The Mapping of Love and Death (11 page)

“My gut?”

“Yes. Most people don’t realize that they feel something is wrong before they think something is wrong, but by the time they’ve finished trying to ignore the physical sensation, they’ve pushed that particular nudge from their mind.”

“I know what you mean, Miss. I did that with my Doreen. I could feel it here.” He touched his belt buckle. “I knew she wasn’t right in the head. Felt it before I ever admitted it to myself, and by then it’d got a lot worse. I just kept saying to myself that it was all normal, that she would get over it and be as right as rain the next day.”

“She’s getting better now, that’s the main thing. How is she faring at home?”

“She has her bad days, but nothing like before,” replied Billy. “Mind you, I wish I had a little book with instructions in it. Whenever I get worried, if I see her doing something that looks dodgy, like folding only half the laundry, then leaving the rest while she sits by the fire or something—I wish I had something to go back to, you know, a manual that could answer my questions: ‘Is this all right?’ ‘Is she going backward?’ Or, ‘Is this normal?’”

Maisie nodded, thinking of the searchlight sunbeams across Kent’s undulating terrain. She nodded. “Wayfinding…,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

“I beg your pardon, Miss?”

“Oh, just thinking out loud. I was reading about maps, when we first took on the Clifton case, and it said that the primary role of the map
is in wayfinding.” She looked at Billy. “It seemed such an interesting word:
wayfinding
. Not ‘to find our way’ but ‘wayfinding.’ It occurred to me that that’s exactly what you need—a wayfinder of sorts, to negotiate the journey ahead with Doreen. But you don’t have such a thing to fall back on. There’s no map, just the doctors’ knowledge of previous similar cases, so they can only advise you to a certain point along this road. You have to depend upon your sense of what is right and what is wrong—and as I said, you’ll feel that before you think it.”

“I reckon I see what you mean, Miss.” Billy scratched his head.

“It’s what we’re trying to do with this map, isn’t it?” Maisie tapped the case map with the red crayon. “Wayfinding.” She paused. “I wish I had one for life,” she whispered to herself.

“Sorry, Miss?”

“Oh, nothing, Billy. Nothing at all. Let me know if I can be of any help with Doreen.” She looked down at the map and circled Priscilla’s name. “And in the meantime, I’ll see if Mrs. Partridge has managed to wheedle an introduction to Lady Petronella!”

Billy stood up and stepped towards his desk. “You shouldn’t have any trouble getting her on the dog and bone. I did the job over at her house to last a lifetime, and she can hear the ring from any room in that house.”

Maisie smiled as she moved from the case map table to her desk in the corner. “You’re a good man, Billy. Now then, let’s see if we can cover more ground in this case—I want to know who attacked me and why, and I want to know why half the people I’ve spoken to seem to be lying to me. Call that a gut feeling.”

As she was about to take her seat, the telephone on her desk rang.

“Miss Dobbs—Detective Inspector Caldwell here. Have you a moment?”

“Of course, Inspector. Do you have some news for me?”

“Some good and some not quite so good.”

Maisie sat down, curious regarding possible developments in the case, while at the same time pleased that relations with Caldwell seemed to be moving in a positive direction. Even on the telephone she felt his manner was more conducive to collaboration than it had been in the past.

“I’m not sure which I’d like to hear first.”

“Let’s start with the good: We’ve found your case.”

Maisie shivered. Her senses heightened to the darker side of Caldwell’s purpose for calling.

“And now you have to tell me about the circumstances in which it was recovered.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Go on.”

“The police were called to a flat just off the Edgware Road where a disturbance had been reported. I’ll be frank, it was a miserable cold-water flat, a right slum—and I’ve seen a few glory holes in my time, I can tell you. Anyway, the men had to force entry—the door was locked—and when they broke in they found the body of a man, close to which was your case.”

“Have you identified him yet? And what was the cause of death?”

“Multiple wounds to the skull, your usual blunt object wound—might have been a cosh, a poker, you name it. Something heavy, no doubt about it. Dr. Barrow—the examiner—will be able to give more information, though I can tell you now, he’s no Maurice Blanche, so we don’t expect the same sort of breadth of speculation in the report that we were used to when your former employer was advising us. I can tell you there was extreme loss of blood, and most of it seems to have washed across your nice leather case, I’m afraid.”

“Oh—”

“And the deceased goes by the name of—” Maisie heard Caldwell turn pages as he looked for the name. “Sydney Mullen.”

“Mullen?” She looked across the room at Billy, whose eyes were wide.

“Small-time market trader and even smaller-time crook. More of a tea boy to certain higher-up villains over in the East End that we’d like to have longer let’s-get-to-know-you conversations with, if only we had something to pin on them. Know him?”

“Not personally. But he knew Michael Clifton in the war. He owed his life to Clifton.”

“That’s all I need, a bloody maze to get lost in.”

“I know how you feel, Inspector.” Demonstrating a willingness to collaborate might not be such a bad thing, thought Maisie. “I’ll do my best to find a way through at this end. Has a motive been established?”

“Could have been someone he was working for, come to see what he’d brought in from his day’s work. He could have owed money to the sort of person you should never owe money to. Who knows, with a fellow like that? Our men are talking to the neighbors, and they’re looking for anyone he associated with. Seems he’d been seen with a woman lately. Bit of a nice-looking woman, according to a report. Apparently she was nicely turned out, even if her clothes weren’t brand spanking new.”

“Did she have dark hair?”

“Yes, she did. Know anything?”

“It might be nothing, but Mr. Clifton said he saw a man and woman arguing in the hotel foyer on the day of the attack. He remembered her dark hair.”

“The hotel should have their names.”

“I don’t think they were guests. But they were there for a reason—you don’t just wander into the Dorchester unless you are staying there or meeting someone. In any case, they were asked to leave, I un
derstand. That sort of racket isn’t appreciated by guests at the Dorchester.”

“I could have done with a different sort of crime to launch my promotion.” Caldwell sighed. “What would you like me to do with this document case, when we’re finished with it?”

“Was it empty?’

“There’s a Victorinox knife—a good one, I can see. And a small bag of tools. I won’t ask what you might use these for. No papers, but a couple of those medical masks.”

“A pair of rubber gloves?”

“No, but now I know why we didn’t find any dabs other than those of the deceased.”

“And the case is badly stained.”

“Put it this way, Miss Dobbs. My wife accuses me of being a hoarder, of keeping things that are old, don’t work, or are beyond repair—and I would throw this in the dustbin without looking back, particularly with that man’s blood all over it.”

“Then please dispose of it when it has served its purpose as far as Scotland Yard is concerned.”

“Sorry about that. After all, it meant a lot to you.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes. It held a lot of memories, but at least they can’t be stolen or destroyed. I’d like the other items back, though—the knife was a gift from my father.”

“Right you are. In the meantime, I’ll keep you apprised of the Cliftons’ progress. I know you’re working in their best interests. The elder son will be here soon; however, one more thing—don’t be surprised if you receive a visit from an American embassy official. The fact that two American citizens were attacked has given rise to their own internal investigation, and I’ve already had representatives from the embassy under my feet.”

“Forewarned is forearmed, Inspector. Thank you.”

“Now then, I’ve got work to do here.”

“Thank you for your telephone call, your consideration is much appreciated.”

Maisie replaced the receiver and turned to Billy.

“Mullen copped it then?”

“Yes. Blunt object to the head, significant loss of blood, and most of it drenched my document case.”

“Aw, that’s rotten, Miss.”

“Mind you, I have the examiner’s name. We might need to see him at some point. In the meantime, Billy, I’d like you to see what you can turn up on Mullen. I know Caldwell is being very accommodating, very friendly, but that’s not to say he’ll share and share alike with the most pertinent information. And you think you can see those other women on your list by the end of tomorrow?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Good. I suppose you’ll start with the watering holes in the search for more on Mullen.”

“I keep it to a half a pint for me, and as much for the other blokes as it takes for them to totter down memory lane and reveal all.” Billy tapped the side of his nose and winked in a conspiratorial fashion. “That’s one thing about us East Enders, Miss, we’ve got the gift of the gab, and we’re good at telling stories. I just have to find the blokes who are good at the telling—as long as it’s the truth. Being a Londoner, I can always tell. Might even be a gut feeling.”

“And you’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do for Doreen?”

Billy pulled his coat from the hook behind the door and turned to Maisie as he placed his cap on his head. “I’m sure she’d like to see you, Miss, if you can spare the time. It always meant a lot to her, that you came over to Shoreditch for our Lizzie, and that you did so much for her.” He looked down at the floor. “And it meant a lot to me, that you
sorted it all out for Doreen, that you got her out of that terrible asylum and into a decent hospital with a doctor who could really help her. So, if you can come over, I’d—”

“Of course I can, Billy. How about Friday afternoon, as soon as I’ve finished with the man with the cine film?”

Billy smiled. “Thanks, Miss. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”

“Bright and early.”

Maisie turned the pages of Clifton’s journal, once again cocooned within the quiet evening solitude of her flat. In the distance she could hear foghorns drone their song of warning along the river, their call like that of fairy-tale mermaids to boatmen navigating the sometimes treacherous waterway.

She wondered about Mullen and thought he was, perhaps, a man easily led, and probably by a yearning for a better life—after all, wasn’t something better what most of a certain station wanted, if not for themselves, then for their children? But would Mullen have betrayed Michael Clifton’s trust? If Mullen was the man who had attacked her—and without doubt evidence pointed in that direction—she did not sense that he could kill. The incident in the park seemed to have been an error; playing the memory back in her mind, as if it were a moving picture, she recalled the man turning to look back as she fell, a certain shock registered on his face, his eyes wide, as if in other circumstances he might be the first to come to her aid. And then he was gone, running away with his catch: her document case. What was he after? Indeed, if he was working for someone else, what did they think they would find? She had just left the hotel and her meeting with Thomas Libbert, so it was fair to assume that she had been observed entering and later exiting the hotel. Could Libbert be involved, perhaps informing a waiting Mullen that their quarry was on her way out? Had he instructed him to the effect that the old black case she carried must be obtained at all costs? Or was Mullen—a “tea boy” to more powerful men, according to Caldwell—working for someone else altogether? All in all, as she leafed through
the journal, she thought Mullen might have been a likable rogue but a weak man, a man who would follow the scent of a quick shilling earned by dishonorable means.

There were times when Maisie wished she could simply pick up a telephone from her home and place a call to Maurice. He had always kept late hours, before this more recent illness, and there was a time when she knew he would have been sitting by the fire in his study, a glass of single-malt whiskey in his hand, a book or some papers in the other. When she had lived at Ebury Place, using the telephone at a late hour did not present a problem. Now to do such a thing necessitated a walk along the road to the kiosk—and Maurice would be in bed anyway. She wished it were otherwise, that she could lift the receiver and in a minute be talking to her mentor, telling him the story of her case and waiting for his advice, which always came in the shape of a question.
How might it be if you look at the problem from this vantage point, Maisie?
And even though she was not with him, at the end of the conversation she knew he would be smiling. That knowing smile would not be due to the fact that he had given her clues, but because he was aware that his questions had helped break down a wall so that she could see a door—and they both knew the knowledge she had in the palm of her hand had been there all the time; it had just taken a conversation with Maurice to enable her to recognize it.

Over the past two years, since the time of discord in their relationship, those telephone calls placed late at night had been few and far between, and more often because Maisie knew that Maurice missed his work to some degree, and—as he often said—could live vicariously through his former assistant as she journeyed thought the twists and turns of her cases. But now she would have been grateful for his counsel.

Maisie read on for a while, then made ready for bed. Before slipping between the bedclothes, she sat on a cushion already placed on the floor in her bedroom. She crossed her legs and closed her eyes in meditation.
Though she tried to keep up with her practice, in recent weeks she had worked late and fallen asleep without first quieting the mind so the soul could be heard. But tonight, as she felt the day slip away and her consciousness descend to a place beyond her own immediate existence, she saw an image of Maurice standing before her. Her eyes were closed, yet she was aware of his presence, and felt his smile as he spoke. “You know the truth, Maisie. You know the truth, but you need the proof. The facts are there, Maisie, between the lines. The evidence is always between the lines, whether it is written or not. Look between the lines.”

She remained sitting for a while, clearing her mind so that any nuggets of insight tucked away in her subconscious could come to the fore; then she opened her eyes, stood up, and returned to the dining table where Michael Clifton’s journal and his lover’s letters had been stacked. Many of the letters were difficult to read, so she had set them aside in favor of those whose pages had come apart with only the slightest slip of the finger along an adhesion. Now she went to the kitchen for a table knife and began to work on those letters where the paper was fused and the ink faint, despite her earlier attempts at careful drying. With a steady hand she divided pages joined by the years since Michael Clifton wrapped them in paper and waxed cloth, as if they were jewels to be cherished.

P
riscilla, good morning to you!” Maisie twisted the telephone cord between her fingers as she greeted her friend.

“Heavens above, what on earth is the time? My toads are on their way to school, and I had just settled down to a quiet cup of coffee while I read this morning’s dire warnings of the demise of the world, and there you are, bright and early and far too chipper.” Priscilla paused. “I know, I bet Ben telephoned and you are over the moon.”

“No. Well, Ben has telephoned, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

“You sound very bright.”

“Am I usually so dour?”

“Not dour, just, well, let’s say
thoughtful
. A bit less thinking and more having a bit of fun might not do you any harm.”

“That’s what you always say. In any case, I’m going to Brooklands on Saturday, for a motor racing meet.”

“I never took Ben for the racing type.”

“He probably isn’t. I’m going with James Compton. He invited me last weekend.”

“James Compton? Good lord, Maisie, that’s not half bad.”

“Just a friend, Pris. And probably not even that.”

“Then why did he ask you?”

“I think he’s lonely.”

“Hmmmm.” Priscilla paused, and Maisie heard her lift her cup to her lips to sip her coffee, which was always brewed strong, with hot milk added. She continued. “I’ve managed to pave the way for your introduction to Lady Petronella. Of course, you could have just picked up the telephone yourself, but as we both know, the path is often easier when trodden down earlier by those who are close to the subject.”

“You sound like an old hand.”

“I feel like one. Let me just grab my notebook—I have a ‘Maisie’ notebook now. Right, here we are: call her at this number—Mayfair five-three-two-oh—and make the arrangements with her butler, though I am told she often answers the telephone herself. Has them all over the house. She’s very approachable, but at the same time no-nonsense, as you can imagine—you don’t get things done in the way that she gets things done if you are wishy-washy.”

“Anything else you can tell me about her?”

“Very active socially, as Julia said. She’s quite the philanthropist and supports several mother-and-baby homes for wayward girls. Hmmm, wonder why no one ever mentions the wayward boys who put them
there? Her two adored daughters are grown up, as you know, and she has the much younger son, to whom she is devoted. While not exactly the merry widow, she hasn’t let the grass grow under her feet either.”

“Thank you, Pris.”

“Anything else?”

“Can I come round later, for tea perhaps?”

“Darling, you know you don’t have to ask—you’re family! I would love to see you—part of the joy of being back in London is having you in the same town, though frankly I never know where you are, with all your gallivanting around.”

“See you this afternoon, then.”

“Au revoir, Maisie.”

M
aisie had arrived at her desk early, and when Billy walked into the office, she was sitting at the table where the case map was pinned out, jotting notes on the length of paper. She stood back to see if any links or associations could be established where she might not have seen a connection before.

“Morning, Miss. I’m not late, am I?” He pulled up his sleeve to check the hour, always pleased with an opportunity to demonstrate that the timepiece she had bought for him was being used.

“No, I’m early, that’s all.”

“Cuppa the old char for you?”

“That would be nice, Billy. Then let’s talk about Edward Clifton—and the shoe business he left behind.”

Soon they were both seated alongside the table, mugs of tea in hand, and Maisie was ready to begin with a recap of information already gathered.

“I’ve found out a bit more about that Sydney Mullen.” Billy flicked through several pages in his notebook until he found the entry he was
looking for. “There we are. Right then, it turns out our Sydney might have got himself in over his head, as they say. As far as I can make out, he went about his business more or less like Caldwell told it; a bit of knowledge here, pass it on there, money changes hands with a contact; putting this person in touch with that one, being the middleman between people who would never have come across each other in the normal course of things.”

“Something of an ambassador crook then.”

“Ah,” said Billy, “but no one plays fast and loose with Alfie Mantle.”

“Mantle? From the Old Nichol?” Maisie raised her eyebrows. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn.

“Yes, him. Born in the Old Nichol at the Shoreditch end. They tore down the slum to build the Boundary Estate, but not before Alfie had stepped on the first rung of the ne’er-do-well ladder. You had to be light-fingered to survive in that terrible place, and Alfie was a right Artful Dodger; he moved up to running some rackets, careful all the time not to tread on anyone else’s turf. If you know anything about Mantle, Miss, you’ll know he was sharp. There’d be a slap on the back for everyone and lots of making nice conversation with the hounds doing business across the water and them others who had the West End by the tail. After the war, when a lot of blokes he wanted out of the way were a few feet underground, he went for bigger fish—and that’s where Caldwell would know more from his Flying Squad mates.”

“And Mullen was mixed up with him?”

“Here’s how I reckon it happened: Mantle was once a bit of a loan shark, and he decided to spread his wings. Now, knowing he couldn’t take on new business by working another man’s manor, if you know what I mean, he decided to move up in the world, scout around for marks that were a bit better off—if someone wants money that bad, they don’t care where it came from. So his blokes start watching the clubs and the hotels, they see who’s spending money and who looks like they
need a bit extra, and they make their move. Alfie Mantle had an in with more than a few of the more posh establishments, and as he moved up, so he looked more the part; he dresses in Savile Row suits, has his shirts and shoes handmade, and is loved by all who came from the Old Nichol. You’ll hear people say, ‘He’s so good to his old mum.’ Mantle looks after his own, but I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of him.”

“So Mullen was one of his runners.” Maisie paused. “But he didn’t work exclusively for Mantle, did he?”

“Probably not—and that could have been where he went wrong. I reckon he was a go-between, like I said. Someone who puts this person in touch with that person, the sort of fella who’s always got another train of thought going on, you know, wondering what he can make out of knowing you.”

Maisie tapped her fingers on the desk, then looked up at her assistant. “I wonder—”

“What, Miss?”

Maisie shook her head. “Nothing. Just thinking. Thank you, Billy. This information has stirred up the river, no two ways about it. That was good work.” She penned a series of dots on the edge of the case map, first an inward spiral, then outward. She sighed, then spoke again. “Now then, let’s get back to Edward Clifton.”

Billy picked up a colored crayon as Maisie began.

“So, Edward Clifton left home at, what, nineteen? He could see only more shoes and whale oil to soften the leather in his future, and fled to the promise of America.”

“Lucky fella.”

“It would seem so,” said Maisie. “And while he didn’t exactly land on his feet, it didn’t take him long to establish a life for himself, though I imagine he had to conquer more than a few mountains before he could rest on his laurels.”

“He married well,” said Billy.

“Of that there’s no doubt. But what about the family in England? They must have been shocked at the loss of a son and brother—if someone emigrates, it’s tantamount to having them taken from you in death. You assume you’ll never see them again. People cannot conceive of the distance—I know I can’t. And when I think of James Compton sailing back and forth once or twice a year to and from Canada—it’s a long way.”