"Not if you read your Shakespeare, he doesn't."
Maisie changed the subject. "I thought I would see if you'd made any progress with the little task I put your way."
"Little task, my eye! If I tell you what I've found out, will you come?"
"Blackmailer."
"Call your detective friends and shop me. Do I hear a yes?"
Maisie sighed, but smiled at her friend's subterfuge. "Yes, I will. Against my better judgment."
"Where men are concerned, Maisie, you haven't the experience to have garnered judgment. Anyway--" She paused. "I just happen to have my little dossier by the telephone, and here's what I have for you--and I will be brief, because I can tell you more later and give you my notes. Makes up for all the times I filched your essays at Girton." Maisie heard the rustle of paper, then Priscilla continued speaking. "Now, as you know, not all nursing contingents would have been able to go to Paris for the odd day or two off. You went to Rouen, if my memory serves me well, and if you had longer, then you went on leave back to Blighty. The American and Canadian nurses tended to have more time in Paris--and remember, even though the Yankee boys weren't at the front until the tag end of 1917, they sent out medical contingents right from the outset. Having said that, by hook or by crook, I have made a list--by no means complete--of the British units that allowed leave in Paris for their nurses. This gets very confusing, because 'British' means from the Empire."
"Oh, dear." Maisie sighed, not for the first time realizing the enormity of the task.
"And you have to consider something else, Maisie."
"Go on."
"This nurse may have been English, originally, but she might have been an immigrant to Canada, or Australia, or America. After all, so many young men went out to the lands of opportunity before the war, but enlisted to help the old country as soon as war was declared--many of the Canadians were born in Britain. Might be the same with the nurses. Your English nurse could have been with a Canadian contingent, or Australian." Priscilla paused again, and Maisie heard the raspy breath as she inhaled from her cigarette, doubtless affixed to the long holder she favored. "If she wasn't with a private nursing contingent, one of those sponsored by Lady This or the Duchess of That, I bet she was a Canadian. Australia is a bloody long way to go, after all."
"Thank you, Pris. I'll look at your notes later."
"Oh, and there was this one unit, quite a few nurses, paid for by a very wealthy woman, Lady--can't find her name, where is that piece of paper?"
Maisie felt the skin at the base of her skull tingle. "What about the unit, Pris?"
"Well, it was called, simply, 'The English Nursing Unit.' Bit of a cheek, if you ask me, I mean, what did it matter where you came from, as long as you were there? Anyway, the nurses wore these badges with the coat of arms of Lady Whatever-her-name-was, and the name of the unit. All a bit elitist, in my opinion."
Maisie nodded. "I'll just go home and dress for dinner, and I'll be over as soon as I can."
"Changed your mind about the writer?"
As was so often her wont, Maisie stood in front of the open doors of her wardrobe and regarded the contents. Knowing Priscilla and Douglas, dining would not be a formal affair if only one other guest was to join them, and one of Douglas' writer friends at that. But on the other hand, Priscilla might want to bring a level of sophistication to the proceedings if she were in a matchmaking mood, so evening dress might be appropriate--she could just imagine Priscilla wearing a pair of her signature wide silk trousers and a loose silk top with a broad sash drawn around her hips. On her feet would be a pair of satin mules embellished with an oriental design, and her thick hair would be drawn back into a chignon with a crystal-studded clip. Though Maisie had been the grateful recipient of several of Priscilla's cast-off gowns, she did not feel that such a choice would be appropriate for her this evening, so instead took out her black day dress, which could be given something of a flourish by adding the fine cashmere wrap that Priscilla had given her in France almost two years earlier. It wasn't quite warm enough yet to wear the matching silk trousers--Priscilla might dress as if she were still living on the Riviera, but it would not feel right to Maisie.
Maisie, dear, if it weren't for the fact that I would be sending you home naked, I have a good mind to confiscate that dress. Even I'm getting sick to death of it, and I'm not the one wearing it."
Priscilla had brought Maisie to her upstairs sitting room while Douglas and their guest were in the library putting the finishing touches on a joint literary endeavor.
"Just as well my enemies don't comment on my attire, with friends like you to set me right!"
"Oh, come on, you know what I mean. Where's that lovely red dress, the one you dyed yourself? And what happened to that vibrant color phase you were going through, when you'd taken up those arty classes with that Polish woman--Magda, or whatever her name was."
"Marta." Maisie sighed as she corrected the name. Priscilla was right, and she knew it. After a flirtation with color and texture, she had slowly retreated to the comfort of the more familiar items in her wardrobe.
"Well, I know when I'm right, because you don't argue with me," said Priscilla. "I can tell what's happened--you've been buried in your work, and you've forgotten about yourself again. Here, let me look at you." Priscilla stood up and pulled Maisie to her feet. "That dress is very well cut, I'll give you that, but let's cheer it up a bit, shall we? Oh, and before you say that work should come first, we can talk about my little investigative endeavor after supper--we'll leave the men to their port and engage in our own important business. In the meantime, I think we'll brighten up that dress with a splash of gold--though perhaps we should choose a wrap that really brings out those eyes of yours, something sort of deep violety midnight blue."
Maisie, how lovely to see you again--looking radiant as usual." Douglas leaned forward to kiss Maisie on both cheeks, before drawing back and introducing her to his friend. "Maisie, may I introduce Benedict Sutton--all-round good chap!"
"Miss Dobbs, a pleasure to meet you--Priscilla has told me a lot about you."
"That's a frightening thought!" Maisie smiled. Sutton was a good six feet tall and, she thought, better looking than she had expected. Though his swept-back hair was somewhat mousy, deep brown eyes and clear, pale skin gave him a more interesting countenance.
"All good, Miss Dobbs, it was all good."
"Oh, dear, do let's get over the 'Miss Dobbs' and 'Mr. Sutton'--otherwise supper will drag on like a turgid opera." Priscilla claimed the group's attention. "Maisie--Ben; Ben--Maisie. Now, let's have a glass or two of bubbly, shall we?"
The butler stepped forward holding a silver tray topped with four glasses filled to the brim with champagne.
"Who needs room to let the champers breathe, when it won't be that long in the glass?" Priscilla took two flutes of champagne and passed one to Maisie.
Benedict Sutton reached towards Maisie with his champagne, and allowed their glasses to touch with a clink that was so resonant, she feared they might shatter.
Soon supper was announced, and Priscilla put her arm around her husband's waist as they led their guests into the dining room. Douglas Partridge had suffered an amputation to his arm in the war, and used his remaining hand to wield a walking stick. His wife never considered the protocols of society matrons when accompanying her husband and thought nothing of putting an arm around his shoulder or waist.
Conversation was light while the first course--a spinach mousse--was served; then as more wine was poured, Sutton began to quiz Maisie.
"I understand you engage in rather interesting work, Maisie. Are you allowed to tell me about it?"
Maisie lifted her glass and took a sip of wine before responding. "Yes, it is interesting--to me, in any case. I don't generally discuss my work, though, given that my clients expect a certain high level of confidentiality."
"I see--and you liaise with Scotland Yard?"
"On occasion. There are times when I am asked
to provide assistance on a given case--and it works both ways, because I have contacts there who have provided me with valuable help in the past."
"Bit dangerous, isn't it?"
Maisie twisted her wineglass, and then looked up at Sutton. "And which newspaper do you work for, Ben? Or are you paid according to the value of the scoops you uncover?"
Sutton laughed, joined by Priscilla and Douglas.
"Not so clever now, are you, Ben?" Priscilla shook her head and put her hand over her glass as the butler stepped forward to pour more wine. Maisie smiled in acknowledgment--Priscilla had been struggling to control an excessive drinking habit, and now took only one or two glasses of wine on occasion.
"No, I suppose not--but who can blame me for trying to sniff out a story when in the company of a charming inquiry agent?"
"Psychologist and investigator, so mind your p's and q's," said Priscilla.
"Priscilla--" Maisie blushed at Priscilla's correction.
"Don't try to stop her, Maisie--she's incredibly proud of you, though I doubt she'd tell you that." Douglas laughed and raised a glass to his wife and, as intended, the laughter defused Maisie's embarrassment.
Again conversation changed direction, with politics, books, and current theater offerings all coming up for discussion. Sutton demonstrated an interest in moving pictures, and soon the group was engaged in talk of improvements in cinema.
"When I think how far it's all come--it's amazing." Sutton had picked up a spoon and was holding it above the syllabub served for the pudding course. "A great friend of mine was working with cine film during the war--for the government, as you might imagine. He always said to me, 'It's just as well we didn't have sound. The punters could see their heroes at the front, but if they could hear them, they'd have known it wasn't all beer and skittles, and there would have been an outcry.'" He paused to sink the spoon into the smooth, pale yellow syllabub, then continued talking. "In fact, he's kept a lot of film. I was over there watching just the other day. We went through reels of film--it was incredible, what he had managed to record." Sutton shook his head. "There was film of some wounded horses being cared for by the army veterinary service--you never think of that sort of job, do you? And that's what was interesting, he filmed soldiers doing the things you never think about; it wasn't all guns, trenches, and 'Over the top, boys.' He even filmed a cartography unit. Now there's a job you wouldn't want to do, but you should see the maps they produced in terribly difficult circumstances--some of them are like works of art. Henry filmed them and he's exceptionally good with a camera, brought the lens in very close so you could see the details. But one wonders what he could have done with sound to accompany the cine film."
Having delivered his soliloquy, Sutton tucked into his pudding. Maisie had put down her spoon and leaned forward.
"Mr. Sutton--Ben--do you think you might be able to introduce me to your friend? I would love to see his cine film."
"Aha--has it to do with a case?" Sutton lifted his table napkin and drew it across his lips.
Maisie shook her head. "No, not at all." She paused. "I've just always been interested in cine film, and I would imagine your friend's work is incredibly interesting." She avoided meeting Priscilla's eyes, knowing her friend would comment on her subterfuge later.
"All right, I'll have a word with Henry--I am sure he'll jump at the chance, though you'll probably need a chaperone, knowing him."
"I can look after--"
"I think it's time we left the men to their port, Maisie," said Priscilla. "And gentlemen, we have some business of our own to attend to, so we'll join you for coffee in the drawing room."
What a load of tosh, Maisie--when did you garner an interest in moving pictures?"
"When I learned that someone called Henry had been in France in the war and accompanied a cartography unit. There weren't many of those units, Pris--and I have a feeling that this meeting with Mr. Ben Sutton might just be a serendipitous gift."
"I was right, he is dishy, isn't he?"
"That's not exactly what I was thinking." Maisie pointed to a collection of papers set to one side with "For Maisie" printed on top. "Now then, let's look at your notes--I can't thank you enough."
"Yes, you can."
"What do you mean?"
"If he asks, do go out with him."
"Who?"
"Ben bloody Sutton, for goodness' sake!"
"Oh, Pris..."
By the time Maisie returned home, she was feeling more positive about the direction of her inquiries. She had once described her work to her father as "finding my way along the Embankment in a thick pea-souper." There were times when she imagined she was reaching out in the dark, her fingers moving to touch something firm, anything solid to give her a landmark. Sound was distorted in the ocher blend of smoke and fog. Sometimes a noise that might have come from the river echoed as if between buildings, or vision was compromised and one strained the senses to find a path that led somewhere. With the Clifton case, though there were pages of information and snippets of knowledge, she hadn't thus far felt the tug in her gut. But now, after the discussion with Priscilla, she could feel a familiar excitement welling, as if, now that she'd uncovered that one thread of possibility, a vein was not too far away, even though it was still out there in the thick, swirling mist of unknowing.
Priscilla had discovered that The English Nursing Unit had been founded by Lady Petronella Casterman, a former suffragist who had been disgusted when so many of her fellow agitators had supported the war as a means to greater freedom for women--they had foreseen that women would take on the jobs vacated by men and boys, and in the process assume a measure of the independence enjoyed by men. Casterman had ploughed much of her not-inconsiderable wealth into founding a medical unit staffed entirely by women, which she sent to France in early 1915. Her husband, whom she married in 1898, when she was eighteen and he was thirty-five, had died in 1919 of a heart attack. Throughout their marriage he had, apparently, supported his wife's endeavors, partly out of guilt, given his predilection for long hours spent in his library, with friends at his club, or riding to hounds in the hunting season. According to Priscilla's notes, penned in her large eccentric script, having nursed her husband following a serious fall from his horse, Petronella Casterman had felt qualified to help in the unit herself, though she never donned the distinctive uniform supplied to her nurses. It was said that many a wounded soldier had regained consciousness as a bejeweled hand was laid on his forehead, and a woman of about thirty-five, dressed as if she were going to lunch at Fortnum and Mason, leaned over and said, "Lovely to have you with us again, Private. Now, let's see if we can knock you out for an hour or two more." The morphine would be administered and sleep would claim the soldier once again.
Maisie sat alongside the gas fire and smiled as she read Priscilla's notes, often with snippets of opinion scribbled alongside. "I think you ought to try to see her. Would you like me to telephone? I am sure Julia Maynard knows her." Another read: "Can you imagine waking up to that?" And, "I bet that soldier dined out on that story for years."
The nurses were sent to Paris for rest, and their employer-benefactor saw to it that they were lodged in comfortable hotels and that no expense was spared in ensuring they rested in some style. According to the account, it was not unusual for Petronella ("'Ella' to her friends") to drop in on her nurses at any point and push a few coins into their hands with the instruction, "Do something with your hair while you're in Paris."
"Very nice, I must say," Maisie spoke aloud to the empty room. "That's where I should have enlisted."
The most interesting point about Petronella Casterman was not her eccentricity, but her early life. She was the daughter of a shopkeeper who had premises in the village close to the Casterman ancestral seat. Her parents had been anxious to see their children transcend their lot in life and had encouraged education. They had hoped that Petronella might become a governess. Instead their daughter became the object of Giles Casterman's affec
tion when he saw her in the village. Furthermore, it was clear that the subsequent marriage was a good one; the couple became parents to two daughters and later on a son, all of whom were known for being somewhat outrageous and often opinionated, if undeniably likable--especially the youngest, who was barely two years old when his father died.
Maisie was anxious to meet Lady Casterman, and made a note to telephone Priscilla to see if she could facilitate an introduction. She hoped the former shopkeeper's daughter would have kept complete records of her staff.
Putting Priscilla's notes to one side, Maisie picked up the collection of letters found close to the body of Michael Clifton. She had intended to read through them at speed, noting points that might help her discover the identity of his lover, as well as clues to what had happened in the dugout where he died. But she found that when it came to unfolding the letters, she was not drawn to such swift analysis, and instead she approached each communique as if she were turning the pages of a much-admired book, indulging in the slow revealing of the love affair as if the writing itself had come from the pen of a favorite author.
My dear Lt. Clifton,
Perhaps I should call you "The American Mapmaker." Or do you call yourself a Yankee? Your letter arrived today, and I was very pleased to be in receipt of good news and am delighted to hear that you will be in Paris at the same time as I--what a coincidence.
Maisie bit her lip to control the welter of emotion rising in her chest. It was not just the journey back in time, but a sense that she was something of an interloper, a person who might linger outside an open window at nighttime, and who would watch, hand on heart, while a young couple professed their love for each other. As she read the letter sent to a man who was now dead, she could feel the excitement that the English nurse must have felt, the sudden joy of knowing that she would soon see the one who had caused such butterflies in her stomach; who had teased and delighted her, and who had, perhaps before they had declared themselves to each other, caused her to fall in love with him--because Maisie could feel, even as she touched the still damp, brown-edged pages, that Michael Clifton's English nurse loved him dearly.