the pillows.

  "I'd better leave now." Maisie looked at Hayden, who followed her as she left the room. He closed the door behind him.

  "Do you really think you'll have an answer for the old man?"

  "I do." She sighed. "Yes, I do."

  They bid each other good-bye, and when Maisie stepped out into the spring sunshine, she thought about her response to Hayden's questions. Yes, I do think I'll have an answer--and probably more than you would want to hear.

  Her next stop was the shoe department of Selfridges. Though it was rumored that the department store founded by the American Harry Selfridge might not survive the economic depression, she thought it was probably the best place to go to speak to a buyer in the shoe department. Buyers, she had discovered, understood much more about their suppliers than their suppliers had fathomed themselves; and they certainly knew more about those companies than they knew about the styles favored for the following season. Her visit to the store lasted only half an hour, with ten minutes spent winding her way through the different departments, and the remainder with a Mr. Buckingham, the shoe buyer. It was a fruitful encounter. Buckingham could not have known more about Clifton's Shoes had he founded it himself.

  Maisie returned to Fitzroy Square, and hearing the telephone ringing in their first-floor office, she slammed the front door behind her and ran to answer the call.

  "Miss!" Billy shouted before Maisie could announce the number.

  "Is everything all right?"

  "I've found her."

  "You have? What's her name? Where is she?"

  "Her name is Elizabeth Peterson, and she was about to do a runner--but I spoke to her first."

  "Where are you?"

  "Just off the Edgware Road. She's been living in a boardinghouse for spinster women, and she's about to leave."

  "Oh, dear. Give me the address, then go back and stay with her. Tell her we'll look after her, and make sure you lock the doors until I get there."

  "I didn't think it was that sort of case, Miss."

  "Don't worry. I'm on my way."

  Maisie started the MG and took back streets to the address provided by Billy. She parked the motor car outside a smoke-smudged building in need of some attention to peeling paint around the window frames. The dark maroon finish on the front door was curling back to reveal the blue and black of previous decades, and the brass knocker was encrusted with a green mold-like patina. She rapped at the door, then called through the letterbox, knowing that Billy would be listening for her.

  She heard the thump-thump-thump of Billy's footfall on the stairs as he came to answer the door.

  "Come on in, Miss. There's a Mrs. Blanchard who's the warden here, but apparently she goes to see her sister of a Monday afternoon, so we're all right. It's a bit of a strict place to live regarding visitors, to say that these girls are all getting on a bit."

  "How old would you say is getting on?" Maisie followed Billy up the stairs to a landing with three doors.

  "You know, about--oh, Miss, you're not going to get me like that. You know what I mean--they're all over twenty-one, and it's not as if they're in a convent, now is it?"

  He knocked on the middle door and called out. "It's all right. Mr. Beale here, and I've got the lady I told you about--Miss Dobbs."

  A chain rattled on the other side of the door, and it opened to reveal a petite woman of about thirty-five years of age. She was slender to the point of looking as if she could do with a good meal, and Maisie could see the woman was filled with fear. She locked the door behind them.

  "I was so scared you'd come back with someone to hurt me."

  Maisie introduced herself, and looked around the room. A kettle sat on top of a small single-ring gas stove in the corner, which in turn was set on top of a cupboard with a blue gingham curtain pulled to one side to reveal an assortment of crockery and two saucepans. Knives and forks were poking out of one of the saucepans.

  "Would you mind if Mr. Beale puts the kettle on to boil for a cup of tea?" She did not wait for an answer, but instructed Billy, "Strong, with plenty of sugar in each cup." She motioned for Elizabeth Peterson to sit on the bed, and sat down next to her.

  "You've had a horrible time of it, haven't you?" said Maisie.

  The woman nodded, pulled a handkerchief out from the sleeve of her cardigan, and began to cry. Maisie put her arms around her and allowed her to weep until the heaving sobs abated, and the woman pulled back.

  "I've been so scared, 'specially since Mr. Mullen didn't come again."

  "You sound as if you didn't know him very well."

  She shook her head. "No, I only met him a few months ago. He turned up one Saturday morning, saying he was an old friend of Michael Clifton's. I believed him."

  "What did he want?" asked Maisie.

  "He said he had always wondered about the woman his friend had fallen in love with, and he wanted to meet me, to tell me how much Michael had loved me too. Then he sort of kept coming round every now and again, and he started asking me whether I had anything of Michael's."

  Maisie nodded. "Miss Peterson--Elizabeth--can we go back to the beginning?"

  She rubbed her eyes with the handkerchief, and blew her nose. "But the beginning was in the war."

  "Then let's go back to the war. What did you do in the war, Elizabeth?"

  "I was a nurse. I was with Lady Casterman, she was the founder of The English Nursing Unit. Have you heard of us?"

  Maisie nodded.

  "Well, it all started when I met Lieutenant Clifton in Paris, when I was on leave."

  Her eyes began to fill with tears, and before she could use her own soiled handkerchief, Maisie reached down into her shoulder bag and passed a clean linen square to the woman.

  "I wasn't out to meet a boy, really I wasn't, but he was so kind, so charming, and he was alone in Paris--he didn't have family to go back to in Britain, and I only had a short time on leave, so I wasn't going back." She shivered, and gave a weak smile. "We had a lovely time, a really lovely time. We did all these things I'd never done before, and in Paris! We went to a show, we had coffee at these little cafes they have, and we just walked along the streets. And afterward we wrote to each other. But we had to be careful, because we were sending our letters back and forth with the ambulance drivers."

  Maisie nodded again. She had done the same thing herself.

  "That's why I had to think up another name, so I wasn't caught red-handed and sent home."

  "Tennie."

  "How do you know?"

  "Later. Go on with your story. You saw each other again?"

  "Once more. By that time we were in love. But I was very scared. I mean, he was an American. My friend said that he was probably just telling me all these things--about his land in America, his family's home in"--she faltered and shook her head--"Beacon Hill. I've kept his letters. She said he probably just wanted to, you know, have a bit of fun."

  She looked at Maisie, who said nothing, but waited for her to continue.

  "But I think my friend was wrong. And I don't know why I doubted him, but I started wondering why he told me he loved me, when there were so many girls out there. I began to have second thoughts."

  Maisie looked at the woman and imagined how she might have been at twenty years of age, and thought she had probably looked like a ballerina, with her long dark hair drawn back into a bun, her delicate fingers and petite frame.

  "And anyway, we had another leave together and...and we became very close. Very close, if you know what I mean. I loved him, really I did. Then we said good-bye, and it was very...it was very difficult, because I never knew if I'd see him again, and before I got back to the unit, I'd panicked. I was frightened. You see, I'd already lost my father and brother at Ypres, both of them at the same time, and I thought, 'What if I lose him too?' I didn't know what I'd do, so I wrote and told him that it was better if we didn't continue to write, didn't keep in touch. I thought that if we happened to
see each other at the end of the war, then we'd know. I had the letter in my pocket for days afterward, and then I sent it off."

  As the woman began to weep again, Billy pulled a chair across to use as a table, and set down two cups of tea.

  "There you go--that'll do you good."

  The woman stuttered her thanks, and Maisie smiled at Billy and whispered, "Thank you."

  Billy sat down on another chair with a cup of tea in his hands, as Maisie asked another question.

  "And you never heard from him again?"

  She nodded. "Just one letter."

  "Did you hear from anyone else?"

  "Not for a couple of years, then I had a letter. It was from a man--I can't remember his name--asking if I knew Michael Clifton. He said he had known him in the army and wanted to find his friends so that his parents could find out about what he did in the war."

  "Do you still have the letter?"

  She shook her head.

  "Did you answer it?"

  "No. I didn't see the point. In any case, Michael had told me to be careful of anyone wanting to see me on his behalf."

  Maisie inclined her head. "Why did he do that, do you think?"

  The woman looked at Maisie and stared into her eyes for what seemed to be a long time, though Maisie held her gaze. Then she stood up, knelt down, and pulled back the threadbare carpet to reveal a small section of loose floorboard.

  "I've done this in every place I've lived in since the war. I don't know why--it was just what Michael asked of me. To be careful."

  She lifted the board and pulled out a parcel bound with rubbered cloth and string--the same type of cloth that had protected Michael Clifton's letters and journal for years, while buried in the soil of a French battlefield.

  "Do you know what's in here?" asked Maisie, taking the parcel.

  Peterson shook her head. "No. It wasn't my property. I asked him if I should return his belongings when I sent that last letter, and received just the one letter back. He said he understood my sentiments, that the war had filled us all with fear and bravery both, and you never knew which would claim the best of you--that was what he said. And he asked me to keep the parcel safe, and that he would find me after the war. He said that if he didn't come, it meant he didn't need the things, or he was dead. And if he was dead, it wouldn't matter anyway." She began sobbing again. "And he said that if he found me again after the war, he'd whisk me off and take me to America as his wife. I suppose I never stopped hoping that he'd turn up one day. Stupid of me, really."

  Maisie cast her eyes around the aching loneliness of the bed-sitting-room, a cocoon of solitary existence in a building of such rooms where women of a certain age--of her age--tried to fashion their lives to meet a circumstance never imagined in their earlier years.

  "May I ask you a couple more questions?" asked Maisie.

  "Yes, that's all right."

  "Did you have more letters from the person who sent that first inquiry?"

  "I might have," replied Peterson, "but I've had to move a few times, what with the rent going up and then losing my job."

  "Where do you work now? Are you still a nurse?"

  She shook her head. "I just couldn't bear it anymore, after seeing all those boys die. So after the war I went on a commercial course. That's what I do now. I'm in a typing pool, but I've been going to night school for my bookkeeping, and I'm up for promotion."

  "And the next you heard was from Mr. Mullen?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he scare you?"

  "No," said Peterson. "Not at first, anyway. He was all nice, friendly. Then he started getting, well, pushy. Kept asking me if Michael Clifton had given me anything for safekeeping. I was scared, so I said no. Then he came round with the advertisement, the one placed by Mr. and Mrs. Clifton. He kept on at me to reply to it, saying there could be money in it, because Michael was not only a rich man, but a rich man's son, and that we could all benefit from it. I didn't want to do it, then I thought they might want to meet me, to know someone who Michael knew, you know, the girl who sent him the letters. I thought about my brother and how my mother and I liked it when one of his pals came to see us after the war. It was only for a chat, but it meant the world to my mother."

  "So you wrote to Michael Clifton's parents, and you went with Mullen to the Dorchester--is that right?"

  "And we had a row, a nasty row. He started getting even pushier, and I knew I didn't want to see Mr. and Mrs. Clifton with him, I didn't want them to get that sort of impression of me. At first he seemed to be not such a bad sort, but then, when we were outside and that other man came up to us--"

  "What man?"

  "I don't know his name." She lifted the cup to her lips and sipped the piping hot tea. "He was quite tall, taller than Mr. Mullen, and I think he'd known him before."

  "What did he look like--can you tell me anything else about him?"

  "I didn't like to look at him, to tell you the truth. He didn't talk to me, but I knew he was Mr. Mullen's boss. He had that sort of look, you know..." Her voice trailed off as she searched for the right word. "Authoritarian. Yes, he looked like someone with a lot of power. I thought he looked as if he had it in him to be a bit cruel." She shrugged. "Mind you, I've never liked those cravat things on a man, makes them look as if they've got nothing to do all day, and that's not very attractive."

  Maisie noticed that the woman was still shaking as she set the cup down on its saucer.

  Peterson continued. "After he had a word with Mr. Mullen--I was standing to one side--off he went. Mr. Mullen took my elbow to steer me into the hotel, and because I didn't want to see Mr. and Mrs. Clifton, we started rowing again, and he was very angry with me. The doorman ended up telling us to leave, so I went off, but I'm sure Mr. Mullen went back to the hotel. He was dressed up a bit more than usual, so no one would've considered him out of place, and I'm sure the doorman thought I was the troublemaker. Mind you, Mr. Mullen probably knew another way in. He looked quite scared though."

  "Are you afraid, Elizabeth?"

  "I think that man had something to do with Mr. Mullen being dead. I saw it in the newspaper that he'd been found murdered." She rubbed her arms and shivered. "Yes, I am a bit scared."

  "Is there anywhere you can go? Is your mother still alive?"

  "She's in a home now, but I've an aunt and uncle in Shooters Hill."

  "Would you be able to stay there?"

  "Yes, I get on all right with them. I could go there."

  Maisie looked at Billy. "Would you escort Miss Peterson to her uncle's house, Billy?"

  "We can go as soon as you're ready to leave, Miss Peterson."

  "I can pack my things in five minutes."

  "Do you need to speak to your employer? If you like, I can make a telephone call on your behalf so your job is safe."

  "No, it'll be all right, Miss Dobbs. Thank you very much. I've done a lot of overtime lately, so it won't hurt. I'll get in touch with them. They know I'm a good worker."

  "Good. You pack your bag now, and Mr. Beale will leave with you. Take any valuables."

  Elizabeth Peterson went to a chest of drawers and pushed a few items of clothing into a case she pulled from under the bed, while Maisie and Billy washed and dried the cup and saucers.

  "Will you look after Michael's things?"

  "Don't worry, everything is going to be all right. Either I or Mr. Beale will come to bring you home when it's safe to return."

  "Will it be long?"

  Maisie shook her head. "A day or two." She motioned for Billy to open the door and check the way out. "We'll leave by the back, if we can, Billy."

  She watched as Billy steered Peterson along the alley at the back of the hostel, and did not turn to go back to her motor car until she saw him hail a taxi-cab. She looked both ways along the alley and went on her way. Before returning to her motor car, she went into a telephone kiosk to place a call.

  "James?"

  "Maisie--don't tell me, you can't meet me for suppe
r."

  "No, that's not it. James, does your office have a safe?"

  "Do you mean the sort of safe behind a portrait of the Laughing Cavalier, moving eyes and all?"

  "As long as it's a safe safe, James, and it's in your personal office, where only you have access to it, I don't mind if it's behind the Mona Lisa making eyes at you!"

  "I have a safe, Maisie, a very good safe. It's next to my desk, and only I know how to get into it."

  "I'll come to your office now. If you like, we can have supper in your neck of the woods, or stick to the original plan."

  "Right you are. Does this mean I won't have the pleasure of driving you home afterward?"

  "Not this time."

  "Maisie--I can't wait to see you."

  She held her breath for a second before answering. "Can't wait to see you, either."

  EIGHTEEN

  Maisie looked around what seemed to be an expanse of room. As soon as the secretary had closed the door, she could not help but make a comment. James Compton's office was enormous.

  "You could fit my father's cottage in this room--to say nothing of my flat."

  James laughed, and took Maisie in his arms.

  "I've missed you."

  "I've missed you too." She smiled at him, and realized she was telling the truth. She had missed him.

  "So, you wish me to keep something safe for you?"

  She nodded. "Yes. It's here." She took the wrapped parcel from a brown paper carrier bag.

  "You need something a bit more, well, elegant--that bag looks a bit rough, if I may say so, Maisie."

  "I had something more professional, but it was stolen, and when found, it was in no condition for me to use when I visit clients. I was very fond of that old case, and don't want to rush into replacing it. It seems disrespectful in some way."

  "What's in the parcel?"

  "I'm not exactly sure, but it was too important for me to stop and look on the way."