My dear Maurice,
I must return to London immediately. Word came this morning that Mr. and Mrs. Clifton (parents of the young man whose postmortem we discussed yesterday) have been subjected to a most vicious attack at their hotel and both are seriously injured. I will return to Chelstone on Saturday, so expect me to call upon you in the afternoon.
Wishing you well, as always.
Maisie faltered when it came to closing the note; she felt her throat tighten at the thought of Maurice so compromised in health, and at the same time she was shocked by the news from Billy. She swallowed back a fearful anticipation of what she might have to face in the coming days and, holding the pen above the paper, wrote:
With fondest love,
Maisie
She folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and passed it to Mrs. Bromley to give to Maurice on his breakfast tray.
Later, as she started the MG and waited for the engine to warm before driving away from her father's cottage, Maisie pondered the words she had chosen to sign off the message to Maurice. Her love and regard for him was without question, though neither had ever said as much. He was not her father, and her adoration of Frankie Dobbs was beyond measure, but she knew that Maurice, in his way, was parent to her intellect, to her understanding of the world she inhabited. Without Maurice she would not have become the person she was today, for better or for worse. He had guided her along the path of her growing, was witness to her successes and failures, and showed her the world that could be hers if she set out to stake her claim.
Reversing the motor car onto the driveway, she changed gear to drive out along the carriage sweep, but swung over to the left to allow another motor car to pass. Maisie was not familiar with the vehicle, and was surprised when the driver pulled up alongside and wound down the window, though the cloth top was already drawn back despite the cold morning.
"Maisie Dobbs-off so soon? When I saw your little motor parked here last night, I thought I might catch you this morning." James Compton was wearing a leather jacket over an Aran jersey, with a cream woolen scarf wrapped around his neck and reaching up almost to his nose. His fair hair had been rendered unruly in the wind, his nose was red, and his eyes-the gray-blue of a winter sky-watered from the chill air. He pulled down the scarf to speak. "I wanted to see if you were up for a spin in the old girl here."
Maisie was anxious to leave, but at the same time, she had known James for years and had also accepted investigative work from his company in the past, so thought it best to exchange at least a few words. "Sorry, James, but I have to return to London as a matter of some urgency." She looked along the lines of the motor car. "And the old girl in question doesn't look so old to me."
James grinned as if he were a boy. "She's only on loan-extended loan-from a company called Aston Martin. They're in a bit of a financial bind, actually, so I may buy this one. It's for racing, thought I might take it to Brooklands."
"Oh…" Maisie was not sure what the appropriate response might be to a prospective racing driver, but another thought occurred to her. "Might that not be a bit risky for someone who has responsibility for the smooth running of a large company?"
"Oh, the jungle drums, they are a-beating."
"'Fraid so, James." Maisie slipped the MG into gear, the change in engine sound signaling that she was ready to leave.
"Back soon?"
"Saturday afternoon, I would imagine."
"Good-I'll take you for a spin."
Maisie smiled and waved. "I'll think about it. 'Bye, James." And before James Compton could reply in kind, Maisie was on her way.
Detective Inspector Caldwell?" Maisie was sitting at her desk, with Billy seated opposite. "Caldwell has been promoted?"
"Yes, and full of himself, he is."
"Oh, why did Stratton have to move to Special Branch?"
"I thought the same thing. And Caldwell isn't any nicer for moving up, either. Throwing his weight around even when he's asking a few questions. He's what my old mum would call a bombastic little nit of a man."
"I'll remember that every time I see him now."
"Anyway, he wants the contents of the parcel sent by the Cliftons." Billy looked up at the mantelpiece clock. "And he'll be here in a minute."
"Well, let's see what we've got for him to take away." Maisie scraped back her chair and stepped across to the table by the window where the Clifton case map was laid out. "We'll fold this and put it away for a start-don't want him snooping. Have you worked through the letters from the claimants?"
"Yes. Every name noted, and I've put them in batches, just like you said. They're listed from the believable to the downright loony."
"Then let's give him the letters. Shame I have the correspondence sent to Michael Clifton by his ladylove safe at home, isn't it?"
Billy grinned. "I didn't hear that, Miss."
"I'd like to keep the photographs, but Caldwell will probably want them. Luckily, I brought them with me. There are some other odds and ends here, but nothing of note as far as I can see." Maisie reached into the box and took out an oblong leather case which, when opened, revealed a collection of pens. She lifted the red pen from the case and removed the cap. Where there might have been a nib, had this been a fountain pen, there was instead a point rather like that of a needle, and when she drew the pen back and forth across the paper case map, the ink ran in a hair-thin red line that reminded her of blood. "These must have cost a pretty penny-and I cannot believe they still work, after all this time!"
"Being underground, buried, kept in the dark, that's what must have stopped the ink from evaporating. Amazing, really, but that's what you get when you spend good money on something," said Billy.
Maisie nodded, replaced the top on the pen, and put the pen in the case, which she slipped into the drawer on the underside of the table. "Right, let's put this box aside ready for Caldwell. He should be content with his find."
The doorbell rang, announcing a caller.
"Better go and let them in, Billy. I'll fold and file the case map."
And the purpose of Mr. and Mrs. Clifton's visit to you, Miss Dobbs?" "They wanted to find a woman they believed their deceased son to have had a liaison with in the war. An advertisement had been placed in several newspapers and they were overwhelmed with inquiries, so they came to me to wade through them, investigate each individual, and try to find the one authentic claimant."
"Is there money involved?"
"They will of course pay my usual fee."
"I meant, is there family money, Miss Dobbs-will the woman receive any money, as far as you know?"
"I do not know what plans they might have once the woman is located, though you must know that the Cliftons are a family of some considerable wealth, with their deceased son favored by a trust that has been accumulating interest for some time and which was not adversely affected by the Wall Street crash."
"What do you know about the Cliftons?"
"They are among America's aristocracy, so to speak."
"Cliftons?" Caldwell shrugged. "Clifton-the shoemaker's son? An aristocrat?"
"I'm given to understand that moving up the social ladder can be achieved by hard work alone on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean." Maisie smiled at Caldwell.
"And there's some who make it look easy here-but I suppose that depends who you know."
Maisie knew the comment was spoken in an attempt to undermine her, but she did not wish to rise to the bait. "Yes, I suppose it does, Detective Inspector. But at least you and I are both familiar with the meaning of hard work, aren't we?" She smiled to accentuate a willingness to assist the police. "Now then, we've collected the items you requested. I hope they help you in your investigation. In the meantime, I wonder if you could give me an account of Mr. and Mrs. Clifton's progress. They were a close couple who seemed to have good intentions, so we were shocked to hear of the attack."