The Mapping of Love and Death (26 page)

“I’d love one, Billy.”

As he left the room with the tea tray, Maisie walked to the window to look out across Fitzroy Square. Daffodils nodded their golden heads in a light breeze, reminding Maisie of a column of excited schoolchildren in yellow uniforms. A few clouds scudded across the sky, and she thought there might be some rain before the day’s end. Her heart was full with Billy’s news, and with all that had happened in the past weeks. Maurice’s funeral was just two days away and, in truth, she dreaded the moment when she would have to say a final good-bye.

T
he day of the funeral was bright but not too warm. Once again Maisie dressed in her black day dress, a black cloche, and black shoes, and longed for the day to be over. When they arrived at Chelstone village church, she could barely believe the number of people who had come to pay their respects. Among those she knew—Lord Julian, Lady Rowan, James Compton, Maurice’s housekeeper, Billy Beale, Andrew Dene—were several men whom she recognized to be government ministers. Richard Stratton and Robert MacFarlane from Special Branch were there, wearing black armbands to signify they were mourners. She was somewhat surprised to see the famous pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury, along with various men and women of letters,
some of whom she had met years ago, when she was Maurice’s eager student.

As she moved towards the church with her arm linked through her father’s, she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Brian Huntley, whom she had met through Maurice almost two years before. He was with the Secret Service.

“Miss Dobbs. Allow me to express my condolences. He will be greatly missed.”

“Yes, he will, Mr. Huntley. It was good of you to come today.”

“He was a most trusted servant. I learned much from working for him.” He cleared his throat, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I am sure we will meet again soon, Miss Dobbs.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Huntley, I—”

Huntley gave a brief smile, and turned to enter the church.

“All right, love?” asked Frankie.

“Yes, Dad. Don’t worry. It’s time now—we’d better go in.” She increased her hold on her father’s arm as they followed the snake of black-clad mourners.

The service was simple and without ostentation, according to Maurice’s last wishes, and following the round of prayers and hymns, he was laid to rest under the boughs of an oak tree in a far corner of the ancient churchyard. Maisie joined James and his parents to shake the hands of mourners, and was surprised when Lady Rowan insisted Maisie be first in line.

“He had no family, Maisie—I am sure he would have wanted you to stand for him.”

She stood as instructed by Lady Rowan, and when her ankles and back began to ache, wanted nothing more than to go back to her father’s house to rest in a comfortable armchair with her feet up. There would be no opportunity for such repose until after a reception with light fare for invited guests at The Dower House. For his part, Frankie Dobbs pre
ferred to return home, and had already informed Maisie, “I’d rather sit in my kitchen and pay my respects to the old boy with my memories, if it’s all the same to you.”

She had been at the reception about an hour when guests began to depart, and she thought it would not seem too soon for her to take her leave. Part of her wanted to walk through The Dower House, for she had known the property intimately, having been but a girl when she lived there as companion to the old dowager in the months before she passed away. It was after her death that Maurice had purchased The Dower House, along with a substantial acreage of land that had belonged to the property when it was first built several centuries earlier. But it was too late to take that final look now. Maurice had gone and, like her father, she wanted to honor him with her memories. She bid farewell to several guests, and informed James Compton of her leaving. They’d had precious little time to speak in recent days, and Maisie was still smarting from her conversation with Lady Rowan.

“Would you let your mother and father know that I’ve left? I’d rather like to sneak out, if I may—I need some fresh air.”

He took her hand. “May I see you tomorrow, before you leave?”

“Yes, of course. A walk across the fields would clear the cobwebs a bit.”

“I couldn’t tempt you onto a horse, could I?”

“Another time, James. I’d prefer to be on firm ground at the moment.”

“All right. I’ll telephone in the morning.”

“See you then.”

As Maisie turned away, a man dressed in a black pinstripe suit stopped her and held out his hand in greeting.

“Miss Dobbs? We haven’t met. My name is Bernard Klein, and I am Dr. Maurice Blanche’s solicitor. I do hope you weren’t planning to leave.”

“Actually, yes, I was. Is something wrong?”

“I have already spoken to Lord Julian and Lady Rowan, and to Dr.
Andrew Dene, as well as Dr. Blanche’s housekeeper—I require your attendance at a short meeting to discuss Maurice’s last will and testament.”

“Oh well—it never occurred to me. Am I to be a witness to something?”

“No, not quite. Well, in a way, yes.” He consulted his watch. “I have suggested we meet in about a quarter of an hour, in the dining room. There’s a large table there for me to spread out some papers. I have two clerks waiting for us, and I’ve asked for tea to be served.”

“Thank you, Mr. Klein—I know I could do with a cup.” Maisie looked around the room. The last few guests were departing, so for a short time she feigned interest in a conversation between James and Andrew Dene about the latest motor cars on the market.

A
ll too soon the house was quiet once more, and a small group comprising the Compton family, Andrew Dene, Mrs. Bromley, and Maisie filed into the dining room, where Bernard Klein stood at the head of the table, reading through a clutch of papers. He looked up over his half-moon spectacles and held out his hand towards the chairs set around a deep mahogany table. He did not speak until they were all seated.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for convening here today at a time of great sadness. Maurice Blanche was a close friend to everyone around this table, including myself, so it is with heavy heart that I am now tasked with conveying the details of his last will and testament.”

Maisie looked down at her lap. She supposed that Maurice might have left her a small bequest, and perhaps some books. It occurred to her that she had never even thought about such things. She had been so caught up with a desire for his recovery that all thoughts of his passing focused on how much she would miss him. Now she was sitting here at
this table with his solicitor, she thought he might he have left her his papers—perhaps that was why Huntley wanted to see her.

The senior clerk handed one set of documents to Klein, and he studied them, pushing his spectacles higher on his nose. She suspected he knew the contents by heart, but needed to consider how he should frame his words to those who loved Maurice.

“First, I will deal with the issue of Dr. Blanche’s clinics. It was his wish that the work continue as long as there is a need for such medical services. If that need should diminish—as you know, he believed that it is a weak country that does not take care of its own, and he hoped for developments in that regard—he has outlined plans for the closure of the clinics, with any funds remaining to form bequests to a series of charitable concerns listed in his instructions, which form a codicil to the will.” He nodded to the junior clerk, who handed out a clutch of pinned papers to each person present. “As you will see, Dr. Andrew Dene is to be brought onto the Board of Governors, which will now be set on a firmer footing. Miss Dobbs will also join Lord Julian and Lady Rowan Compton and Viscount James Compton as members of the board. I will not go into the necessary details at this point, but suggest a board meeting within the week so that all parties can peruse my notes, and discussion can be embarked upon at a time when we are refreshed by time and rest. However, there is a bequest to Dr. Dene of two thousand pounds, in addition to an annual stipend in recognition of his work on behalf of the clinics—an amount of two hundred pounds per annum.”

Maisie watched as Dene struggled to keep his composure, rubbing his jaw back and forth. He had come to Maurice’s clinic as a boy with his very ill mother, who had subsequently died. Maurice had given him work, and when he realized the boy’s innate talent for medicine, sponsored his education and his training in medical school. He was now an admired orthopedic surgeon.

“Dr. Dene, I am sure you have questions; however, at this juncture, you are free to leave. Thank you.”

Dene bade his farewells and left the room.

Klein smiled at the housekeeper and explained that Maurice had provided excellent references, and she would be welcome to remain at The Dower House until the new owner took possession of the property, though he felt sure she could expect her service to continue. In addition, she would receive an annual pension which, if she wished, could take the form of a single bequest. He pointed out that the pension was a most generous one.

Mrs. Bromley was soon racked with sobs, so Maisie leaned across to soothe her. When she was given notice that she could leave, Maisie stood along with her to accompany her to the door.

“Miss Dobbs, I require your presence here. My clerk will see that the lady is looked after.”

The junior clerk placed an arm around the housekeeper’s shoulders and escorted her from the room, though her keening could still be heard through the closed door some moments later.

“Now then, almost there.”

Maisie looked at the Compton family and hoped she would be free to leave soon. The air in the room seemed to press down on her, and she wanted nothing more than for the day to be over. If Maurice had left her a bequest in connection with the curatorship of his papers, hopefully Klein would get to it next, and she would be released from the meeting—she could hardly breathe.

“Finally, the estate.” He again turned towards the senior clerk, who distributed several sheets of paper. “Miss Dobbs—Lord Julian and Lady Rowan will remain, as they are coexecutors of Maurice’s last will and testament, and Viscount James Compton will have a future interest in decisions made regarding The Dower House, per Maurice’s instructions. The following will serve to clarify.”

Maisie at once felt as if she were on ground that was less than solid, yielding to her weight in a way she could not fathom.

“Now, you each have a listing of key assets, which form a not-inconsiderable estate. Dr. Blanche had no brothers or sisters, and was the son of parents who in turn had no siblings. Thus he had in earlier years inherited properties in France from his father, and significant wealth on his mother’s side—she was, as you may know, the only daughter of Frederick MacLean, the shipbuilder.”

Maisie’s eyes widened as she realized how little she knew of Maurice’s own parentage. Though Lady Rowan had known him from early years and had talked about her brother bringing his friend, Maurice, home from boarding school, Maisie could not imagine him as a boy.

“There are several properties in France, including a house in Paris under long-term lease to the British government—Maurice retained the upper apartments for use during his visits to the city. The land belonging to Item B on page two—a large château-type property in the Dordogne region currently leased to a diplomat—is worked by a local family of farmers. My firm liaises with Maurice’s Paris lawyers to see that all monies collected from leases and agricultural profits contribute to the upkeep of those properties and residue used to support the clinics—I should add that there is also one in a poor area of Paris. Now, moving down the page, the property in Glasgow—it was his grandfather’s home—is on indefinite loan to the university at no charge and is used to accommodate academic staff visiting from abroad. There are tax advantages to such an arrangement.”

Klein reached for a glass of water and, over his spectacles, seemed to use the moment to take the measure of those seated before continuing.

“On the next page, you will see a complete inventory of the property known as The Dower House, including the house and gardens, plus two farms with long-standing tenant farmers, Mr. Arthur Lodge and Mr. Cecil Button. The acreage is given, along with terms etc., etc. Dr.
Blanche’s instructions are as follows.” Again he peered over his glasses at the listeners in turn, but focused his attention upon Maisie as he went on, barely consulting his notes.

“All properties in France, Scotland, and England, together with monies held in investment and bank accounts, I leave to Miss Maisie Dobbs, my daughter in kind, if not in name. Should Miss Dobbs see fit to sell The Dower House, the property should first be offered to Lord Julian Compton, and if he predeceases such divestment, to Viscount James Compton, so that, if desired, it may once again become part of the Chelstone Manor Estate.”

He smiled at Maisie. “I should add that there are no mortgages attached to any of the properties listed, which were owned in their entirety by Dr. Blanche. I am sure you would like clarification on multiple points; however, before you and I continue speaking alone, is there anything regarding the foregoing that you wish to discuss in the company of Lord Julian and Lady Rowan, specifically, Maurice’s stipulation pertaining to a future possible sale of The Dower House?”

Maisie stood up, only vaguely aware that her knees were shaking. “If you don’t mind, I think I might need some fresh air.”

James Compton was already standing, and caught her as she collapsed.

W
hen Maisie opened her eyes, her first thought was that she was in her room at her father’s cottage. She closed them again when she realized that she was still in The Dower House, resting in the guest room she’d occupied long ago when she first came to live in the house. Mrs. Bromley was by her side, and leaned over to press a cold, damp cloth to her forehead.

“How are you feeling, mu’um?”

Maisie shook her head. “Please don’t call me that, Mrs. Bromley. You’ve always called me Miss Dobbs—don’t change now.”