"Maisie, back so soon! What can I do for you-did you leave something behind?" Gilbert took off a pair of spectacles as he walked towards her.
"I am sorry to bother you, but I have one quick question-do you mind?"
"Of course not. Fire away!"
"Is it possible to make a photograph of part of your cine film? I am sure there are appropriate words to describe this, but what I'd like is a picture from the last few seconds on that final piece we watched; something I can hold in my hand to study."
"You mean the nasty ogre rushing at my camera?"
"Yes, that's it."
"It's not a simple task, but it can be done."
"I would be most willing to pay for your time."
"First things first. I'll have the frame printed and sent to you. Roland here can take down the details."
Maisie smiled. "Thank you very much." She paused. "And if we could keep this between ourselves, I would appreciate it."
Gilbert smiled. "Absolutely. We don't want Ben to know you want a picture of another man, do we?"
Maisie blushed. "No, we don't."
Later, as she left the house for the second time, Maisie could not recall any part of the conversation with Ben Sutton either before they viewed the film, or on the way to the underground station. In fact, she could barely remember any interaction with him at all. But an image continued to flash into her mind's eye, of a man brandishing a baton as he reached towards the camera that was filming his every move.
Maisie stopped at a pie and mash shop on her way to Shoreditch, and had a large helping of meat pie with mashed potato and gravy, followed by a cup of strong tea. It was the sort of place she rather liked to frequent; the service was quick and the repast plain yet hearty, better described as fodder than as food. Though she never stayed long, she liked to watch the customers coming and going, an assortment of men and women, all of whom were working class and valued a good meal. And as Maisie would not bother to cook a meat pie just for herself, and she rarely stopped for a proper lunch, the break was a welcome one-even though the Clifton case remained uppermost in her mind.
She was thinking about lies. About the many times in the course of her work she had been lied to. It was a hazard of her occupation. She rarely missed a lie, seldom overlooked the sense of doubt that assailed her when she had been offered less than the truth. Indeed, she thought it was the presence of doubt-rather than certainty, perhaps-that led to cracking open many a case. Doubt. Was it an emotion? A sense? Or was it just a short, stubby word to describe a response that could diminish a person in a finger snap? When she felt doubt, she asked more questions of herself, though she also knew those questions were no guarantee that her attention would be pointed in the right direction. There's a lot of ifs. Yes, Billy had it right, there were a lot of ifs. What if. Without that question, she would not have decided to make a detour back towards the British Library. What if a librarian could identify the verse she'd found tucked into Michael Clifton's journal? And would such information have any meaning, any relevance to her search for the truth about Michael Clifton's death and the attack on his parents? As she walked along, she planned to spend only a short time in the reading room, which might allow her the opportunity to drop into Bourne and Hollingsworth on Oxford Street before dashing over to Shoreditch. She wanted to go to the shoe department to see if someone there remembered something of the Clifton story. It was an important London shop, so the buyer might have more detailed knowledge about the company in its final years than Billy had managed to uncover, or he might have remembered something after being questioned. She thought she could accomplish those two things and still be in Shoreditch at a reasonable hour.
The reading room of the British Library was pin-drop quiet. A librarian might tiptoe across the floor to replace a book on the shelves, or a reader might begin to cough, then look around and mouth "Sorry" to the person alongside who had looked up, scowling at the interruption. Patrons moved deliberately-whether turning pages or taking notes-as if in a manner of respect, reminding Maisie of churchgoers at evensong. She slipped into a vacant seat, took out an index card and pencil, and closed her eyes, trying to envisage the words written on the notepaper tucked inside Michael Clifton's journal. She crossed out a line, then another word, and when she was satisfied, wrote the partial verse without error on another index card, then approached the librarian's desk.
"I wonder if you could help me," she whispered.
The librarian nodded, and leaned towards her.
"I have a fragment of verse, which I think is part of a longer poem. I know this is rather a shot in the dark, but do you recognize it?"
The man took the card, looked at the words, and shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not." He looked around.
"Do you have a librarian who is more of a poetry buff?" She hoped she had not insulted him, but he seemed to have taken no offense.
"I'm more of a history man, myself." He turned both ways. "I was looking for old Mrs. Hancock. She comes in almost every day-she's had a reader's ticket for years and generally settles down with the newspaper before taking up a book of poetry. She's getting on, but can still remember many, many poetical works off by heart." He picked up the index card. "Let me see if she's over there. She sometimes drops off for the odd forty winks, poor dear. Do you mind waiting?"
Maisie shook her head. "Not at all." She stepped back as the librarian turned and walked out into the room, then circled the desks searching for Mrs. Hancock. She lost sight of him; then a moment or two later, he was walking towards the stacks with an elderly woman who was using her walking stick to point up to one of the shelves. Maisie smiled, for the woman seemed to enjoy giving orders to the man in charge. She watched as he reached for a book, then handed it to the woman, who sat down at the closest vacant seat and turned the pages, squinting as she brought the book so close to her eyes, it was touching her nose. A moment or two elapsed before she discovered what she was looking for and lifted up the open book for the librarian to read. Her smile was that of one well satisfied with herself, and Maisie was glad she had made the inquiry, for the woman seemed to stand straighter, as if in being asked to share her expertise, she had received a validation of worth.
The librarian returned with the book held open.
"Mrs. Hancock to the rescue!" The librarian kept his voice low, despite his enthusiasm for a task successfully completed. "It's a poem called 'The Best Thing in the World.'" He passed the book to Maisie.
"Thank you very much." She took the open book and walked to a desk, careful to make as little noise as possible. She took out another index card and her pencil, and sat down ready to transcribe the poem.
What's the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-decked and curled
Till its pride is over-plain;
Love, when, so, you're loved again.
What's the best thing in the world?
– Something out of it, I think.
Maisie read the words over twice and sat back in her chair, still engaged by the poem and what it might have meant to Michael Clifton. Sighing, she flipped the book over to look at the spine. It was from a collection of poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She sat for a moment longer, then closed the book, collected her bag from alongside her chair, and returned to the librarian.