"Miss Dobbs. We've been anxious to see you." Teddy Clifton rose from his chair to greet Maisie, shaking her hand before steering her to his chair. He and Charles Hayden then pulled up chairs and the four were seated together.
"Charles tells me you're doing well, and that Mrs. Clifton is making good progress."
"According to Teddy, she complained when he visited her yesterday, so I consider that a good sign. Slowly but surely she's on the mend."
"I'm glad." Maisie looked at Teddy.
"Miss Dobbs, Charles gave us as many details as he could, but we'd like to hear the whole story, start to finish--frankly, I didn't even know I had a cousin called Peter Whitting. And needless to say, the whole family is shocked at what has happened to Tommy. Fortunately, my sister Meg is with Anna now--it's a boon we all live so close to each other."
"Even close families can grow apart, so it's not surprising that distance and time played a part in the fact that you had no knowledge of your cousin. Your home is a great distance from your father's place of birth."
"I blame myself. I was little more than a boy when I left, and I let them all go. When I arrived in the States, I wrote a few letters, but they were returned. Time passed, and with it any connection to my former life. My new family was all that mattered to me. Perhaps I should have tried harder."
"Do not blame yourself, Mr. Clifton. Many families have been divided by the distance of emigration, and it is usually left to subsequent generations to renew the blood ties, if at all."
"Miss Dobbs is right, Dad. You can't take all this on because you wanted something different from the life your father had dictated for you." Teddy turned to Maisie. "Please, tell us the whole story, from the time you began work on my parents' behalf."
Once again, Maisie recounted each milestone in her investigation, annotating here, cutting a detail there. She told them about the attack by Mullen, about viewing the cine films at a house in Notting Hill, and about her visits to Whitting, Temple, and Thomas Libbert. She described the help given by Priscilla, the fortuitous meeting with Ben Sutton, and gave only the briefest account of her visit to the home of Lady Ella Casterman. Finally, she told them about her meeting with Michael's young nurse, and Whitting's arrest. Then, opening her shoulder bag, she brought out the parcel that had been kept safe by James Compton.
"I think you will find everything here to lift the legal stalemate regarding Michael's property. There's a key and details of a bank, and as you will see from his notes, you will also be able to locate his original maps and the documents of title--we call them deeds--to the land he owned in the Santa Ynez Valley. His last will and testament are also mentioned with notes as to his final wishes, which are in favor of Anna's children. All papers are dated August 1914."
And as she passed the package to Edward Clifton and watched as his liver-spotted hands fingered the wrapping, she felt tears prickle the corners of her eyes, for at the mention of that place so far away she could see Michael's simple drawings in her mind's eye, and on a rainy day in London, could almost feel a breeze from the Pacific Ocean ripple across the hills and kiss her skin.
Edward Clifton sat with the package held tight in his hands and bowed his head. His eldest son reached forward, placing an arm around his shoulder.
"Dad," said Teddy. "It's Michael, come home to us."
Maisie cleared her throat. "Michael's relationship with the young woman came to an end before he was killed. I managed to open pages in both the letters and his journal that were fused, and it was clear they had considered war to be an inauspicious time to continue a courtship. She kept his belongings, which he had given to her for safekeeping, all these years in the hope that one day she might know how to find his family. She is not a worldly woman."
"We must write to thank her, Teddy," said Edward Clifton, before turning back to Maisie. He shrugged his shoulders. "Martha will be a bit disappointed. She had an idea in her head--I didn't say anything to you when we first met--but she had a notion that there might have been a child. It was a real bee in her bonnet, and it started in France. She said it had happened a lot, in the war, that war does things to people, makes them mad for each other when reason would suggest they exercise caution in their personal lives. You don't know her, she can be a terrier where family are concerned. I have to rein her in. As much as we agreed that our children have to find their way in the world and do as their hearts decree, she would have the whole tribe living in adjoining houses on Beacon Hill." He held the book to his chest, as if to touch his heart. "She kept saying that she just knew, so I'd better tell her that this time, she just didn't know. We have wonderful children and grandchildren, Miss Dobbs, and Teddy's boy is the image of Michael--isn't he, Teddy?"
"Right down to talking nonstop about the places he'll go when he leaves Harvard," said Teddy Clifton.
Maisie smiled. "What's his name?"
"Christopher--Chris to the family. Suits him--he's becoming a real Columbus!"
Maisie's next visit was to Elizabeth Peterson, who had remained at the home of her aunt and uncle, though Maisie assured her it was safe to return to her bed-sitting-room. The comfort of family and attendant companionship proved difficult to leave. The police had already taken a statement, and she was able to provide much-needed evidence with which to bring charges against Peter Whitting.
After each visit, Maisie fought the need to give in to the deep exhaustion that accompanied her sadness. There were only a few days until the funeral, and if she was to complete the final accounting before Maurice was laid to rest, there was much to accomplish. As each item was completed, she drew a line through the name and place listed on a sheet of paper, and went on to the next.
At the home and studio of Henry Gilbert, she assured him that his cine films would be returned, and committed to keeping in touch until they were once again in his possession. She almost ran into Ben Sutton as she left the house, and was relieved that he did not press her to accept an invitation to supper or the theater.
She visited the British Museum, where she did not ask to see books of poetry, but instead inquired if there were books that included photographs of California, in the United States. Several books were brought to her, and she read for an hour from Under the Sky in California by Charles Francis Saunders, imagining Michael Clifton poring over such a book before embarking upon his journey westward. She knew some words would remain with her for days.
Sauntering over these open mountains through miles and miles of chaparral--that sun-scorched tangle of sumac and manzanita, adestoma, islay and wild lilac, rarely above a man's head...
Maisie waved to Mrs. Hancock and left the museum, bound for Selfridges, where she completed the simple task of walking through the shoe department.
Martha Clifton was asleep when Maisie called at the hospital, but she left flowers for her client, along with good wishes for her recovery and a timely return to her home in Boston. A letter of thanks was dispatched to Lady Ella Casterman, in which Maisie enclosed the small sheet of paper bearing the verse of Elizabeth Barrett Browning she'd given to a young American man with whom she had fallen in love. Tucked inside was the lock of her hair he had cherished enough to keep.
When her visits were complete, Maisie compiled her written report for Michael Clifton's parents, which she placed in a box along with a final statement of her charges and Michael's belongings previously entrusted to her. Before packing the journal, she lifted the leather cover once again and began to read.
I'm finally on the high seas bound for jolly old England. Dad wrote to me in New York to say I was out of my mind, that I didn't know what I was doing. He said war was something that old men get us into and young men rush into, and that if I had any sense at all I'd come home. Then he wired me to say that he and Mother loved me very much, that they were proud of me. He told me I was under orders to remember everything that happened to me so I'll have some good stories to tell around the tree at Christmas. So, here I go! Michael Clifton's Grand Adventure Over There, Part One
...
She closed the journal and set it in the box to be delivered to Mr. and Mrs. Edward Clifton at The Dorchester Hotel.
There, I think it's all done now, Billy."
"Can we fold the map and put it away in the file then?"
"Yes. Seeing that table bare is always a bit of a dubious pleasure," said Maisie. "There's the joy of knowing the work's done, and the worry that another big case will never come in."
"We're always all right, though, aren't we, Miss?'
"A sizable job seems to present itself in the nick of time, and while we wait, there are always these little bits and pieces to be getting on with."
Billy walked across to the table by the window, where he unpinned the Clifton case map, folded it with care, and put it away. Maisie sighed and leaned back, wondering whether this was the right time to talk to Billy. She still could not put her finger on her reason for thinking that something was amiss, that there was a change about him, but she also knew that she was rarely wrong in her suspicions.
"How's Doreen, Billy? Did she get on all right at her checkup?"
"Fit as a fiddle. Dr. Masters is very pleased." He did not turn to reply to her question.
"Good. Yes, that's good news."
Still holding a folder in his hand, he came to Maisie's desk and stood before her.
"Why don't you sit down, Billy." She held out her hand to the empty chair and waited for him to speak.
"I can't keep a secret from you, Miss, never could. It's written all over my face, I know it."
"And I've known you for a while, so perhaps I see things that others mightn't."
"It's Doreen."
"Yes."
"She's in the family way."
"Oh, Billy! Billy--what lovely news. Congratulations!"
Billy pursed his lips, then broke into a smile. "I was worried, to tell you the truth, Miss, but I'm dead chuffed--we're both as pleased as punch. It's a bit of light for us, though as I said to Doreen, we've still got to get ourselves out of here, get over there to Canada. We've got a new nipper to think about as well as our boys, and we want the best for them." Billy's words seemed to tumble out as he spoke of his plans, thoughts, and concerns. "I mean, Doreen went off the idea of Canada, to tell you the truth. She didn't want to leave our little Lizzie cold in the ground without us around the corner, but now, with the new baby on the way, she wants the best, doesn't want to lose another one."
"Billy, how far along is she? When's the baby due?" Maisie tried not to convey her own concerns: Doreen's health was still so fragile, carrying the baby brought with it a risk of miscarriage or stillbirth.
"Reckon it'll be an October baby--she's about three months gone now." He blushed. "The doctor said we had to be careful, and I know she's not very happy about it, but it's not like we meant it to happen, and Doreen--"
Maisie reached out and placed her hand on his arm. "I am sure everything will be all right, Billy."
"I reckon so. Doreen's really perked up, though she's a bit off-color of a morning." He smiled again. "Well, this won't do, will it? I'd better get on with some work today. Cuppa tea?"
"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.
The 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 preferred 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 occu
rred 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.
All 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."