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."
"I see. Dangerous important?"
"It would appear to be, when I think of the people who would like to get their hands on it."
"Do you want to open it? I can go out and leave you here for a few moments, if you like."
"Would you?"
He picked up a ledger from his desk, kissed her on the cheek, and left the office.
Maisie set the parcel on the desk and proceeded to untie the string and pull back the wrapping. The leather-bound sketchbook with silver-tipped ties that she held in her hands looked as if it had been used infrequently, perhaps for one set of notes. She loosened the leather ties and opened the book at the beginning. On the first page was a date in August 1914, followed by map coordinates for a place called the Santa Ynez Valley, in California. She turned the pages with care, aware that she was hardly breathing, so exquisite were the pen-and-ink drawings that followed. She had never been to such a place, yet in the simple sketches, she felt as if she could smell dried earth and the musky fragrance of a landscape so different from the lush greenness of Kent or Sussex. Following the sketches of broad swaths of land there was what she would call a close-up sketch of small bumps in the earth, of cracks where a narrow dark stream emerged, and of outcroppings of rock. There were paragraphs in technical language that made little sense to her, followed by delicate miniature maps, with notes to the effect that they were copies of larger versions.
She sat down on James' chair and looked out across the rooftops, the view almost jarring after being immersed in the sketches of a land so far away. The drawings, rendered with a nib so fine it was beyond belief that a person could wield the pen with such dexterity, were so beautiful that she could hardly bear to look at them. They had all been signed by Michael Clifton, who had been but twenty-three years old when he created this inventory of his land. She turned back to the notes and could see that he had clearly marked places where work must begin. It was the map to his wealth, to his legacy. It would show whoever had the map in his possession where to find the land's most valuable resource-oil.
According to the notes, penned in the fine, precise hand of an engineer, Union Oil and other companies had long surveyed most of the valley, but the farmer in this corner had refused to sell-until he met Michael Clifton. She gathered that even if those oil companies came close, they could not siphon off the oil from under his property. "It's been there for thousands of years," the farmer had said. "It'll be there until someone drills on my land, even if that person isn't me."
Maisie turned a few more pages until she came to the end of Michael Clifton's entries, which were all made in the days before he left for Southampton. It was clear from his notes that he thought he would be back in the United States by the end of 1914. As she closed the book, she noticed indentations on the back cover, so opened it again and found a pocket. She slipped a finger under the flap and pulled out a small key. Further investigation revealed a piece of paper bearing the words "The Central Bank of Santa Barbara," followed by details of two accounts held in the name of Michael Clifton. There was also information on a last will and testament in a safe deposit box, along with maps and documents of title pertaining to his land.
She heard James talking to his secretary outside the door, and replaced Michael Clifton's belongings as she had found them. The door opened.
"Had enough time?"
"Yes, thank you, James. It's ready to go into your safe now."
"Right you are, just a few clever flicks of the hand, and this will be as secure as the Bank of England."
James opened a cabinet set against the wall to reveal a small safe into which he placed the parcel. He spun the dial, then closed and locked the cabinet door.
"I will not touch this until you come to claim the parcel."
"Thank you."
As they left the office and walked to Maisie's motor car, James reached for her hand.
"James, do you know anything about land, inheritance, and such in America?"
"Oh, inheritance-that's a bit of a dark legal tunnel wherever you are."
"I wonder," said Maisie. "If someone died without family-or anyone else for that matter-knowing whether they had left a will, or indeed the deeds to their property, would it be difficult gaining access for those who might inherit?"
"There are laws of probate that might make it tricky, I do know that. These cases can carry on for years-and that's when you have proof that the deceased is actually no longer drawing breath."
"That's what I've been told." She was thoughtful as they approached the MG. When they had taken their seats and Maisie had started the engine, she turned to James. "And if someone else gained access-of sorts-to the deeds, would they have grounds for a claim?"
"They might, yes. Especially if they had a will." He turned to her. "I can see where your mind is going-and no, it might not take much to prove authenticity. The judges in such cases might just look at the paperwork and with a couple of thumps of the gavel let it go through. Or money could change hands somewhere along the line. I'm in the business of land, Maisie, and though we find that maintaining our ethics leads to less trouble in the long run, I have seen all sorts of bribery and other under-the-table goings-on in my time-and by people who are in positions made particularly vulnerable by such action. Comes down to greed. Pure greed." He shrugged. "And of course, there are other motivations, so you could go through several of the deadly sins. Sometimes people assume something is theirs by right simply because they deserve it. But I think it's the likes of you and Maurice who are the experts on that sort of thing, not a humble office boy like me."
Maisie looked at him and smiled, before slipping the MG into gear.
"Thank you, James, I think that tells me everything I need to know."
It was late by the time Maisie and James left Bertorelli's.
"Do I have to wait long to see you again?" asked James.
"I think this case will be more or less wound up soon. I hope you can bear with me."
He pulled her to him and kissed her, then held her in his arms.
"I knew what I was letting myself in for, Maisie, so of course I don't mind waiting."
"Shall I run you back to your club?" offered Maisie.
He shook his head. "No, not to worry. I'll find a taxi-cab. You're tired, so go home." He kissed her again. "Sweet dreams, my darling."
Maisie took her seat in the MG, waved once more, and drove slowly down Charlotte Street. She did not have to turn to know that James Compton would watch her drive away until he could no longer see her crimson motor car.
She arrived back at her flat in Pimlico, took off her coat and hat, and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. Soon she was seated in front of the fireplace, and though the evening was not cold, she ignited a row of jets on the gas fire, to see and feel the comfort of warmth. She rubbed her neck as she considered the events of the day. The pieces were falling into place. She was almost ready to make her move.