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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 firelightflames 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 whatpaths 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