"Another one who lost his heart nigh on twenty-odd years ago." Frankie shook his head and looked out of the window across the fields.
"Well, that's as may be." Maisie stood up, rinsed her mug under the cold tap, and set it on the draining board. "Now then, I think I'll nip up to see if I can have that word with Maurice's housekeeper."
Is that Maisie?" Maurice's voice could be heard calling from the conservatory as Maisie spoke with the housekeeper in the entrance hall.
"One minute, Dr. Blanche." Mrs. Bromley, the housekeeper, scurried away, returning a few minutes later. "He wants to see you now, Miss Dobbs. I was just about to bring him in from the conservatory-he does like to sit there until it's dark, and even though it's warm and we've plugged it up so there's no drafts, I do worry about him. The nurse comes in at about eight o'clock-she should be here any minute-and makes sure he's comfortable for the night, so you've time for a little chat. He's been waiting for you to come home."
Come home. Even though she had her own flat in London, even though she was London born and bred, when she came to her father's house, to all intents and purposes she was considered to be home. Maisie smiled. He's been waiting for you to come home. It was true, she always felt a sense of belonging at Chelstone, and particularly when she reflected upon the hours spent with Maurice at The Dower House.
Together with Mrs. Bromley, Maisie helped Maurice into a wheel-chair, then to his favorite chair alongside the fireplace in his study. As he sat down, she noticed how frail he looked. His shoulder blades seemed sharp against the fabric of his dressing gown, and his eyes milky, sunken like those of an old dog.
"Maisie, I am so happy to see you."
"And you too, Maurice." She leaned towards him, and they kissed on both cheeks. "I wish I had known that you were so poorly-I thought you were getting well again."
He lifted a hand towards the chair on the opposite side of the fire-place, Maisie's usual seat; then he shook his head. "I did not want you to be worried, so I asked that you not be alerted to my ill health. I am sure that as soon as summer comes, I will be as fit as a fiddle." He coughed, reaching into the pocket of his woolen cardigan for a handkerchief, which he held to his mouth. Maisie could hear the rasping in his chest, the wheeze as he caught his breath. "I beg your pardon." He paused before continuing. "I saw the light from your torch as you came along the path. I'm glad you've come. Now then, Maisie, what is it you want to discuss? Give an old campaigner something to chew on; I'm fed up with being the resident invalid."
Maisie pulled an envelope from her pocket, slipped out Michael Clifton's postmortem report, and passed the pages to Maurice, who squinted to see the words even though he had set his spectacles on his nose. He read in silence, nodding on occasion, before speaking again.
"The body has been in the ground for some time-what, some sixteen years."
"Yes."
"But the body never lies, does it, Maisie? We may be pressed to see the message sometimes, and one person's eye is not as keen as another's, but the truth is always there."
"What truth do you see in that report, Maurice?"
Blanche smiled, a movement that caused him to cough once again. Maisie poured a glass of water, and held it out to him. When the coughing had subsided he replied to her question. "I see wounds consistent with the type of shellfire faced by the men-there's evidence of shrapnel infiltration to the bone from head to toe, and I would say that this man and those with him suffered vascular and arterial damage due to deep lacerations, though it's likely the deaths of the other men were ultimately caused not only by loss of blood, but by asphyxiation when the dugout caved in." He paused, and looked up at Maisie, the firelight flames reflected in his eyes as he tapped the page. "But this wound to the back of the head-that was not caused by shrapnel, or a gun. I would say it was a heavy object at very close range. This man was murdered by a more personal foe, not the enemy we call war. And you knew that already."
Maisie nodded. "Yes, I knew, Maurice. I wanted you to see the report and to have your opinion. I can see why a harried doctor might miss something; after all, the remains of soldiers are being discovered every week. Still, I thought a British military doctor checking the report might have seen what we have both seen, but this one seems to have slipped through."
"People often see only what they want to see. To draw attention to this particular anomaly would mean more paperwork, more time-and all for a truth that has remained buried for many years. Such truths can only cause pain for someone somewhere, so perhaps consideration was at the heart of the omission."
"Well, the father knows, and he is my client." Maisie leaned back in her chair.
"Tell me about the dead man."
"He was a cartographer and surveyor, an American whose father was British and who managed to worm his way into the army given his background-mapmaking is a valuable skill." She recounted Michael Clifton's history, as told by his father, and she outlined the nature of her client's brief.
Maurice was thoughtful. "Ah, a man who makes maps-an adventurer with his feet on the ground."
"An adventurer with his feet on the ground?"
Maurice coughed again as he laughed, then continued. "Who hasn't felt the stirring of wanderlust when looking at a globe? You see the names of far-flung places and want to see who lives there, and what paths they travel through life. Ah, but the mapmaker, he is one who looks at the land around him and interprets it for the rest of us, who gives us the path to our own adventure, if you like."
"I see what you mean," said Maisie. "But I wonder how someone like Michael Clifton truly felt about his role in the army. After all, his job was to interpret the land not for adventure, but for men to fight, for them to be wounded, and die."
"Indeed."
Maurice seemed to tire, and at that moment the housekeeper knocked and came into the room. She approached with hardly a sound, and spoke in an almost-whisper.
"The nurse is here, Dr. Blanche."
Maurice reached out to Maisie, and she took his hands in her own. "I must go now, Maisie. The only woman ever to frighten me has arrived to ensure I take to my bed. She is fraught because I know more about my medication than she, and because I am given to ingesting my own herbal tinctures-but they allow for a good night's sleep, which is a gift at my age."
"May I help you?"
"No, but please return tomorrow, have coffee with me before you leave for London."
"Of course."
Maisie turned to leave, and as she reached the door Maurice called after her.
"You might bump into James Compton tomorrow. He's home too."
"Yes, I suppose I might. See you tomorrow, Maurice."
Maisie planned to leave Chelstone at eleven o'clock, to be back at her office by one at the latest, so she was surprised when the telephone rang in her father's cottage at half past eight the following morning, and her father announced that Billy Beale wanted to speak to her.
"Billy, is everything all right?"
"Sorry, Miss. I know you're going to be back this afternoon, but I thought you'd want to know straightaway that we've had the police here this morning already."
"The police? Whatever's happened?"
"It's terrible, Miss-Mr. and Mrs. Clifton were attacked in their hotel room yesterday afternoon; left for dead, they were. They're in St. George's Hospital under police guard, and they're both very, very poorly. Mrs. Clifton's at death's door. And the police seem to think you might know who did it."
In haste Maisie gathered her belongings, packed her case, and loaded the MG. She ran up to The Dower House to see Maurice, who had not yet risen, so she penned a note to him: