He left the room, returning a few moments later with a piece of paper, which he handed to Maisie.
"There you are. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"
Maisie thanked Davidson for the addresses, adding, "Just one thing-I thought I might pay a visit to the School of Military Engineering in Chatham. Do you know anyone there I could speak to?"
Davidson scratched his head. "There is one person, but I don't know him that well; however, if you telephoned out of the blue, he's probably the person you'd be referred to. His name's Ian Temple-Major Ian Temple. He's the person who seems to be responsible for any liaison with civvy street, and there's a fair bit of that sort of thing in Chatham, as far as I know." He rubbed his chin. "I think he might have crossed paths with Whitting during the war. Can't for the life of me remember how I know that, but perhaps Whitting could tell you more. Oh, and that reminds me, before you go-a word of warning about Whitting. He really knows his stuff and is something of a map buff, so he'll probably be able to give you quite a bit of background-but he could do with a lesson in manners. Not a terribly likable chap, a bit gruff. Lives alone in Hampstead, but with the usual help-a butler and cook. I understand he has three cats. They've probably lasted because a cat will just walk off when it gets a bit fed up with you."
Maisie smiled. "Thank you, you've been most kind, and I've out-stayed my welcome. I wish you and your wife well in India."
He nodded. "Give us a month, and we'll be begging to come home."
As Davidson closed the door behind her, Maisie heard him bellow: "Mrs. Bolton? Mrs. Bolton, have you seen my best brown shoes? They were here yesterday and now I can't find the bloody things!"
Maisie was glad to see an empty telephone kiosk on the way to the station. With the first call she ascertained that Duncan Higginbotham had already sailed for the port of Aden; and with the second call she managed to secure an appointment to see Peter Whitting-Major Peter Whitting-at four o'clock. She would have time to return to her office and collect her motor car for the journey to Hampstead.
Architecturally, Peter Whitting's home was like so many in Hampstead: an imposing four-story Georgian terraced mansion, the white exterior grayed by the elements and London's smoke-filled air. Parking the MG outside the property, Maisie looked up and thought the major probably rattled around like a pea in a pod, with his two servants and three cats. However, on the other hand, it was entirely likely that the retired officer was not quite as retired as he might seem, given that Davidson had suggested that Whitting was still in the employ of the government.
Maisie walked up the damp stone steps and pulled the bell handle at the side of the door, which was answered after a short wait by a man-servant dressed in a black suit, white shirt, black tie, and black shoes and socks. His beaked nose gave him an austere appearance, and Maisie thought he resembled a crow, yet his smile was broad as he stood aside to welcome her into the entrance hall.
"You must be Miss Dobbs. Major Whitting is waiting for you in his workroom. I'll show you right in and bring tea-one's always gasping for a cup at this time in the afternoon, isn't one? Your coat and hat, Miss Dobbs?"
"You know, I am gasping for a cup of tea. I've hardly had time to stop all day." Maisie slipped off her coat and hat, patted down her hair, and smiled as they were taken from her. She was unused to such familiarity among the domestic staff of those she visited in connection with a case, and found the man's light manner refreshing. "Mr.-?"
"Dawson. Follow me, Miss Dobbs."
Dawson walked towards the broad staircase that led to the upper floors, and bade Maisie follow him along a corridor filled with paintings of past battles, from Hastings to Verdun. He stopped outside a door that seemed almost wedged between landscapes depicting Trafalgar and Marston Moor, knocked, and waited.
"I may have to knock again. He could be in the midst of battle." He turned to Maisie. "Do not be misled by the major's eccentricities, he is an extraordinarily acute man."
Dawson rapped on the door, this time with more force. A loud "Come!" was bellowed in return. Maisie was shown into the room, and could not hide her surprise at the interior. A window at the far end of the room, not unlike the floor-to-ceiling windows in her office, was flanked by bookcases that extended to cover walls to both left and right. On the wall behind her, a map had been pulled down from a roller. A special case had been built alongside to house rolls of maps, the extent of which indicated that Major Whitting was a serious collector. But the focal point was the large square table in the center of the room. Maisie thought tableau would be the only word to describe the scene in front of her. There, on the table, was a model battlefield complete with miniature armies, and at first glance, she could see that the major battles of the Western Front during the years 1914 to 1918 were represented there. It was an extensive relief map, with hills, towns, and farms, though many of those had been lost to battle.
"Miss Dobbs. Do come in."
"It's good of you to see me, Major Whitting."
The man before her was as much a surprise as Dawson and the "workroom" itself. Despite the fact that she had been told Whitting might still have some military connections, she had envisaged meeting a portly man in his sixties, retired with his cats and with little interest in the world outside his club, his old officer friends, and a hearty snifter of brandy at the end of the day. In reality, he was probably much younger, and was also what her friend Priscilla might have called "a bit of a dish, for his age," but at the same time he did not smile, and in his manner did not welcome his guest with an air of warmth.
Whitting was not overly tall-perhaps only a couple of inches taller than Maisie herself-but was far from portly and moved with a quick ease that suggested he engaged in some exercise each day. His dress was casuaclass="underline" beige woolen trousers, a fawn check Viyella shirt, with the top button open at the neck, and a V-neck pullover. A gold watch with several dials adorned his wrist, as if it were crucial for him to know not only the hour, but the very second at which he consulted the timepiece. He wore nut-brown brogues, polished to a shine, and his graying hair was combed back in the fashion of the day, but it seemed he used only the smallest amount of oil to keep it in place.
"You seem rather surprised by my workroom." Whitting's tone was abrupt, almost curt, as if to challenge his guest.
"It's quite awe-inspiring, I must say." Maisie moved closer and looked down at the model landscape laid out on the table. "It's more than a map, isn't it? It's as if you've laid out the whole of Belgium and France in miniature." She looked up at Whitting, who came to her side.
"And you're wondering what I do with this, aren't you?"
"It crossed my mind." She smiled, suspecting that her host might be one who looked for an argument where none might otherwise exist. A composed demeanor on her part would do much to calm Whitting's agitation.
"It comes down to the fact that I'm still trying to learn-what we did right, what went wrong, and, of greater importance, what might happen in the future. This hasn't been finished long, and I can change it to reflect the way in which the region has altered with the regrowth of forests, the reestablishment of agriculture, and the new buildings that have been going up."
"I see."
Whitting paused. Maisie was aware he was looking at her as she stared at the map. She reached out and laid her finger close to a small French village, not far from the Belgian border. "I was right there, in the war."
"Nurse?"
Maisie nodded.
"Bit young, weren't you?"
"I lied. I wasn't the only one."
"No, and you won't be the last. War does that-until people realize that it isn't a game to be played"-he held out his hand towards the map-"like draughts or chess. It's a matter of life and death. Chiefly death."