The Mapping of Love and Death

  "Maisie, what's going on? I knew you would call, but Teddy is trying to find out where Tommy's been taken. The consular people aren't being very helpful."

  "I have some news. There have been two arrests today, one directly in connection with the death of Michael Clifton, and the attack on his parents."

  "And Tommy's involved?"

  "No, but his association with a known criminal came to light as part of the investigation. He became the pawn of a man with quite a degree of personal power. Let me explain--hold on a minute." She pressed more coins into the slot. "Charles, are you still there?"

  "Yes, I'm here."

  "Here's what happened. A man named Sydney Mullen was a member of Michael's cartography unit in France. He thought a lot of Michael, and they formed something of a friendship, to the point where Michael had even offered Mullen a job if he went to California. Mullen was wounded; if it hadn't been for Michael, he would have lost his life. In England once again, Mullen took up the threads of his former occupation, as a self-appointed go-between, putting various people in touch with each other based upon mutual need or want. Suffice it to say, some of these people weren't exactly the sort you'd want to mix with. He was involved with the man accused of killing Michael, and it is more than likely he perpetrated the attack on Mr. and Mrs. Clifton--I'll be able to explain more when I see you.

  "But to your question regarding Thomas, at some point it appears that Mullen went out of his way to make a connection with him. Given his previous relationship with Michael, he knew there was a fortune out there that was Michael's. He'd seen sketches and maps drawn by Michael, who had told him about the oil and the value of his land. In short, Mullen wanted to keep his dream alive. I suspect that, initially, he'd heard about Thomas from Michael; men share confidences in the trenches they might never allow to pass their lips at home. Mullen made contact, possibly to see if there was a gain to be made. Soon he discovered Thomas Libbert's problem with money, that it slipped through his fingers with ease, that he wasn't quite the businessman he fancied himself to be, and on top of that he gambled--and lost--a lot of money." Maisie sighed, fatigue scratching at her eyes. "Mullen saw an opportunity to increase his personal value to a certain Alfred Mantle, a very powerful man who operates all sorts of nefarious businesses, and who is quite a dangerous character. In short, once introduced to Mantle by Mullen--and I should add that Mantle may be a crook, but he can pass for a gentleman, and he is of some considerable wealth--Thomas took advantage of Mantle's banking service; he was a loan shark, among other things. Thomas went from being a victim to an accessory to crime when he began referring other similarly compromised associates to Mantle, men he knew were in trouble following a loss of common sense at the card tables or the races. That's why he's of extreme interest to the Flying Squad, the Scotland Yard department responsible for gangs, armed robberies, and what you might call organized crime. Frankly, Thomas was naive, and didn't know that he'd opened a Pandora's box of problems for himself."

  She paused. "I should add that Mullen was murdered, and in all likelihood by the man who took Michael's life, and not Mr. Mantle, though anyone who has dealings with that man is playing fast and loose with his own life. Mantle bears something of a resemblance to Michael's killer; not in looks, as such, but because Mantle observed men of a certain type, their bearing, the way they dressed, and so on, and then emulated them. With that presence, he broadened his base of acceptance, and power." She coughed, the air in the telephone kiosk catching in her throat. "And Mullen was like one of those performers at the circus, the ones who balance a series of plates on the end of bamboo sticks, then try to keep them spinning. But when you're in the service of much more powerful men, it's you who could end up in a hundred pieces--not the plate."

  There was silence on the line.

  "Charles, are you there?"

  She could hear breathing, but no voice. Another couple of seconds passed before Charles Hayden responded.

  "I'm shocked, Maisie. Absolutely shocked at this turn of events. Had I realized the danger I placed you in by recommending you to--"

  "The truth always finds a way into the light. Sometimes it takes years, and sometimes it leads us on a path into danger. This is my work, Charles, though I'm glad the risk part is over."

  "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 li
stened 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--"

  "But I want to." He reached for her hand. "And at this time in my life, I will claim the last word on everything. Now, let us speak of the past and the future." His chest lifted as he struggled to take a longer breath. "I was not going to speak of this, but I want to now. I have decided it is only right and fair. I prepared a letter for you that is currently in the hands of my solicitor. It speaks of my regard for you and deepest respect for your many talents. I do not have the energy to say more, but it sets out my intentions for your future. It was presumptuous, I know, but I was your teacher, so I am asserting my claim on your ear when I have something to say. I want you to know that you can always say no to any request, any offer that comes your way, even if that offer has been instigated by me. There have been developments in the more personal aspects of your life, and those might run counter to any future offers of employment. I counsel you to consider your responsibility to your heart before you consider honoring my memory."

  "Maurice, I don't know what you mean."

  "You will."

  "Oh, I do wish people wouldn't talk in riddles. I feel as if I am constantly at work."

  Maurice coughed again.

  "You must rest, please, Maurice," urged Maisie.

  "Life is a riddle, my dear. It is filled with clues along the way, with messages we struggle to understand. You've been working on the case of a cartographer; you should know that all maps are drawn in hindsight. And hindsight, if interpreted with care, is what brings us wisdom. I simply wanted to be assured that you know you have a choice. You must not do anything simply because I have said you have the ability to take on my work."

  Maisie could see the deep fatigue in his body, could feel his spirit begin to flag. He had spoken to her with an energy that reminded her of a river bearing down strong across rocks before it diminishes to a trickle and then runs dry.

  "Maurice."

  "Yes?"

  "I have loved you as if you were my father, though that has never stopped me loving my father."

  "I know. And you are as my daughter."

  She squeezed his hand, and felt the light pressure of his fingers in return.

  "And I think you should know that I am seeing James Compton."

  With his eyes closed, the corners of Maurice's mouth lifted into a smile.

  "He's been there a long time. I'm glad you're finally seeing him."

  Maisie remained with Maurice. Andrew Dene joined her vigil, then left to go home to his wife, who was nearing the end of her term. As day's light faded, she was joined by Lady Rowan and Lord Julian, and by James, all of whom stayed for just a while, knowing there was little time left, and the bond between teacher and pupil was so deep that Maisie would not leave. Only her father waited with her, sitting in a chair by the window and nodding off as the night wore on. He would be there, come morning.

  As the sun began to filter a red-gold light between the trees and crows cawed the dawn chorus into life to welcome a new day, Maurice breathed his last; not with the deep rattle of death in his throat, but with the ease of one who is sleeping too long. Maisie, her head resting on a corner of the bed, did not look up into his open eyes, but felt her own hot tears flood across the cold, still hand she held to her cheek.

  Maisie remained at Chelstone for several days. She broke word of Maurice's death to Billy, who could barely believe the news.

  "I know he was getting on, Miss, but I always thought he would pull through."

  "We all hoped against the odds that he would."

  Maisie's head was heavy with grief, as Billy understood too well.

  "Don't you worry, Miss, I'll hold the fort. I'll see you when I see you, and rest assured, there's plenty for me to be getting on with here."

  Caldwell extended his condolences and said that Detective Chief Inspector Stratton would doubtless be in touch, as would others from the Yard.

  "He was well liked, here, was Dr. Blanche. He was one
of the best to have at a murder, in his day. Told you what you needed to know to get on with your job after just a quick gander at the body--and he did it with manners. That's what I liked about him."

  "Thank you, Inspector Caldwell. I'm glad he's remembered."

  "Never forgotten. In any case, you just come in when you're back in London. We've got the confessions we needed, and we've enough to get going on without your account of the events leading up to Whitting's arrest."

  Andrew Dene had arrived soon after Maisie summoned him. He issued the death certificate and completed the formalities pertaining to Maurice's passing, and remained with Maisie as arrangements were made for the undertaker to come to the house. Frankie Dobbs waited in the conservatory.

  "He was a good man, Maisie. No side to him, no looking down his nose at the likes of me--and he was an important man, was Maurice. So, if it's all the same to everyone, I'll just sit here until they've taken him."

  Maisie nodded, and went about her business. Lord Julian had already assumed the task of making the formal announcements, and when there seemed to be little for her to do, Maisie walked through the house to Maurice's study. To her surprise, there was a fire in the grate, so she took her place in the wing chair at the side of the hearth where she would sit to talk with Maurice. How many times had they been together in this room, going through strands of evidence in a given case, or--as Maurice often liked to do--speaking of Maisie's future?

  There was a soft knock at the door, and the housekeeper entered, pushing a trolley. "It's gone lunchtime, so I thought I'd bring you a little something."

  "That's very thoughtful of you. Thank you, Mrs. Bromley. Did you light the fire?"

  "Yes, Miss Dobbs. I knew you'd want to come to his study, and I didn't want it all cold in here for you." She rolled the trolley so that it was adjacent to Maisie's chair.