Messenger of Truth

Dedicated to

My Cheef Resurcher

(who knows who he is)

I am no longer an artist interested and anxious. I am a messenger who will bring back word from the men who are fighting to those who want the war to go on forever. Feeble, inarticulate, will be my message, but it will have a bitter truth, and may it burn in their lousy souls.

—Paul Nash, Artist

1899–1946

Paul Nash served with the Artists’ Rifles and the Royal Hampshire Regiment in the Great War.

JANUARY: You enter the London year—it is cold—it is wet—but there are gulls on the embankment.

—from When You Go to London, by H. V. Morton, published 1931

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Prologue

Romney Marsh, Kent, Tuesday, December 30th, 1930

The taxi-cab slowed down alongside the gates of Camden Abbey, a red brick former mansion that seemed even more like a refuge as a bitter sleet swept across the gray, forbidding landscape.

“Is this the place, madam?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The driver parked in front of the main entrance and, almost as an afterthought, the woman respectfully covered her head with a silk scarf before leaving the motor car.

“I shan’t be long.”

“Right you are, madam.”

He watched the woman enter by the main door, which slammed shut behind her.

“Rather you than me, love,” he said to himself as he picked up a newspaper to while away the minutes until the woman returned again.

THE SITTING ROOM was warm, with a fire in the grate, red carpet on the stone floor and heavy curtains at the windows to counter draughts that the ancient wooden frame could not keep at bay. The woman, now seated facing a grille, had been in conversation with the abbess for some forty-five minutes.

“Grief is not an event, my dear, but a passage, a pilgrimage along a path that allows us to reflect upon the past from points of remembrance held in the soul. At times the way is filled with stones underfoot and we feel pained by our memories, yet on other days the shadows reflect our longing and those happinesses shared.”

The woman nodded. “I just wish there were not this doubt.”

“Uncertainty is sure to follow in such circumstances.”

“But how do I put my mind at rest, Dame Constance?”

“Ah, you have not changed, have you?” observed the abbess. “Always seeking to do rather than to be. Do you really seek the counsel of the spirit?”

The woman began to press down her cuticles with the thumbnail of the opposite hand.

“I know I missed just about every one of your tutorials when I was at Girton, but I thought…”

“That I could help you find peace?” Dame Constance paused, took a pencil and small notebook from a pocket within the folds of her habit and scribbled on a piece of paper. “Sometimes help takes the form of directing. And peace is something we find when we have a companion on the journey. Here’s someone who will help you. Indeed, you have common ground, for she was at Girton too, though she came later, in 1914, if my memory serves me well.”

She passed the folded note through the grille.

Scotland Yard, London, Wednesday, December 31st, 1930

“So you see, madam, there’s very little more I can do in the circumstances, which are pretty cut and dried, as far as we’re concerned.”

“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear, Detective Inspector Stratton.” The woman sat bolt upright on her chair, brushing back her hair with an air of defiance. For a mere second she looked at her hands, rubbing an ink stain on calloused skin where her middle finger always pressed against the nib of her fountain pen. “However, I cannot stop searching because your investigations have drawn nothing. To that end I have decided to enlist the services of a private inquiry agent.”

The policeman, reading his notes, rolled his eyes, then looked up. “That is your prerogative, of course, though I am sure his findings will mirror our own.”

“It’s not a he, it’s a she.” The woman smiled.

“May I inquire as to the name of the ‘she’ in question?” asked Stratton, though he had already guessed the answer.

“A Miss Maisie Dobbs. She’s been highly recommended.”

Stratton nodded. “Indeed, I’m familiar with her work. She’s honest and knows her business. In fact, we have consulted with her here at Scotland Yard.”

The woman leaned forward, intrigued. “Really? Not like your boys to admit to needing help, is it?”

Stratton inclined his head, adding, “Miss Dobbs has certain skills, certain…methods, that seem to bear fruit.”

“Would it be overstepping the mark if I asked what you know of her, her background? I know she was at Girton College a few years after me, and I understand she was a nurse in the war, and was herself wounded in Flanders.”

Stratton looked at the woman, gauging the wisdom of sharing his knowledge of the private investigator. At this point it was in his interests to have the woman out of his hair, so he would do and say what was necessary to push her onto someone else’s patch. “She was born in Lambeth, went to work in service when she was thirteen.”

“In service?”

“Don’t let that put you off. Her intelligence was discovered by a friend of her employer, a brilliant man, an expert in legal medicine and himself a psychologist. When she came back from Flanders, as far as I know, she convalesced, then worked for a year in a secure institution, nursing profoundly shell-shocked men. She completed her education, spent some time studying at the Department of Legal Medicine in Edinburgh and went to work as assistant to her mentor. She learned her business from the best, if I am to be honest.”

“And she’s never married? How old is she, thirty-two, thirty-three?”

“Yes, something like that. And no, she’s never married, though I understand her wartime sweetheart was severely wounded.” He tapped the side of his head. “Up here.”

“I see.” The woman paused, then held out her hand. “I wish I could say thank you for all that you’ve done Inspector. Perhaps Miss Dobbs will be able to shed light where you have seen nothing.”

Stratton stood up, shook hands to bid the woman good-bye and called for a constable to escort her from the building. As soon as the door was closed, while reflecting that they had not even wished each other a cordial Happy New Year, he picked up the telephone receiver and placed a call.

“Yes!”

Stratton leaned back in his chair. “Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve got rid of that bloody woman.”

“Good. How did you manage that?”

“A fortuitous move on her part—she’s going to a private investigator.”

“Anyone I should worry about?”

Stratton shook his head. “Nothing I can’t handle. I can keep an eye on her.”

“Her?”

“Yes, her.”

Fitzroy Square, London, Wednesday, January 7th, 1931

Snow had begun to fall once again in small, harsh flakes that swirled around the woman as she emerged from Conway Street into Fitzroy Square. She pulled her fur collar up around her neck and thought that, even though she did not care for hats, she should have worn one this morning. There were those who would have suggested that the almost inconsequential lack of judgment was typical of her, and that she probably wanted to draw attention to herself, what with that thick copper-colored hair cascading in damp waves across her shoulders—and no thought for propriety. But the truth was that, despite drawing glances wherever she went, on this occasion, rather like yesterday morning, and the morning before, she really didn’t want to be seen. Well, not until she was ready, anyway.

She crossed the square, walking with care lest she slip on slush-covered flagstones, then halted alongside iron railings that surrounded the winter-barren garden. The inquiry agent Dame Constance had instructed—yes, instructed her to see, for when the abbess spoke, there was never a mere suggestion—worked from a room in the building she now surveyed. She had been told by the investigator’s assistant that she should come to the first-floor office at nine on Monday morning. When she had canceled the appointment, he had calmly suggested the same time on the following day. And when, at the last minute, she had canceled the second appointment, he simply moved the time by twenty-four hours. She was intrigued that an accomplished woman with a growing reputation would employ a man with such a common dialect. In fact, such flight in the face of convention served as reassurance in her decision to follow the direction of Dame Constance. She had, after all, never set any stock by convention.

It was as she paced back and forth in front of the building, wondering whether today she would have the courage to see Maisie Dobbs—and lack of pluck wasn’t something that had dogged her in the past—that she looked up and saw a woman in the first-floor office, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window looking out across the square. There was something about this woman that intrigued her. There she was, simply contemplating the square, her gaze directed at first up to the leafless trees, then at a place in the distance.

Sweeping a lock of windblown hair from her face, the visitor continued to watch the woman at the window. She wondered if that was her way, if that window was her place to stand and think. She suspected it was. It struck her that the woman in the window was the person she had come to see, Maisie Dobbs. Shivering again, she pushed her hands deep inside the copious sleeves of her coat, and began to turn away. But then, as if commanded to do so by a force she could feel but not see, she looked up at the window once more. Maisie Dobbs was staring directly at her now, and raising her hand in a manner so compelling that the visitor could not leave, could do nothing but meet the other woman’s eyes in return. And in that moment, as Maisie Dobbs captured her with her gaze, she felt a warmth flood her body, and was filled with confidence that she could walk across any terrain, cross any divide and be held steady; it was as if, in lifting her hand, Maisie Dobbs had promised that from the first step in her direction, she would be safe. She began to move forward, but faltered as she looked down at the flagstones. Turning to leave, she was surprised to hear a voice behind her, petitioning her to stop simply by speaking her name.

“Miss Bassington-Hope…”

It was not a sharp voice, brittle with cold and frozen in the bitter breath of winter, but instead exuded a strength that gave the visitor confidence, as if she were indeed secure.

“Yes—” Georgina Bassington-Hope looked up into the eyes of the woman she had just been watching in the window, the woman to whom she had been directed. She had been told that Maisie Dobbs would provide a refuge wherein to share her suspicions, and would prove them to be right, or wrong, as the case may be.

“Come.” It was an instruction given in a manner that was neither sharp nor soft, and Georgina found that she was mesmerized as Maisie, holding a pale blue cashmere wrap around her shoulders, stood unflinching in windblown snow that was becoming an icy sleet, all the while continuing to extend her hand, palm up, to gently receive her visitor. Georgina Bassington-Hope said nothing, but reached out toward the woman who would lead her across the threshold and through the door alongside which a nameplate bore the words MAISIE DOBBS, PSYCHOLOGIST AND INVESTIGATOR. And she instinctively understood that she had been directed well, that she would be given leave to describe the doubt-ridden wilderness in which she had languished since that terrible moment when she knew in her heart—knew before anyone had told her—that the one who was most dear to her, who knew her as well as she knew herself and with whom she shared all secrets, was dead.

One

“Good morning, Miss Bassington-’ope. Come on in out of that cold.” Billy Beale, Maisie Dobbs’s assistant, stood by the door to the first-floor office as Maisie allowed the visitor to ascend the stairs before her.

“Thank you.” Georgina Bassington-Hope glanced at the man, and thought his smile to be infectious, his eyes kind.

“I’ve brewed a fresh pot of tea for us.”

“Thank you, Billy, that will be just the ticket, it’s brassy out there today.” Maisie smiled in return at Billy as she directed Georgina into the room.

Three chairs had been set by the gas fire and the tea tray placed on Maisie’s desk. As soon as her coat was taken and hung on the hook behind the door, Georgina settled in the middle chair. There was a camaraderie between the investigator and her assistant that intrigued the visitor. The man clearly admired his employer, though it did not appear to be a romantic fondness. But there was a bond, and Georgina Bassington-Hope, her journalist’s eye at work, thought that perhaps the nature of their work had forged a mutual dependence and regard—though there was no doubt that the woman was the boss.

She turned her attention to Maisie Dobbs, who was collecting a fresh manila folder and a series of colored pencils, along with a clutch of index cards and paper. Her black wavy hair had probably been cut in a bob some time ago but was now in need of a trim. Did she not care to keep up with a hairdressing regime? Or was she simply too busy with her work? She wore a cream silk blouse with a long blue cashmere cardigan, a black skirt with kick pleats and black shoes with a single strap across to secure them. It was a stylish ensemble, but one that marked the investigator as someone who set more stock by comfort than fashion.

Rejoining Georgina, Maisie said nothing until her assistant had seen that the guest had tea and was comfortable. Georgina did not want to confirm her suspicions by staring, but she thought the woman was sitting with her eyes closed, just for a moment, as if in deep thought. She felt that same sensation of warmth enter her body once more, and opened her mouth to ask a question, but instead expressed gratitude.

“I’m much obliged to you for agreeing to see me, Miss Dobbs. Thank you.”

Maisie smiled graciously. It was not a broad smile, not in the way that the assistant had welcomed her, but the woman thought it indicated a person completely in her element.

“I have come to you in the hope that you might be able to help me….” She turned to face Maisie directly. “You have been recommended by someone we both know from our Girton days, actually.”

“Might that person have been Dame Constance?” Maisie inclined her head.

“However did you know?” Georgina seemed puzzled.

“We rekindled our acquaintance last year. I always looked forward to her lessons, and especially the fact that we had to go to the abbey to see her. It was a fortuitous connection that the order had moved to Kent.” Maisie allowed a few seconds to pass. “So why did you visit Dame Constance, and what led her to suggest you should seek me out?”

“I must say, I would have had teeth pulled rather than attend her tutorials. However, I went to see her when…” She swallowed, and began to speak again. “It is in connection with my brother’s…my brother’s—” She could barely utter another word. Maisie reached behind her into a black shoulder bag hanging across the back of her chair and pulled out a handkerchief, which she placed on Georgina’s knee. As the woman picked up the pressed handkerchief, the fragrant aroma of lavender was released into the air. She sniffed, dabbed her eyes and continued speaking. “My brother died several weeks ago, in early December. A verdict of accidental death has been recorded.” She turned to Maisie, then Billy, as if to ensure they were both listening, then stared into the gas fire. “He is—was—an artist. He was working late on the night before the opening of his first major exhibition in years and, it appears, fell from scaffolding that had been set up at the gallery to allow him to construct his main piece.” She paused. “I needed to speak to someone who might help me navigate this…this…doubt. And Dame Constance suggested I come to you.” She paused. “I have discovered that there was little to be gained from badgering the police, and the man who was called when my brother was found seemed only too pleased when I told him I was going to talk to an inquiry agent—I think he was glad to get me out of his sight, to tell you the truth.”

“And who was the policeman?” The investigator held her pen ready to note the name.

“Detective Inspector Richard Stratton, of Scotland Yard.”

“Stratton was pleased to learn that you were coming to see me?”

Georgina was intrigued by the faint blush revealed when Maisie looked up from her notes, her midnight-blue eyes even darker under forehead creases when she frowned. “Well, y-yes, and as I said, I think he was heartily sick of me peppering him with questions.”

Maisie made another note before continuing. “Miss Bassington-Hope, perhaps you could tell me how you wish me to assist you—how can I help?”

Georgina sat up straight in the chair, and ran her fingers back through thick, drying hair that was springing into even richer copper curls as the room became warmer. She pulled at the hem of her nutmeg-brown tweed jacket, then smoothed soft brown trousers where the fabric fell across her knees. “I believe Nicholas was murdered. I do not think he fell accidentally at all. I believe someone pushed him, or caused him to fall deliberately.” She looked up at Maisie once more. “My brother had friends and enemies. He was a passionate artist and those who expose themselves so readily are often as much reviled as admired. His work drew both accolades and disgust, depending upon the interpreter. I want you to find out how he died.”

Maisie nodded, still frowning. “I take it there is a police report.”

“As I said, Detective Inspector Stratton was called—”

“Yes, I was wondering about that, the fact that Stratton was called to the scene of an accident.”

“It was early and he was the detective on duty apparently,” added Georgina. “By the time he’d arrived, the pathologist had made a preliminary inspection….” She looked down at the crumpled handkerchief in her hands.

“But I am sure Detective Inspector Stratton conducted a thorough investigation. How do you think I might assist you?”

Georgina tensed, the muscles in her neck becoming visibly taut. “I thought you might say that. Devil’s advocate, aren’t you?” She leaned back, showing some of the nerve for which she was renowned. Georgina Bassington-Hope, intrepid traveler and journalist, became infamous at twenty-two when she disguised herself as a man to gain a closer view of the lines of battle in Flanders than any other reporter. She brought back stories that were not of generals and battles, but of the men, their struggle, their bravery, their fears and the truth of life as a soldier at war. Her dispatches were published in journals and newspapers the world over and, like her brother’s masterpieces, her work drew as much criticism as admiration, and her reputation grew as both brave storyteller and naive opportunist.

“I know what I want, Miss Dobbs. I want the truth and will find it myself if I have to. However, I also know my limitations and I believe in using the very best tools when they are available—price notwithstanding. And I believe you are the best.” She paused briefly to reach for her cup of tea, which she held in both hands, cradling the china. “And I believe—because I have done my homework—that you ask questions that others fail to ask and see things that others are blind to.” Georgina Bassington-Hope looked back at Billy briefly, then turned to Maisie once again, her voice firm, her eyes unwavering. “Nick’s work was extraordinary, his views well known though his art was his voice. I want you to find out who killed him, Miss Dobbs—and bring them to justice.”

Maisie closed her eyes, pausing for a few seconds before speaking again. “You were very close, it seems.”

Georgina’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, yes, we were close, Miss Dobbs. Nick was my twin. Two peas in a pod. He worked with color, texture and light, I work with words.” She paused. “And it has occurred to me that whoever killed my brother may well want to silence me too.”

Maisie nodded, acknowledging the comment deliberately added to intrigue her, then she stood up, moved away from the fire and walked across to the window. It was snowing again, settling on the ground to join the brown slush that seeped into shoe leather only too readily. Billy smiled at their guest and pointed to the teapot, indicating that perhaps she might like another cup. He had been taking notes throughout the conversation, and now knew his job was to keep their guest calm and quiet while Maisie had a moment with her thoughts. Finally, she turned from the window.

“Tell me, Miss Bassington-Hope: Why were you so reticent to keep your appointments? You canceled twice, yet you came to Fitzroy Square in any case. What caused you to renege on your contract with yourself on two—almost three—occasions?”

Georgina shook her head before replying. “I have no proof. I have nothing to go on, so to speak—and I am a person used to dealing with facts. There’s a paucity of clues—indeed, I would be the first to admit, this looks like a classic accident, a careless move by a tired man using a rather precarious ledge upon which to balance while preparing to hang a work that had taken years to achieve.” She paused briefly before continuing. “I have nothing except this.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “A feeling here, right in my heart, that all is not as it should be, that this accident was murder. I believe I knew the very second that my brother died, for I experienced such an ache at what transpired, according to the pathologist, to be the time of his death. And I did not know how I might explain such things and be taken seriously.”

Maisie approached Georgina Bassington-Hope and gently laid a hand on her shoulder. “Then you have most definitely come to the right place in that case. In my estimation, that feeling in your heart is the most significant clue and all we need to take on your case.” She looked at Billy and nodded, whereupon he flipped over a new card. “Now then, let us begin. First of all, let me tell you about my terms and the conditions of our contract.”

MAISIE DOBBS HAD been in business as a psychologist and investigator for almost two years, having previously been apprenticed to her mentor since childhood. Blanche Dr. Maurice Blanche, was not only an expert in legal medicine, but himself a psychologist and philosopher who had provided a depth of learning and opportunity that might otherwise have been unavailable to his protégé. Now, with a steady stream of clients seeking her services, Maisie had cause for optimism. Although the country was in the grip of economic depression, there were those of a certain class who barely felt the deepening crisis—people like Georgina Bassington-Hope—which in turn meant that there was still plenty of business for an investigator with a growing reputation. The only dark cloud was one she hoped would remain at a good distance. During the autumn of the previous year, her own shell shock had reared up, resulting in a debilitating breakdown. It was this malaise, compounded by a rift with Blanche, that had led to a loss of trust in her mentor. Though in many ways she welcomed the newfound independence in the distance from him, there were times when she looked back at the rhythm of their work, at the rituals and processes, with an ache, with regret. At the outset of a case, following a preliminary conversation with the new client, Maurice would often suggest a walk or, if the weather was poor, simply a change in the seating arrangement. “As soon as that contract is signed, Maisie, we shoulder the weight of our load, open the gate and choose our path. We must therefore move the body to engage our curiosity again after taking on the task of administrator.”

Now, with the contract signed by both Maisie and Georgina Bassington-Hope and poor weather preventing all possibility of a walk, Maisie suggested the trio move to the table by the window to continue the conversation.

Later, after the new client had left, Maisie and Billy would unfurl a length of plain wallpaper across the table, pin the edges to the wood, and begin to formulate a case map of known facts, thoughts, feelings, hunches and questions. As the work went on, more information would be added, with the mosaic eventually yielding up previously unseen connections pointing to the truths that heralded closure of the case. If all went well.

Maisie had already jotted some initial questions on an index card, though she knew that many more would come to mind with each response from her new client. “Miss Bassington-Hope—”

“Georgina, please. ‘Miss Bassington-Hope’ is a bit of a mouthful, and if we are to be here for any length of time, I would rather dispense with the formalities.” The woman looked from Maisie to Billy.

Billy glanced at Maisie in a way that made his discomfort at the suggestion obvious.

Maisie smiled. “Yes, of course, as you wish. And you may call me Maisie.” Though she was not at all sure she was really open to such an informality, her client’s preference must be honored. If she were relaxed, information would flow more readily. Both women now looked at Billy, who blushed.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stick to your proper name.” He looked at Maisie for guidance, then turned to the woman again. “But you can call me Billy if you like, Miss Bassington-’ope.”

Georgina smiled, understanding the predicament she had placed them in. “All right, then, Billy—and how about just ‘Miss B-H’ for me.”

“Right you are. Miss B-H it is.”

Maisie cleared her throat. “Well, now that we have that little conundrum out of the way, let’s get on. Georgina, first I want you to tell me as much as you know about the circumstances of your brother’s death.”

The woman nodded. “Nick has—had—been preparing for this exhibition for some time, over a year, in fact. His work was becoming very well known, especially in America—there are still a fair few millionaires and they are buying up everything from poor old Europe, it seems. Anyway, Stig Svenson of Svenson’s Gallery on Albemarle Street—he’s more or less Nick’s regular dealer—offered him a special exhibition that comprised both earlier and new works. Nick jumped at the chance, especially as he thought the gallery would be the ideal place to unveil a piece he has been working on, one way or another, for years.”

Maisie and Billy exchanged glances, and Maisie interjected with a question. “Why was it perfect for his work? What did the gallery have that made him so excited?”

“Stig had just had the whole place ripped apart and painted—and Nick had already made it clear that he needed a certain amount of room for the new pieces.” Georgina held out her arms to help describe the gallery. “Essentially, there are two sort of square bay windows at the front—they’re huge—with a door in between, so you can clearly see in from the street, though you cannot view each individual piece. Svenson has—as you might imagine—a very modern, Scandinavian idea of how to use room. It’s very bright, every inch of his gallery modeled to display a piece to its advantage. He’s had the latest electric lighting installed, and fittings that direct beams in such a way as to create shadows and light to draw buyers in.” She paused, to see if her audience of two were keeping up. “So, at the far end there is one huge blank wall almost two floors high for larger pieces, then on both sides a galleried landing, so that you walk in as if you are walking into a theater, only there are no seats and you are not on a gradient—and it’s completely white. You can go to either side, up stairs to the landings, but there are screens to divide the room in sections so that you never actually see the whole pièce de résistance—if there is one—until the end. All very clever.”

“Yes, I see.” Maisie paused, tapped her pen against the palm of her left hand, then spoke again. “Would you describe his ‘pièce de résistance’ for us?”

Georgina shook her head. “Actually, I can’t. As far as I know, no one had seen it in its entirety. He was very secretive about it. That was why he was at the gallery until late—he wanted to construct it himself.” She paused thoughtfully, her hand on her mouth, then she looked up. “The only thing I know about it is that it was in several pieces.”

“But I thought you said he was working on it when he died. Wouldn’t it still be at the gallery?”

“Sorry, what I meant was that he was working on scaffolding, placing the many anchors that would secure the pieces when he brought them in. He had them in storage in London—frankly, I have no idea where.”

“Who would know where? Svenson?”

She shook her head. “That’s a bit of a mystery at the moment. No one can find the key, and no one knows the address. We just knew he had a lock-up or something somewhere. I know he wanted it all to be kept under wraps until the last moment so that it would draw even more attention—I think he imagined the gasps, if you know what I mean.”

“I see, and—”

“The trouble is,” Georgina interrupted, “he had already promised most of the collection—except that main piece—to a collector of his work, sight unseen.”

“You mean, someone made an offer without first viewing the collection?”

“They’d seen preliminary sketches, but not of the centerpiece.”

“Was it a significant offer?”

The woman nodded. “Some tens of thousands of pounds, to my knowledge.”

Maisie’s eyes grew large and, glancing at Billy, she thought he might pass out.

“…For a painting?”

Georgina Bassington-Hope shrugged. “It’s what people will pay if they think the work will dramatically increase in value. And the buyer has the money, had already paid a deposit, which Svenson retains until delivery.”

“Who was the buyer?”

“A man called Randolph Bradley. He’s an American living in Paris, though he also has a home in New York. One of those back-and-forth people.” She ran her fingers through her hair and looked away.

Billy rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll put the kettle on again.” He stood up and left the room, taking the tea tray with him. Maisie said nothing. Though she understood his annoyance at such amounts of money passing hands in such troubled times, she was dismayed that he had felt it necessary to leave the room. Maisie made small talk, a series of barely consequential questions, until he returned.

“Several pieces? So, was this ‘piece’ like a jigsaw puzzle, Miss B-H?” Billy set a cup of hot tea in front of Georgina and the customary tin mug in front of Maisie. He placed his own cup on the table and took up his notes again. Maisie was relieved that he had been thinking as he made tea, and not just fuming with resentment.

Georgina nodded. “Well, yes, you could say that. Before the war, Nick was studying art in Europe. He was in Belgium when war was declared, and he returned home very quickly.” She shook her head. “Anyway, in Belgium he became very interested in the triptych form.”

“Triptych?” Maisie and Billy spoke in unison.

“Yes,” continued Georgina. “A triptych comprises three parts, a center main panel with smaller panels on either side. The stories depicted on the smaller panels give more detail to the scene in the main panel, or augment it in some way.”

“Bit like the mirror on a dressing table, eh, Miss B-H?”

The woman smiled. “Yes, that’s right—though a stained-glass window in a church might be a better description. Triptychs are often religious in nature, though many are quite gory, with scenes of war, or execution of someone important at the time—a king, perhaps, or a warrior.”

“Yes, I’ve seen some in the museums. I know what you’re talking about.” Maisie paused, making a note to come back to Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s background as soon as she had a sense of the circumstances of his death. “So, let’s continue with his death—he was at the gallery—what happened, as far as the inquest revealed?”

“There was scaffolding against the main wall. All of the smaller, less important pieces had been placed, and Nick was working on the main wall, as I told you. The scaffolding was there so that he could situate the pieces correctly.”

“And would he do this alone?”

“Yes, that was his plan. Though he had help with the scaffolding.”

“Wouldn’t Svenson have arranged for workers to set up the scaffolding?”

“No.” Georgina paused. “Well—yes, usually he probably would, but this time he didn’t.”

“Why?”

She shook her head. “You don’t know Nick. Has to do it all himself, wanted to ensure that his scaffolding was in the right place, that it was strong and that there was nowhere the work could be compromised by the structure.”

“And he had help?”

“Yes, his friends Alex and Duncan helped.”

“Alex and Duncan?” Maisie glanced at Billy to ensure that he remained attentive. If they both took notes, then nothing would be missed as they studied the cache of information later.

“Alex Courtman and Duncan Haywood. Both artists, Nick’s neighbors in Dungeness, where he lived. His other friend, Quentin Trayner, had a twisted ankle and couldn’t help. He’d fallen while bringing a boat ashore.” She paused briefly. “The three of them always helped one another out. They were all artists, you see.”

“And they all lived at Dungeness—in Kent? It’s a bit bleak and isolated, isn’t it?”

“And freezing cold at this time of year, I shouldn’t wonder!” Billy interjected.

“There’s quite an artists’ haven there, you know. Has been for a few years now. In fact, when the Rye to Dungeness railway closed down—I think in ’26 or ’27—they sold off the railway carriages for ten pounds apiece, and a few artists bought them to set up as houses and studios on the beach.” Georgina paused and her voice cracked, just slightly, so that both Maisie and Billy had to lean forward to better hear her. “I called it the ‘place where lost souls were beached.’” Georgina leaned back in her chair. “They were men of an artistic sensibility who had been drafted by the government to do its dirty work, and afterward all four of them were left feeling sick about it for years.”

“What do you mean?” asked Maisie.

Georgina leaned forward. “Nick, Quentin, Duncan and Alex met at the Slade, that’s how they forged such a strong friendship. And they had all seen service in France. Nick was wounded at the Somme and was sent to work in propaganda after he’d healed—he was no longer fit for active duty. Alex worked there too. Then Nick was sent back over to Flanders as a war artist.” She shook her head. “It changed him forever, that’s why he had to get away after the war, to America.”

“America?”

“Yes, he said he needed lots of space around him.”

Maisie nodded and flicked back through her notes. “Look, Miss—Georgina—I suggest we complete our notes on the actual events of your brother’s death today, then let us make another appointment to talk about his history. That will give you time to gather other items that might be of interest to us—journals, sketchbooks, letters, photographs, that sort of thing.”

“All right.”

“So…” Maisie stood up, placed her index cards next to her teacup and walked to the other side of the table to look across at the snow-covered square. “Your brother, Nick, was working late, preparing the gallery’s main wall to hang a piece—pieces—of his art, which no one had seen yet. At what time did he arrive to do this work? Who else was with him? And what time, according to the pathologist, did he die—and how?”

Georgina gave a single nod as she sipped her tea, set her cup down again and began to answer Maisie’s questions as directly as they were asked. “He had been there all day, since dawn, hanging the pieces. They had set up the scaffolding later in the day, according to Duncan and Alex, who said he told them to return to my flat around half past eight—it wasn’t unusual for Nick to bring friends to stay at my flat and they had turned up the night before with their knapsacks. My home is a convenient London bolt-hole for all sorts of people.” She paused, took another sip of tea, and went on. “The gallery caretaker, Arthur Levitt, said that he looked in on Nick around nine and told him he was ready to go home. Nick replied that he had a key and would lock up.”

There was silence for a moment, a hiatus that Maisie allowed to linger in the air as the narrator sought strength to recount the loss of her brother. Georgina Bassington-Hope pulled at the handkerchief Maisie had passed to her earlier and shifted in her chair.

“Detective Richard Stratton from Scotland Yard was on my doorstep at eight the following morning, with news that there had been an accident. I don’t think he usually deals with accidents, but came out all the same as he was on duty when the alarm was raised by Mr. Levitt when he came in and found Nick….”

Maisie spoke softly. “Can you tell me how he described finding your brother?”

“On the floor below the scaffolding. Part of the rail was broken and it looked as if Nick had leaned back a bit too far while checking the position of some anchors against a guide that he had already drafted on paper. His neck had been broken and it is thought that he died instantly when he hit the stone floor, probably around ten-ish, according to the pathologist.” She shook her head. “Damn him for being so secretive! It was all this business of wanting there to be a big ooh-ahh when the triptych was revealed to the world that killed him. If he hadn’t been there alone…”

“Georgina, let’s summon a taxi-cab to take you home.” Sensing a weariness in her client that was not physical but rooted in her soul, Maisie leaned across and placed her hand on Georgina’s shoulder. “We’ll speak again tomorrow—and perhaps we should meet at the gallery, if it isn’t too difficult for you. Would ten be convenient?”

Georgina nodded, feeling the now familiar warmth flood her body again as Maisie touched her. Billy stood up and pulled on his overcoat before making his way out to Tottenham Court Road to hail a taxi-cab. Maisie helped Georgina into her coat and picked up the collection of index cards to pen some additional notes.

“Everything you’ve described points to an accident. The intensity of your sense that it was not a misstep by your brother that caused his death is compelling to me, which is why I am taking on this case. However, when we meet tomorrow, and in our future meetings—for there will be a few—I would like to know if you are aware of anyone who might harbor an intensity of feeling about your brother, or his work, which might have led to a desire to see him dead, either by accident or a deliberate act.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that, I—”

“Good. Now then. One final question today—may I have details of your family? I will need to meet them.”

“Of course, though don’t expect to make too much headway—they do not share my feelings and would be horrified if they knew I had come to an inquiry agent.” She buttoned her coat as they heard the door slam and Billy make his way back up the stairs. “My parents live on an impossibly large estate just outside Tenterden in Kent. Noelle—‘Nolly’—my older sister, lives with them. She’s forty now, lost her husband in the war. She’s nothing like the rest of us, very proper, very county, if you know what I mean. She’s a justice of the peace at the local magistrates’ courts, sits on all sorts of local committees and gets involved in politics; you’ve met the sort—bit of a know-all. And she heartily disapproves of me. My brother Harry is the baby, the child who came along when everyone least expected it, according to Emsy—that’s Emma, my mother. Harry is twenty-nine now and a musician. Not classical, no, much to Nolly’s dismay he plays the trumpet in dark places where people have fun and enjoy themselves.”

Billy came into the room, a coating of fresh snowflakes across his shoulders. “Taxi-cab’s outside, Miss B-H.”

“Thank you, B—, Mr. Beale.” Georgina Bassington-Hope shook hands with Billy, then addressed Maisie. “See you at ten tomorrow morning at Svenson’s Gallery on Albemarle Street.” She paused for just a moment, plunging her hands inside her coat sleeves once again. “I know you will find out the truth, Maisie. And I know you will find his killer, of that I am sure.”

Maisie nodded, moved as if to return to her desk, then turned back. “Georgina, forgive me—one last question, if I may.”

“Of course.”

“You were obviously close to your brother, you’ve said as much, but, were you on good terms when he died?”

The woman’s eyes reddened. “Of course.” She nodded her head. “We were close, so close that we never had to explain ourselves to each other. We just knew about each other, to the point of perceiving what the other one was thinking, even when we were miles apart.” Georgina Bassington-Hope looked at Billy, who opened the door to accompany her downstairs to the waiting taxi-cab.

When Billy came back to the office, he was shaking his head. “Well, what do you think about all that, Miss?”

Maisie was now seated at the paper drawn across the table to form the case map, working with colored pencils to add notes to a small but growing diagram. “It’s too soon to say, Billy, too soon to even begin to draw conclusions.” She looked up. “Come and help me pin this paper onto the table.”

Billy smoothed his hand across the paper to remove folds before pinning the edges and studied his employer’s preliminary notations as he worked. “What do we do next?”

Maisie smiled. “Well, here’s what we’ll be doing this afternoon—we’re off to the Tate to learn a bit more than we know already about art.”

“Oh, Miss…”

“Come on, Billy, an hour or two spent in contemplation of the great world of art will do us both the power of good on this gray old day.”

“If you say so, Miss. You never know, you might find something nice for them bare walls of yours!” Billy patted the case map as he pressed in the last pin, then moved from the table and collected Maisie’s coat, which he held out for her.

“I think the bare walls are there to stay for a while, Billy. Furniture is top of my list for the new flat at the moment.” Maisie laughed as she buttoned her coat, collected her hat, scarf, gloves and document case. “Now then, let’s go and find a triptych or two. With a bit of luck we’ll find an amenable curator who will educate us about the people who can afford to buy such things without even looking at the goods or balking at the price!”

Two

Maisie and Billy left Fitzroy Square at half past nine the following morning, each wrapped up in a heavy coat, scarf and hat.

“Nippy, innit, Miss?”

Maisie’s eyes watered. “Yes, and the so-called central heating system in my flat is not working properly—mind you, I thought it was too good to be true.”

Billy stood aside for Maisie to go through the turnstile at Warren Street tube station before him, then they stepped onto the wooden escalator, one behind the other.

“P’raps the main boiler weren’t put in right, what with the builder goin’ bust like ’e did.”

Maisie turned around to continue the conversation as the escalator clattered down to the platforms. “Wouldn’t surprise me. I jumped at the chance to buy when the flats came up for sale, but there’s no proper system yet for those collective repairs, such as the heating that isn’t! I have discovered that bankers aren’t very good at being managers of property. They were probably thrilled when buyers came along but didn’t really think about what came next, only about recouping their money. Thank heavens there’s a gas fire, because my radiators are stone cold!”

Billy put his hand behind his ear. “Aye-oop, Miss, ’ere we go, train coming in.” Stepping off the escalator, they ran to the platform and clambered aboard the waiting carriage, each taking a seat before Billy continued. “We’ve ’ad the fires going nonstop. Doreen’s been rushed off ’er feet, what with the nippers going down with one thing after the other. O’course, I don’t think that coal smoke is good for you at all, but our little Lizzie is a bit poorly now.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Maisie had a soft spot for the Beales’ youngest child, who was barely two years old.

“Doreen thinks it’s a bit of a chill. Both the boys’ve ’ad chesty colds, so we think that Lizzie ’as copped it now. Poor scrap, even turned ’er nose up at a bit of bread and dripping for ’er tea yesterday.”

The train slowed to a halt, and as they alighted to change trains for Green Park, Maisie instructed Billy, “Look, when we’re finished here, we’ll go back to the office to get everything on the case map, then you should go home early to give Doreen a hand. And keep an eye on Lizzie’s cold—there are some nasty things going round and she’s young to have to fight some of them off. Keep the windows closed and put some Friars Balsam in a bowl of hot water next to her cot—that’ll clear all your noses!”

“Right you are, Miss.” Billy looked away. Lizzie was the apple of his eye and he was clearly worried about her. They continued on their way in silence.

As they walked down Albemarle Street, their talk was of the terrible state of London traffic and how it was easier now to ride by tube or travel by “shanks’s pony” rather than use the motor car or even a bus. They noticed Svenson’s Gallery some yards before coming to a halt alongside the building, for the once-red bricks had been painted bright white.

“Gaw, I bet the neighbors ’ad something to say about that. Bit stark, innit?”

“Yes, I think I much prefer the original brick with a white sign for contrast. This is rather clinical, if you ask me.” Maisie looked both ways, anticipating the arrival of Georgina Bassington-Hope, then turned to Billy. “Look, I want you to find your way to the back of the building—there must be some kind of alley, an entrance for deliveries and so on. See if you can locate the caretaker. I want you to get to know him, talk to him about the gallery, see if you can get some inside information regarding Svenson, and also—needless to say—the night of Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s death.” She paused, reaching into her case. “You might need a few shillings to oil his vocal cords, so take this—” Maisie handed Billy several coins. “We don’t want to overdo it, this is man to man, you and him having a chin-wag together—all right?”

Billy nodded. “Consider it done, Miss. I’ll come back to the front ’ere to find you when I’m finished.”

“Good. You’d better be off before Miss B-H gets here.”

Billy cast a glance in either direction and continued on down Albemarle Street. As she watched him leave, Maisie saw him bear the weight of concern for his daughter, as if carrying a burden across his shoulders. She hoped the child would improve soon, but knew the East End of London to be a breeding ground for disease, with its proximity to the damp and filth of the Thames and with houses and people almost on top of one another. She understood that Billy was worried about the cost of a doctor, if it came to it, and how they would manage. Not for the first time, she was thankful that her business was doing well and that she was able to employ Billy—she knew he might be in a line at the assistance office if the situation were different.

“Good morning, Maisie!” A taxi-cab screeched to a halt, and Georgina Bassington-Hope was calling to Maisie from the open window.

“Ah, good morning, Georgina. How was your journey?”

The woman alighted onto the pavement, paid the driver and turned to Maisie. “You wouldn’t think it would take so long to get from Kensington to Albemarle Street. Heaven only knows where the traffic comes from—and they thought the horseless carriage would be the answer to London’s congestion problems!”

Maisie smiled and held out her gloved hand toward the gallery. “Let’s go inside.”

Georgina placed her hand on Maisie’s arm. “Just a moment—” She bit her lip. “Look, it would be best if Stig isn’t told who you are. It would give him an attack of the Viking vapors if he thinks I’ve asked a professional to look into Nick’s ‘accident.’ He’s bound to come out of his office—he’s always on the lookout for a sale—so we’ll let him think you are an interested buyer.”

Maisie nodded. “All right. Now then, I’m freezing out here—”

The two women entered the gallery and were immediately met by Svenson. As befitted his profession, he was impeccably turned out. His gray trousers were pressed so that the front crease appeared sharp enough to cut a mature cheese. He wore a blue blazer-style jacket, a white shirt and pale blue tie with a matching kerchief placed in the chest pocket with a certain panache. Maisie suspected he dressed with immense care, knowing that he must convey the flair of an artist along with the perceived gravity of a businessman.

Svenson ran his fingers through his silver-blond hair as he walked toward the women. “Georgie, darling, how are you bearing up?” He leaned to kiss Georgina on both cheeks, taking her hands in his own and speaking with only the barest trace of an accent.

“I’m as well as can be expected, Stig.” She turned to Maisie, withdrawing her hands from his grasp. “This is an old friend from my days at Girton, Miss Maisie Dobbs.”

Svenson leaned toward Maisie, and as he took her right hand, instead of the expected handshake, he pressed his lips to her slender knuckles. Like Georgina, she withdrew her hand quickly.

“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Svenson.” Maisie looked around at the paintings exhibited, chiefly landscapes depicting country scenes. “Your gallery is most impressive.”

“Thank you.” He held out his hand for the women to walk farther into the gallery. “Are you a collector, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie smiled. “Not a collector, as such, though I have recently moved and have a few bare walls to do something with.”

“Then I am sure I can help you fill them; however, this entire collection was purchased yesterday.”

“The whole collection? Goodness me!”

“Yes, as fast as the old families are selling off their collections, so the American new money is buying it up—even in an economic slump, there are always those who continue to do well, who still have money to spend.”

“Is it usual for one person to buy a whole collection, Mr. Svenson?” Maisie was surprised, but conceded that her knowledge of the art world was limited—two hours at the Tate gallery yesterday afternoon notwithstanding.

“Yes and no.” He smiled at Maisie in a way that suggested he had embarked upon such conversations many times and had pat responses up his sleeve ready to present at a moment’s notice. “Yes, in that once a collector becomes enthusiastic about a given artist, they look out for more of his work, especially if that artist is on the cusp of a wider fame.” Svenson turned to Georgina. “Such as our dear Nicholas, Georgie.” He brought his attention back to Maisie. “However, there are also complete collections from certain families or other collectors that are extremely valuable and of great interest when they come onto the market—such as the Guthrie collection here.”

“What makes this one valuable?” Maisie was genuinely interested.

“In this case”—he swept his hand around to indicate the paintings throughout the gallery—“it is not only the name of the collector, but their reputation and the interesting blend of pieces. Lady Alicia and her late husband, Sir John Guthrie, never had children and both inherited substantial collections from their respective families. Each was a sole heir. Sir John died last year and Lady Alicia’s solicitors have persuaded her to sell in order to set up a trust to support their property in Yorkshire, which I understand has been bequeathed to the county. An American investor was drawn to this collection given its provenance and the fact that some interesting and influential artists are represented here.” He smiled again, as if he were about to make a joke. “Not to put too fine a point on it, it’s new money buying an instant connection to old money. I am amazed they haven’t pressed Lady Alicia to sell the estate, or even her title.” Svenson laughed and both Maisie and Georgina indulged the Swede with a brief chuckle.

“Is Nick’s work safely in storage now?” Georgina changed the subject.

Svenson nodded. “Yes, indeed, although not for long. A buyer—another American—wants to view and purchase other works not previously exhibited. He’s even interested in sketches and partials, and is very keen. I tried to telephone you this morning—in fact, I gave a message to your housekeeper, but you had already left. A confirmatory telegram has been received and I await your instructions. No doubt you will need to speak to your family.”

“Does he think he’s getting a chance to purchase the triptych?”

“Ah, a thorny subject, especially as we don’t know the whereabouts of the main piece at the present time. The buyer has spoken of recruiting a private detective to find the piece, but frankly, I find that rather low, if you don’t mind me saying so. I also think our friend Mr. Bradley should have first refusal.”

Georgina nodded. “Let me have the full details of the offer so that I can discuss it with the family this weekend. I think they may be interested, though I do not wish to include the triptych—Nick was vehement about it.”

“Georgie, I must advise you—”

“No, Stig. No triptych. When we find it, I will decide what to do with it.” She held up her hand and looked at Maisie, as if to underline the personal value of the piece.

Maisie spoke up, asking a timely question to diffuse the situation. “Mr. Svenson—”

“Stig, please.”

She smiled accord, then beckoned her companions toward the back of the room, where she pointed to the wall. “Tell me, Stig, is this where the triptych was to be exhibited?”

“Indeed, yes, though do remember, we may not be correct in our assumption that it was a triptych.”

“What do you mean?” Georgina’s tone seemed short with Svenson as she joined Maisie.

“Nick only ever spoke of the sections or pieces. I—we—always assumed it was a triptych given his work in Belgium before the war, and the influence of Bosch in particular. However, as no one but Nick saw the work, as far as we know, it may be some other arrangement of pieces, like a collage or sectional landscape.”

“Of course, I understand.” Maisie touched Georgina’s arm as she spoke, hoping to neutralize the unbecoming edge demonstrated by her client’s earlier remark. “Mr. Svenson, how many pieces were there in this exhibition, all told?”

“Counting the sketches and fragments, all of which were included, there were twenty pieces.”

“And all in the same style?” Maisie wondered whether she was using the correct terminology, but suspected that Svenson was one of those people who could become quite puffed up in his role of expert and would make the most of her naïveté.

“Oh, no, that was the interesting thing about this exhibit: It comprised works from all stages of Nick’s life as an artist. Some were kept back from previous collections, and together with early experimental efforts and new pieces, they demonstrated the arc of his artistic gift. One could see how the professional accomplished artist was formed from an extraordinary raw talent.”

“I see. Of course, I know about Nick’s paintings from Georgina’s descriptions, but have never seen any exhibited.” She turned to Georgina. “I do hope this is not too difficult for you, dear.”

Georgina smiled, understanding that Maisie had spoken with such intimacy so that Svenson would not doubt the authenticity of their friendship. She replied in the same vein. “Oh no, not at all, in fact, it’s all rather lovely, you know, talking about Nick’s work when all I have really thought about is that terrible accident.”

“So, Mr. Svenson,” Maisie continued. “I’d love to hear more about the work that was on display before the accident.”

“Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat and directed his full attention to Maisie, though she felt his proximity was rather too close. She took one step backward as he began to detail the artist’s life from his perspective. “First there was his interest in those artists from the Low Countries that he studied in Belgium. What is fascinating was that it was not the technique that interested him as much as the crafting of stories each told in a painting, which then led to another story and another painting. Structure was of great interest to him and his early work was rich with curiosity.”

“Did he employ the triptych form even then?”

“No, that came later. What he did, and this was interesting, was to paint fragments of stories on one canvas, so that he achieved a rather avant-garde effect. That phase was youthful, and though it reeked of the novice artist, it was also compelling and caused a stir when first exhibited—at this gallery, I might add, though it was in a collective exhibit.”

“Interesting…”

“Then, sadly, the war intervened and—as you know—Nick enlisted and was sent to France. I still believe it was his good fortune to have sustained an injury serious enough to bring him home. However, I was rather upset when I heard that he had accepted the work of war artist at the front. Mind you, it was an offer that was probably not up for discussion.”

“No…” Maisie said only enough to keep Svenson talking. She would interview Georgina again later, and compare notes against what she had already learned about the dead man.

“That, of course, was when he grew up, when he became not just a man, but—I am sad to say—an old man.” He sighed, as if genuinely pained. “But his work at that time proved to be more than a record, a moment in time to be placed in an archive. No, it became a…a…mirror. Yes, that is what it became, a mirror, a reflection of the very soul of war, of death, if such a thing exists. He became driven, his work no longer light or colorful, but dark, with heavy use of those colors one associates with the very bleakest period in one’s life. And of course, red. His work from that period was rich with red.”

“Did his technique change? I have not seen those works, so I am trying to imagine them.” Maisie leaned forward, and though she was aware of Georgina watching her, she paid her no heed.

“There were elements of the old work, the experimentation. Images superimposed, death a shadow in the background. And that was the thing that was most appealing to both the collector with an artistic sensibility and knowledge, and the rather well-heeled neophyte—Nick’s work needed no explanation. None at all. You could see his message, feel his emotions, see what he had seen. He touched you….” Svenson turned to Georgina and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Just as Georgina re-created what she saw with her words, so Nick could do the same with color and texture. What a family!”

“What came next, from your perspective?” As she continued to question Svenson, Maisie noticed that Georgina had stepped aside, away from his grasp.

“As you know, Nick left the country almost as soon as he received his demobilization papers. America was, frankly, the obvious place for Nick.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The space. The sheer enormity of the place.” He held out his arms to emphasize an expanse he could not properly describe. “And the possibilities there.”

“Possibilities?”

“Yes, this is most interesting to his collectors, that his techniques became so influenced by the American schools at the time, and influenced too, by the sheer geography of the country. Look at his sketches, and you will see the bold landscapes, the use of muted and vivid colors blended to achieve a quality of light that is seen nowhere else in the world. He went alone to canyons, to valleys, across prairies. His view of the world was cast from the dirt, filth and enclosure of the mud and blood-filled trench, to the clear air of the American West, especially Montana, Colorado, New Mexico, California. And that’s where he began to experiment with the mural, an extension of his interest in the triptych form of earlier years, if you will. Of course, the mural was being used by many of the emerging American artists at the time.”

“And all these different styles”—once again, Maisie hoped she had chosen the correct term—“were on display here when he died? And the whole collection is now under offer, as good as sold?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Look, I hope you don’t mind me asking—after all, I haven’t seen Georgie in a long time, or Nick, so I am interested—but would you call his work offensive in any way, or controversial?”

Svenson laughed. “Oh, yes, it was most certainly controversial in the art world, and the world outside, as you know.” His countenance became more serious and Maisie felt him begin to draw back, as if it had only just occurred to him that she should have known all of this if she were as close a friend as Georgina had suggested—and Georgina had hardly said a word for some time. Nevertheless, he continued, though only to bring the conversation to a close. “Nick drew the onlooker into his world with his paintings, then just at the point when you are lulled by a landscape, perhaps sun rising across a mountain lake, he could quickly challenge you with the next piece, a man screaming his way into death, impaled on the bayonet. That was how he presented his work, that was how he wanted to speak of the angelic and that which is evil. He confused people, he threatened.” He shrugged, his hands upturned. “But as you know, Miss Dobbs, that was Nick, and he was an angel when one met him, which is why those who were offended would melt in his company.”

Maisie looked at her watch, pinned to the lapel of her jacket. “Oh, gosh, we should be getting on, shouldn’t we, Georgina? But I would love to look at the upper galleries before we leave.”

“Please, be my guest.” Svenson gave a short bow toward Maisie, then turned to Georgina Bassington-Hope. “Georgie, a moment of your time, perhaps?”

Maisie made her way to the galleried landing, then spent a moment standing alongside the balustrade to consider the wall where Nicholas Bassington-Hope was to have exhibited his masterpiece. Was it a triptych, as everyone assumed, or had the secretive artist something else up his sleeve? She leaned forward, squinting to better see certain parts of the wall in closer detail. Yes, she could identify where anchors had been placed in the plasterwork, anchors that had now been removed and the wall made almost smooth again. Fresh repairs were clearly visible, and Maisie wondered whether the damage had been due to the scaffolding, which must have dented the wall as it collapsed when the artist fell—if he fell. How high might the scaffolding have been, and which level had Nick Bassington-Hope been working from when he crashed down to the stone floor? From ground to ceiling, the wall must be some twenty-five feet high, not a height that would necessarily cause a life to be lost as a result of a fall, unless the victim were unusually unlucky. And if someone had pushed…Maisie now looked at the doors on the main floor below, one exit on either side of the wall, leading, she supposed, to storage and delivery areas and to offices. Could someone have made the scaffolding unstable without being seen by the victim? Might such instability have been accidental? There were clearly several possibilities to consider—not least the possibility that Nicholas Bassington-Hope had taken his own life.

“Oi, Miss—”

Maisie looked around. She could hear Billy, but could not see him, and she didn’t want to call out his name.

“Pssst. Miss!”

“Where are you?” Maisie kept her voice as low as possible.

“Over ’ere.”

Maisie walked toward a painting at the far end of the landing. Much to her surprise, the painting moved.

“Oh!”

Billy Beale poked his head around what was, in fact, a door. “Thought you’d like that, Miss! Come in ’ere and ’ave a dekko at this ’ere trick door. I tell you, my three would love this.”

Maisie followed Billy’s direction, stepping as quietly as she could. “What is this?”

“I started off in the storeroom—been down there talking to the caretaker, man by the name of Arthur Levitt. Nice enough bloke. Anyway, I found a staircase, came up it and then along this ’ere corridor. They must use this for bringing up the art and what ’ave you from where it’s delivered.” He crooked his finger again, closing the door that led onto the balcony. “Look through ’ere.”

Maisie leaned forward to the point in the door indicated by Billy. “Oh!” She moved slightly, then stepped back. “You can see a good deal of the gallery from here—as well as having access to the balcony that extends along three sides of the room, right around to the opposite side of the wall where Nicholas Bassington-Hope would have been setting up his main piece.”

“Do you reckon it’s impor—” Billy stopped speaking when raised voices were heard coming from below. Maisie and Billy both remained perfectly still.

“I told you, Stig, you were to deal with me only. You were not to agree to anything with Nolly.”

“But Georgie, Nolly said—”

“I don’t give a damn what Nolly said. My sister has no business poking her nose into this. She knows nothing about art.”

“But she does have a right, after all, as joint executor—”

“I’ll speak to Nolly today. In the meantime, I will not allow the piece to be sold with the rest of the collection. Absolutely not. And if I even think of selling the remaining sketches and incompletes, I will let you know. You can keep your rich buyers hanging on for a day or two if they’re that interested.”

“But—”

“That is final, Stig. Now, I had better find my friend.”

A door below slammed.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Maisie leaned toward Billy and whispered. “I’ll see you out on Piccadilly in about fifteen minutes. Don’t join me until Miss Bassington-Hope has left.”

THE TWO WOMEN departed the gallery, Svenson cordially thanking them for visiting, though perhaps not with the theatrical flourish of his greeting.

“Let’s walk along the street here—I have several requests to make, in order to commence with my investigation.”

“Of course.” Georgina fell into step with Maisie, unaware that the woman to whom she had turned for help was now gauging her intent and her emotional state of mind simply by observing her physical demeanor.

“First of all, I want to meet your family, so please arrange for us to visit, using the pretext of our early friendship at Girton.”

“All right.”

Maisie cast a glance sideways at Georgina and began mirroring her movement as she walked. She continued listing her requests. “I would like to see—alone, this time—where Nicholas lived in Dungeness. Perhaps you would be so kind as to furnish me with keys and his address—or, knowing Dungeness, perhaps there is no actual address, but simply directions.”

Georgina nodded, but said nothing. Maisie had noticed her shoulders sag, her manner suggesting a sense of melancholy and, perhaps, a feeling of anger. The melancholy might be easily explained—she had lost a beloved brother, after all—but at whom was the anger directed? At Maisie, for making the request? At her sister for whatever gave rise to the crossed words with Stig Svenson? Or at her dead brother, for abandoning her to a life without her twin?

“I will need details of all previous purchases of your brother’s paintings. I understand that artists can be rather fickle when it comes to retaining financial records; however, I will need anything that comes to hand. I want to know who was collecting his work.”

“Of course.”

“And I want to see his friends, the men he was closest to. Was he courting, as far as you know?”

Georgina shook her head, and gave a half laugh. “Let’s just say that Nick was better with his finances than with his romantic life—‘fickle’ would suit very well.”

“I see.” Maisie knew from experience that the more personal aspects of a person’s life were seldom understood by immediate family. Hadn’t her own father thought it strange that she was not anxious to become engaged to Andrew Dene by now? She smiled in return, and continued. “And I want to see his work, in addition to those things I mentioned before: correspondence, journals—in fact, anything you have that belonged to Nick.”

The women stopped when they reached Piccadilly, where each would go their separate way. “Oh, and one last question for you?”

“Yes?” Georgina turned to face Maisie directly.

“When a person close to the victim suspects foul play, they usually have a suspect or two in mind. Would that be true of you, Georgina?”

She blushed. “I’m afraid it isn’t. As I told you yesterday, it was just that feeling here.” She touched her chest. “That’s all I can say.”

Maisie nodded, then smiled. “I’d like to go down to Dungeness tomorrow, so perhaps you can let me have keys at your earliest convenience. Then perhaps we can meet in Tenterden on Saturday—probably best if we visit your parents together. Can you arrange it?”

“Of—of course.” Georgina paused, somewhat flustered. She reached into her handbag and took out an envelope, which she passed to Maisie. “This is a photograph of Nick, taken in the summer at Bassington Place, my parents’ estate.”

Maisie took the envelope, and removed the photograph halfway, claiming a moment to study the man whom the lens had caught leaning in an easy, almost somnolent manner against a tractor. Using the size of the tractor as a guide, Maisie thought he must have been about six feet in height, with hair that was a barely controlled mop of curls on his head, the “short-back-and-sides” haircut having little effect on his crown and fringe. He wore wide trousers, a collarless shirt with rolled-up sleeves and an unbuttoned waistcoat. His smile was expansive and Maisie thought that, if her father were to see the photograph, he might comment that the man had the look of a lout, rather than the well-bred son of good circumstance. Though Frankie Dobbs was a working man, a costermonger by trade and, since the outbreak of war in 1914, a groom at the Compton estate in Kent, he had strong opinions on being properly turned out.

Maisie placed the photograph in her bag and nodded to Georgina. “Good. Now then, I must be on my way. Please telephone me as soon as you can so that we can confirm arrangements and your progress with my list. Until then, Georgina.” Maisie held out her hand, which Georgina took in a manner that suggested she was regaining some of the strength and resolve that had propelled her somewhat infamous reputation.

When they were some three or four yards apart, Maisie turned and called to her client. “Oh, Georgina—I want to meet Harry as well.”

She had timed her final request perfectly.

Georgina flushed. “I—I’ll see what I can do, he’s…oh, never mind. I’ll contact him and let you know.” Then she hurried away.

BILLY JOINED MAISIE as she watched Georgina Bassington-Hope being swallowed into a flurry of passersby.

“Miss B-H gone then?”

Maisie nodded, seemingly half dreaming, though Billy knew that the glazed eyes disguised a depth of thought that some might have considered quite unnecessary in the circumstances.

“Everything all right, Miss?”

“Yes, yes, I’m very well, thank you.”

They began to walk toward Piccadilly underground station. “She shot off a bit sharpish, didn’t she?”

“Hmmm, yes, it was a bit quick. But then it gave us some interesting information.”

“What’s that, Miss?”

“That, concerning Harry B-H, the family—or perhaps just Georgina—has something to hide.” Maisie turned to Billy. “Now then, you know what to do this afternoon, don’t you, Billy—usual lines of inquiry with your newspaper friends.” She pulled on her gloves. “I’ll see you back at the office around three. We’ll have a talk about our respective findings, then you can go home early—perhaps Lizzie will be feeling a bit better.”

Three

Having already nurtured contacts among the newspapermen who gathered in Fleet Street pubs—and many of those men, reporters, compositors and printers alike, were at the bar by mid-morning following a night shift—the cost of a pint often proved to be a very good investment, as far as Billy was concerned. Following the meeting at Svenson’s Gallery, Billy procured information from newspaper reports pertaining to Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s death. For her part, Maisie returned to the Tate gallery to meet with the helpful curator, Dr. Robert Wicker, with whom she had consulted the previous day. Now they were back at the Fitzroy Square office comparing notes on the day’s work.

“I looked through the obituary, and it didn’t say anything that wasn’t known to us already. There were a couple of write-ups on ’is paintings, otherwise it was all along the lines of ‘a rare talent lost’—you know, that sort of thing.” Billy seemed to stifle a yawn. “Mind you, there was a line or two in one of them about the sibling rivalry. I thought it was a bit snide myself. In the Sketch, it was. The reporter saying that the B-H’s had always competed to see who could get more attention, and that now there was no twin brother, Miss B-H would probably have the wind knocked out of her sails.”

“That doesn’t mean that there was anything untoward in the competition though. That sort of thing often happens, I believe.”

“Too right, Miss. You should see my boys go at it sometimes.”

Maisie smiled and was about to speak again, when Billy continued. “Now then, Brian Hickmott, one of the reporters what I know, did say that ’e remembered the story because ’e went over there, to the gallery, as soon as the press got wind of something going on.”

“And?”

“Said it was all very strange. Police didn’t stay long, just a quick look, a ‘Yes, that’s accidental death,’ then off they all went, much quicker than ’e would have thought.”

“Well, it could be that once they had determined there were no suspicious circumstances, their work was done until the inquest. The body could be released to the family that much earlier, and with little in the way of red tape.”

“Per’aps. I’ll find out a bit more about it though.”

“Good.” Maisie looked up at Billy, assessing his interest in the case and therefore his attention to detail. His attitude in the initial meeting, where he revealed some resentment toward the client’s social standing, had unsettled her.

“Mind you…” Billy sat up straighter as he read through his notes, clearly keen to move on to another point so that he could get home early, as Maisie had suggested. “Brian did mention the younger brother, ’arry.”

“What did he say?’

“Well, you know that fella, Jix?”

“The former home secretary Joyston-Hicks? Of course, but what has this to do with the younger brother?”

“It’s one of them roundabout stories, Miss. You remember that when ’e was in government, Jix was the one who got the police going round to the clubs and closin’ ’em down? Right killjoy was that man, we’re better off without the likes of ’im.”

“Billy…”

“Well, turns out that one of the people old Jix ’ad it in for was Harry B-H. The boy might’ve been able to carry a tune with that trumpet of ’is, but ’e ’ad a reputation for carryin’ on with all sorts of people—you know, girls on the game. And ’e kept the villains entertained while they got up to no good at all. The press ’ad their eyes on ’im too, and ’e’d got a few mentions in the linens, you know, when the police’d raided a club on Jix’s orders.”

Maisie was thoughtful. “Well, it’s funny you should say that, but I confess, since Miss B-H first mentioned him, I have had a sense that all was not well with the brother. I mean, as a family, they definitely sound a bit out of the ordinary, but there was a certain hesitation in her voice. Look into it again tomorrow. The club raids subsided as soon as Jix lost his position, so Harry might’ve been able to keep his job without having to move on. I want to know where he is, who he works for, who he consorts with and, if he’s on the edge of the underworld, so to speak, whether he’s in any trouble.”

Billy nodded.

“I think you might have to go back to see Levitt as well. I want to know the location of Nick’s lock-up and Levitt probably knows someone who can tell us, even if he doesn’t know it himself. An artist might be secretive about his work, but he’s also protective and would want there to be help available if there were a fire, for example—someone else may well have known the location of the lock-up, and I suspect that the major work that he wanted to hang is still there. Mind you, I am wondering what the arrangements were for its delivery to the gallery on the evening of his death—was it loaded on a lorry waiting for Nick B-H to drive it himself once the backdrop was ready? Or did he have drivers at the ready—and had they already left by the time he’d fallen? If so, then what did they do when they couldn’t gain access to the gallery?” Maisie had been staring out at the square, seeing only the closing hours of the dead man’s life, rather than the trees, people walking across the square or anything another onlooker might have noticed. She turned to Billy again. “There is much to gather, Billy. Let’s be ready to put our backs into the case again tomorrow.”

Billy nodded, consulted his watch once more, then asked Maisie whether her second visit to the Tate had been fruitful.

“Yes, I think it was. I wanted to find out more about the artist as a person, what character traits define someone who takes on that kind of work—”

“Work?” Billy was frowning. “I can’t say as I would call that dabbling around with brushes and paints work. I mean, work is…is…’ard graft, ain’t it? None of this daubin’ business.”

Maisie stood up, leaned back against the table and regarded Billy for what must have felt like an age to him, though it was only seconds. “I think you had better get what’s gnawing at you off your chest, because if there is one thing we cannot afford in our work, it’s jumping to conclusions about the moral worth of our clients. We must accept who they are and get on with it, putting our personal feelings and beliefs aside. Such opinions reflect prejudices, and we cannot allow smoke from our personal fires to prevent the vision that is crucial to our work.”

Billy’s lips formed a tight line. He said nothing for some time, then blurted out his words, his face becoming red with anger. “It was when that man yesterday, you know, ’im at the Tate, was tellin’ us about that bloke who spent almost ’alf a million—’alf a bleedin’ million—on a picture last year. What was ’is name? Duveen or something? ’alf a million! There’s men out of work and children wantin’ for a good meal and a man spends all that on a f—” He bit his lip. “Spends all that on a picture. It makes me seethe, it does.”

Maisie nodded. “Point taken, Billy, point taken. And it’s a good one.” She paused, allowing her agreement to soften her assistant’s temper. “But here is something to remember, when this sort of thing comes up and makes you angry: that in our work we come across injustice. Sometimes we can do something about it—for example, as Dr. Blanche taught me, our wealthier clients pay us handsomely, which enables us to work for those who come to us with little or nothing with which to pay. And sometimes our work can put right an injustice against someone who stands accused, or clear the name of someone who is dead. To accomplish all of this, we have to face aspects of life that are not always palatable.”

“So, what you’re sayin’ is that I’ve just got to swallow it and get on wiv me job.”

Maisie nodded. “Look at the world beyond your immediate emotion, the immediate fury of inequality. Choose your battles, Billy.”

Silence seeped between them. Maisie allowed another moment to elapse, then moved to the chair and picked up her notes.

“I thought it would be a good idea to get a better sense of what we are dealing with in our investigation into the death of Nicholas Bassington-Hope. I am keen to know more about those characteristics that are common among artists, that might give us clues as to what moved him, what risks he might take as an individual and what he might do for his fellow man, so to speak.”

Billy nodded.

“Dr. Wicker was most interesting, explaining that there is a connection between art and the big questions that the artist is seeking to answer, either directly or indirectly, with his work.” Maisie met Billy’s eyes as she uttered the word work. He was listening, and even making a note. “It may be a passion for a landscape that he can bring to life for a broader audience, people who will never have the opportunity to visit such a place. It might be a depiction of another time, a comment on our world, perhaps, let’s say…life before steam or the spinning jenny. Or—and I think that this may be where Bassington-Hope felt he could communicate a message—it might be some inner or external terror, an experience that the artist struggles to tell us about by depicting the memory, the image, in his mind’s eye.”

Maisie stood again, rubbing her arms against the encroaching chill of late-afternoon’s darkness. “The artist takes it upon himself—or herself—to ask questions and, perhaps, sit in judgment. So, as in literature, the work may be taken at face value, for an audience to appreciate as a form of entertainment, or it can be seen in the context of the artist’s life, and indeed, from the perspective of the individual observer.”

“So, the artist really is sendin’ a message?”

“Yes—and in working on their craft, the dexterity of hand, the understanding of color, light and form, so the artist builds an arsenal of tools with which to express a sentiment, a view of the world from their perspective.”

“I reckon these ’ere artistic types are probably a bit soft.”

“Sensitive is a better word.”

Billy shook his head. “Now that I come to think of it, it must’ve been rotten for the likes of Mr. B-H in the war. You know, if you’re a person what lives with pictures, someone who sees somethin’ more where the rest of us just see what’s what, then what we all saw over there in France must’ve been terrible for ’im, what with all that sensitivity or whatever you call it. No wonder the poor bloke went off to America and all that land.” He frowned, then continued with a sad half laugh. “If ’e came back from the war ’alf as worn out as the rest of us, at least ’e ’ad a way to get it all out, you know, from the inside.” Billy touched his chest. “Onto the paper, or canvas or whatever it is they use.”

Maisie nodded. “That’s why I want to see everything I can that came from his mind’s eye and onto the canvas.” She looked at her watch. “Time to go home to your family, Billy.”

Billy gathered his belongings, then his coat and cap, and left the office with a swift “Thanks, Miss.”

Maisie read over her notes for a moment or two longer, then walked to the window and looked out onto the already dark late-afternoon square. This quiet time was her canvas; her intellect, sensitivity and hard work formed the palette she worked with. Slowly but surely she would use her gifts to re-create Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s life in her mind, so that she could see, think and feel as he might have, and in so doing she would come to know whether, indeed, his death was an accident or a deliberate act, whether it was self-inflicted or the result of an attack.

SOME THREE HOURS later, having seen two more clients, one man and one woman seeking not her skill as an investigator but her psychologist’s compassion and guidance as they spoke of fears, of concerns and despair, she made her way home. Home, to the new flat that was quiet and cold, and that did not have the comforts to which she had become accustomed while living at the London residence of Lord Julian Compton and his wife, Lady Rowan Compton. Lady Rowan had been her employer, the sponsor of her education, her supporter and now, in her senior years, she was something of an ally, despite a chasm in the origin of their respective stations in life.

The flat was in Pimlico, which, despite the proximity of neighboring Belgravia, was considered less than salubrious. However, for Maisie, who was careful with her money and had squirreled away savings for years, the property was affordable, which was the main consideration. A flurry of pamphlets produced by banks for the past decade, extolling the virtues and affordability of home ownership, had allowed her to dream of that important nugget of independence: a home of one’s own. Indeed, the number of young women whose chance of marriage ended with the war—almost two million according to the census in 1921—meant that an adverse attitude toward women and ownership of property had been suspended, just a little, and just for a while.

Certainly, living rent-free at the Belgravia home of Lord and Lady Compton had helped enormously, as had the success of her business. The initial invitation to return to Ebury Place had been inspired by Lady Rowan’s desire for an overseer “upstairs” in whom she could place her trust while she spent more and more time at her estate in Kent. The invitation also stemmed from an affection with which Maisie was held by her former employers, especially since she had played an important part in bringing their son, James, back into the family fold following his postwar troubles. James now lived in Canada, directing the Compton Company’s interests from an office in Toronto. It was thought that, like many of their class in these troublesome times, the Comptons would no longer retain two or more properties, and might therefore sell the large London home. But Maisie, for one, could not imagine Lady Rowan completely closing the house, thereby putting people out of work.

A skeleton staff had lived at 15 Ebury Place, and Maisie knew that she would miss the young women who worked below stairs, though Eric, the footman-cum-chauffeur, had said she should bring her motor car to the mews regularly for him to “have a look at, just to make sure she’s running smoothly.” But for two months now, she had been living at her new flat in Pimlico, chosen not only for price but for its proximity to the water, the river that ran though London and that Maisie loved—despite her friend Priscilla, who referred to the Thames as “swill.”

She had traveled by underground railway this morning instead of driving the MG, so she returned the same way this evening. The cold, the damp and thick yellow smog conspired to nip at her ears, her lips, gloved fingers and even her toes, so she pulled her hat down even lower, navigating her way from the station to the new block of flats by following the flagstones underfoot. Designed with an optimism that was extinguished before construction was complete, the four-story building housed some sixteen flats. Each end of the building was curved to reflect a fascination with ocean travel fashionable in the 1920s, when the architect first sat at his drafting table. Enclosed service stairwells to both the right and left of the building were made brighter by porthole windows, and in the center, a column of glass revealed the inner spiral staircase for use by residents and guests. The accommodation requirements of a well-heeled resident had been in mind, one who would pay a good rent to live in an area that the developer thought “up and coming,” yet the building was still barely half occupied, either by owners who, like Maisie, had seen an opportunity to buy, or by tenants now renting from an absentee landlord who had stretched his resources to acquire four apartments on the top floor.

Turning her key in the lock, Maisie entered the ground-floor flat. Though not a palace, it was deceptively capacious. A corridor gave way to a drawing room with plenty of room for a three-piece suite and, at the far end, a dining table and chairs—if, of course, Maisie had owned a three-piece suite and dining table with chairs. Instead, an old Persian carpet, bought at an executor sale, half-covered the parquet floor, and two Queen Anne chairs with faded chintz covers were positioned in front of a gas fire. There were two bedrooms to the left of the hallway, one larger than the other and separated by a bathroom. A box room to the right was probably meant for storage, as it housed the gas meter. Maisie had set a stack of coins by the meter, so that she never had to grope around in the dark when the power went out.

Only one bedroom had a bed and, fortunately, the flat was already equipped with some new Venetian blinds, the sort that had suddenly become rather popular a few years earlier. Maisie sighed as she felt the radiator in the corridor, then made her way to the living room without taking off her coat. She took a matchbox from the mantelpiece and lit the gas fire, then moved to the windows and pulled down the blinds.

The compact kitchen, which was situated to the left of the area that would one day accommodate the dining table and chairs, was already fitted with a brand-new Main stove and a wooden table, as well as a kitchen cabinet. The deep, white enamel sink had one cupboard underneath and the bottom half of the walls were decorated in black-and-white tiles all the way around the kitchen. Maisie opened the cabinet, took out another box of matches and lit the gas ring under a tin kettle already half full of water. As the heat filtered upward from the kettle, she held her hands open to the warmth for comfort.

“Blast, it’s cold in here!” Though she could single-mindedly rise above many deprivations, as she had in France during the war, there was one thing that Maisie found hard to ignore, and that was the cold. Even as she set about making tea, she would not take off her coat until after she had sipped the first cup. Reaching into the cabinet again, she pulled out a tin of Crosse & Blackwell oxtail soup, which she opened and poured into a saucepan, ready to cook. Admonishing herself for not going to the grocers, she gave thanks for a half loaf of Hovis and wedge of cheddar cheese. And, because it was winter, a half-full bottle of milk set by the back door was not yet sour.

Later, with the drawing room warmer and a hearty supper inside her, Maisie sat back to read before going to bed. She picked up a book borrowed from Boots, where she had stopped to browse the lending library earlier: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. She flipped open the cover, pulled her cardigan around her and began to read. Distracted, Maisie only read for a page or two before setting the book down and leaning back to gaze at the white-hot gas jets. Amid the activity of the day, she had neglected to write to Andrew Dene, the man she had been walking out with for more than six months now. She knew full well that she had failed to write because she was bothered, very bothered, by what she should do next.

Andrew was a kindly man, a good person, full of humor and energy, and she knew he wanted to marry her, though he had not proposed. There were those—including her father and Lady Rowan—who thought that, perhaps, her heart still ached for that first love, for Simon Lynch, who lived through each day in a coma-like shell of existence, the result of wounds sustained in the war. Maisie suspected that Maurice Blanche knew the truth was somewhat more complex, that it was not her heart she was protecting, not the memory of a love lost. No, it was herself. Her independence was gained early, more by default than design, and as time went on, like many women of her generation, her expectation of a certain freedom became more deeply ingrained. Her position, her quest for financial security and professional standing, were paramount. There were those who floundered, women who could not step forward to the rhythm of a changed time, but for Maisie the composing of this new life was to a familiar tune, that of survival—and it had saved her, she knew that now. Since the war her work had been her rock, giving structure and form to life so that she could put one foot in front of the other. To marry now would be to relinquish that support—and even though she would have a partner, how could she step away from her buttress if there were an expectation that she give up her work for a life in the home? How could she release her grasp? After all this? And there was something else, something intangible that she could not yet define but knew to be crucial to her contentment.

It was clear to her that she must call a halt to the relationship, allow Dene to meet another. However much she liked him, however many times she felt that they might be able to consider a future together, she knew that the very likable, happy-go-lucky Andrew Dene would ultimately want more than she might ever be willing—or able—to give.

Maisie sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb. Yawning, she opened the book again, not at the first page, but at a place in the middle. When she was young, when the urge to learn gnawed at her as if it were the hunger that followed a fast, there was a game that Maurice, her teacher and mentor, had introduced to their lessons—perhaps at the end of their time together or to reignite her thoughts following a weighty discourse. He would hand her a novel, always a novel, with the instruction to read a sentence or a paragraph at random, and to see what might lie therein for her to consider. “The words and thoughts of characters borne of the author’s imagination can speak to us, Maisie. Now, come on, just open the book and place your finger on the page. Let’s see what you’ve drawn.” Sometimes she found nothing much at all, sometimes dialogue of note. Then, once in a while, the short passage chosen moved her in such a way that the words would remain with her for days.

Pointing to a sentence at random, she read aloud, her voice echoing in the almost empty, still-chilly room. “‘Yes! Yes! Yes! He would create proudly out of the freedom and power of his soul…a living thing new and soaring and beautiful, impalpable, imperishable.’”

Maisie closed her eyes and repeated the words. “New and soaring and beautiful, impalpable, imperishable….” And she knew that she would rest little that night. Already it was as if Nick Bassington-Hope were beginning to speak to her. Even as she slept, she would strain to hear his message.

Four

Maisie and Billy arrived at the office at exactly the same time on the following morning.

“Mornin’, Miss. All right?”

Pulling her scarf down to her chin so that she could be heard, Maisie stamped her feet on the front step, put the key in the lock and pushed open the door. “Yes, thank you very much, Billy. How’s Lizzie?”

Billy closed the door behind him and replied as they made their way upstairs, “Still not well, Miss. Running a bit of a temperature, I’d say, and the poor little mite just spits out ’er food. Doreen bought a bit of brisket yesterday, put it in a soup to go round everybody, and Lizzie wouldn’t even take some of the broth.”

“‘Go round everybody’?” Maisie hung her coat on the hook behind the door, as did Billy. “You make it sound like a tribe!”

“Aw, it’s nothing, Miss, not any more than anyone has to put up with these days.”

Maisie stood in front of Billy’s desk as he placed his notebook on the polished oak surface and reached into his inside jacket pocket for a pencil.

“Is there anything wrong? Look, I know it’s not really my business, but are you stretched a bit?”

Billy would not sit down until Maisie had gone to her desk and taken a seat. He shook his head, then explained, “Doreen and me always thought we were lucky, you know, with a two-up, two-down for just the five of us. Reasonable landlord into the bargain. The nippers’ve got a bedroom, we’ve got a bedroom, and with cold running water, we don’t ’ave to walk down to the pump, not like a lot of ’em round our way.” He reached for the tray, ready to make a pot of tea. “Doing well, I am, thanks to you, so we’ve even been able to afford a few extras—a bit of beef every now and again, a toy each for the kids at Christmas….”

“What’s happened?”

“A few months ago, my brother-in-law—that’s Doreen’s sister’s husband, he’s a carpenter—lost ’is job. It got bad for ’em, they ’ad to move out because there weren’t money for the rent and they were feedin’ their boy and girl on bread and Oxo water—and there’s another one on the way, y’know, making it all the worse for ’em. So, Jim reckoned there’d be work in London, and they turned up wanting somewhere to live. Now they’re sleepin’ in one bedroom, the five of us are in the other, and it’s like sardines, it is. Jim still ’asn’t got work, Doreen’s all but ’ad to build a wall around ’er sewin’ machine to do the dressmaking she’s still got comin’ in, and, to tell you the truth, Miss, it’s a stretch, puttin’ food on the table for nine people every day. Not that Jim’s idle, no, the man’s wearing out what shoe leather’s left on ’is feet walking round all day tryin’ to get work.” Billy shook his head, then moved toward the door.

“No, don’t make tea just yet. Let’s sit down and talk about this.” Maisie nodded toward the table by the window where the case map was laid out. “Come on.”

Billy slumped into the chair alongside Maisie, who was, in fact, somewhat relieved. Only the year before, brought down by the constant lingering pain from his war wounds, Billy’s behavior had become unpredictable, and further investigation had revealed abuse of narcotics—not uncommon among men who had once been inadvertently overdosed on morphine in the dressing stations and casualty clearing stations of the Great War. At least he had not lapsed.

“Are you managing? Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes, Miss, I’m managing, it’s just tight, that’s all. My Doreen can make food for five go round ’undred and five, if needs be. It’ll just be better when Jim gets on ’is feet.” He paused. “Poor man fought for ’is country, and now look at what ’e’s bein’ treated like—it’s not good enough, Miss.”

“Billy, have you been in touch with the nurse, to come in to see Lizzie?” asked Maisie. It was common for a local nurse, instead of a doctor, to be summoned to see the sick, simply because of the greater cost of a physician.

“No. Fool’s choice, really, Miss. We thought she’d be over it by now, but I don’t know…”

Maisie checked her watch. “Look, I’m driving down to Dungeness later this morning—at least, I will be if I hear from Miss B-H—so I’ll detour and go to the house first, just to have a look at Lizzie. How does that sound?”

Billy shook his head. “Nah, Miss, don’t you go out of your way—we’ll get the nurse round later if Lizzie’s not any better by this evening.”

Maisie took several pencils of different colors from a jar on the table. She knew Billy’s pride and did not want to push. “All right, but the offer’s there, you know. You only have to say—and if things get any more troublesome…”

Billy simply nodded, so Maisie moved on to the Bassington-Hope case.

“Right then, let’s look at where we are. Per our conversation yesterday, it’s your job to find out more from Levitt about the gallery, Nick B-H and that mysterious lock-up of his. See what you can sniff out. And also see if you can uncover more about the younger brother and the credibility of that story about liaisons with a criminal element.” She paused. “In the meantime, I’ll be having a quick cup of coffee with Stratton this morning before I set off—I’m curious to know why he was so keen to support Georgina’s decision to seek my help. If he thought the case merited more investigation, why didn’t he do it himself?” Reaching out onto the case map, she began to link several notes, creating circles that she joined with arrows. “On Monday I’ll be doing some background research on Miss B-H and her family, and of course, I’ll have some impressions from my visit to the house.” Maisie consulted her watch. “The morning post should be here soon and I am expecting to hear from her.”

“Won’t she use the old dog ’n’ bone?”

“Perhaps, but I need a key, a map and some specific directions from her.”

Billy nodded. “And when’re you going to see the family?”

“I am to join her at Bassington Place on Saturday.”

“Bassington Place. Very posh, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. And this is where you meet the rest of the cuckoos, eh, Miss?”

Maisie was glad to hear Billy joking, though he still looked drawn. “Yes, it appears so. I don’t think it’s over-egging the pudding to call the Bassington-Hopes eccentric, given Georgina’s description—and what did she call her sister, Nolly? I must admit, I—”

The doorbell rang. “Probably be that letter now.” Billy left the room, returning to the office less than three minutes later. “Messenger turned up at the same time as the postman, so you’ve got one thick envelope”—he passed a bulky package to Maisie—“and a few letters from the postie.”

Maisie placed the letters on the table and reached for an opener to slit the seal securing the envelope delivered by messenger. As she pulled out the letter, a second envelope in heavy cream vellum fell onto the table along with a key.

“Hmmm, looks like I will definitely be going alone to Dungeness, much as I suspected. Interesting…” Maisie allowed her words to fade as she began to read the accompanying letter aloud.

Dear Miss Dobbs,

Maisie noticed that, though Georgina had taken the early liberty of using Christian names, in her written correspondence she was rather more formal.

I must beg your pardon for the swift communiqué. I am attending a banquet this evening and have much to do. The attached map and directions will see you safely to Nick’s carriage-cum-cottage in Dungeness. Do prepare yourself; it is really quite simple, though he adored the place. Should you encounter a problem with the key or lock, Mr. Amos White lives in the old cottage to the right of Nick’s carriage as you are facing it, and I am sure he will help. Amos is a fisherman, so will probably be in his shed mending nets in the afternoon. Duncan and Quentin returned to Dungeness this morning, so do look out for them. I believe they will only be there for a day or so.

I will meet you outside Tenterden station at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon, as we agreed. If you are traveling from Chelstone, you will probably come from the direction of Rolvenden, thus you will find the station signposted from the middle of the High Street as you come into town, a sharp turn to the left. It’s best that we meet there and then go together to the house.

You will also find enclosed an invitation to a party at my flat on Sunday evening. It’s just a few friends. I thought it might give you a chance to meet some of Nick’s pals. Do come.

“Gosh…” Maisie shook her head.

“What’s up, Miss?”

“An invitation to a party at Georgina B-H’s flat on Sunday evening,” Maisie was rereading the invitation.

“That’ll be nice, you know, to get out.”

Maisie shook her head. “I don’t know how nice it will be, but I will most certainly go.”

“Take Dr. Dene along—you know, make an evening of it.”

Maisie reddened and shook her head. “No, just me, Billy. It’s business.”

Billy regarded her carefully, his attention drawn to the slight edge in her voice. Though they would never discuss Maisie’s private life, Billy could see it was quite clear that Andrew Dene’s intentions were toward marriage, whereas Maisie’s responses had become generally lukewarm. Now she was going to a party alone, which wasn’t something that a woman on the cusp of engagement might do, work or no work.

“Right then, we’d better get cracking. Let’s do a bit more work here, see if the cold light of day has brought any new thoughts to our investigation, then go our separate ways.” Maisie took out a sheaf of notes made the previous evening and moved toward the case map. She turned to look at Billy. “And remember, Billy—let me know if you need me to see Lizzie.”

Billy nodded, and they set to work.

THE CAFÉ ON Oxford Street where Maisie was to meet Detective Inspector Richard Stratton was a rather down-at-heel establishment that she had once described as being “more caff than café.” She had already packed her leather case for the journey to Dungeness, from which she had originally thought she might go directly to Hastings but then decided to make her way to Chelstone for the evening. She would visit Andrew Dene in Hastings on Saturday morning. It wouldn’t take long to drive from the Old Town to Tenterden in the afternoon.

Stratton was waiting at a table by the window and had just sat down. Having removed his hat and coat and placed them on a coat-stand by the door, he was smoothing back his dark hair, which was peppered with gray at the temples. He wore dark-gray gabardine trousers, with a black waistcoat, gray tweed jacket, white shirt and black tie. His shoes were highly polished, though he did not have the sort of accoutrements with which someone like Stig Svenson embellished his attire—there was no kerchief in the jacket pocket, no cufflinks at his wrist. Though he was not a young man—Maisie had thought him to be about thirty-eight or forty—an olive complexion and dark eyes meant that he was often the subject of a second glance from strangers. The detective was not aware of such attention, and the passersby would not have been able to explain why they were compelled to turn, though they might admit to thinking they had seen him in one of those new talkies at the picture house.

Stratton had already bought two cups of tea and a plate of toast and jam. The tea was strong and, Maisie thought as she approached the table, looked as if it had been in the urn long enough to make itself quite at home.

“You could stand a spoon up in that tea.” Maisie sat down as Stratton pulled out a chair for her, and smiled. Though they had crossed words on several occasions, there was a mutual respect that had led Maisie to be called to Scotland Yard to consult on cases where her particular skill and insight was thought to be of use in the investigation of a case.

“Keeps you going on a day like this, though. It’s been very chilly this past week, hasn’t it?”

Their eyes met. Maisie sipped her tea and nodded. “Gosh, that’s better.”

Stratton looked at his watch. “You wanted to see me, Miss Dobbs?”

“Yes.” She placed her plain white cup in the saucer, then paused as she reached for another slice of toast and jam, to which she added an additional half teaspoon of jam.

“Good Lord, would you like some toast with that dollop of jam?” Stratton leaned back in his chair and caught Maisie’s eye.

“I’m starving, Inspector.” She smiled again, then continued with her explanation. “I wanted to speak to you about the death of Nicholas Bassington-Hope. Of course, I must thank you for supporting his sister’s plan to engage my services so that certain doubts in her heart might be put to rest; however, I hope that you can tell me more about the event, from your perspective.” Maisie inclined her head, then proceeded to bite into the toast, reaching for her tea as she did so.

Stratton allowed a few seconds to elapse, seconds in which Maisie was sure he was composing a response that would have been acceptable to his superiors, had he been called to account for his actions. And despite the delay in answering, during which she appeared to make herself busy with another slice of toast, she knew that he had likely anticipated the reason for her request that they meet and was therefore ready to share only the barest minimum of information.

“There was—is—no doubt in my mind that Mr. Bassington-Hope fell from the scaffolding he had constructed. It hadn’t been put up by a builder or other person used to such a task, though he’d obviously had help. It was quite amateurish—in fact, he was asking for trouble.” He sipped from his cup. “Terrible waste—it’s not as if there aren’t builders out of work who would have jumped at the chance of making a shilling or two to give him a hand.”

Maisie placed a half-eaten crust on her plate. “I have seen the wall against which the scaffolding was positioned and it appeared that there were anchors in place. I’m not an expert at this sort of thing, but I would have thought that, being an artist, he would have been used to setting up all sorts of exhibits, and, seeing as he worked on fairly large pieces, of actually getting at the canvas to paint. I mean, the man wasn’t a fool, he’d been a soldier, had a certain dexterity—”

Stratton shook his head. “That artistic temperament—seen it a lot in my time. He was a soldier over thirteen years ago now, so I am dubious about any lingering practicality that might have been drilled into him at the time. And he was fiercely secretive about his work—as you probably know, they can’t even find half of it! No, for his own reasons, he wanted to do everything himself, which led to his death.”

“And that brings me back to my original purpose for wanting to see you: Do you think there might be even the merest scrap of merit in Miss Bassington-Hope’s belief that her brother was the victim of a crime?”

Stratton sipped again from his cup. Maisie smiled, knowingly. He’s playing for time.

“To tell you the truth, I’m only too glad she came to you, otherwise she would be nipping at my heels. That woman is one of those terrierlike people who, once they have something to chew on, simply do not let go. I should never have been assigned to go to the scene of the accident in the first place, as it was—to me—clearly not a place where a crime had taken place.” Stratton sighed. “She did not accept that her brother was the victim of his own ineptitude and seemed set to make a nuisance of herself, just like she did in the war.”

“But I thought she did something quite brave in the war—after all, it was a risk to do even half of the things she did in order to obtain background information for her dispatches.”

“Oh, dear, Miss Dobbs, is this an old Girton girl camaraderie? I do hope you haven’t fallen under the spell of the charismatic Georgie Bassington-Hope, I—”

“Old Girton girl camaraderie? Charismatic? I’m disappointed in you, Inspector.”

“It was a figure of speech. She uses her buoyant charm to get what she wants, even if that thing she wants is access to dangerous places she has no right to even contemplate entering—and all to write a story.”

Maisie raised an eyebrow. “To write the truth.”

Stratton shook his head. “She was a troublemaker, her ‘stories’ undermined the government’s decision to—”

“But hadn’t the government undermined—”

“Miss Dobbs, I—”

“Detective Inspector Stratton, if I am to keep Georgina Bassington-Hope out of your way, to effectively pick up your laundry, then wash and fold it, I should say you owe me a bit more than fifteen minutes in a third-rate caff on Oxford Street.” Though she noticed that Stratton’s cheeks had become flushed, she continued. “I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

Stratton looked around at the counter. “I think they’ve just brewed up a fresh urn of tea. Another cup?”

Maisie nodded. Stratton picked up the cups and walked to the counter. She checked her watch, noting that if she left London by half past eleven, she could feasibly be in Dungeness by half past two. An hour or so of daylight before the grainy dusk of the coast set in.

“This is a bit better.” He set two cups of tea on the table, pushing one toward Maisie.

“Thank you.” Maisie reached for her cup, and then looked away as Stratton proceeded to put several teaspoons of sugar into his tea, a habit she had observed before but which set her teeth on edge. She turned back as he moved the sugar to the center of the table. “Now then, I want you to tell me anything you can about Mr. Bassington-Hope’s death; it’s the least you can do if you want me to keep your terrier under control.” She paused. “Oh, and by the way, I must say, though I am familiar with her reputation, she didn’t strike me as a terrier when it came to keeping her first appointment with me. She could barely garner enough courage to go forward with the interview.”

“I can’t account for the woman’s behavior. However, I anticipated that you wanted to see me regarding this case.” He reached into the large inner pocket of his mackintosh and pulled out an envelope from which he removed several sheets of paper. “You can’t take this with you, but you can peruse the postmortem notes.”

Maisie reached for the sheets of paper proffered by Stratton, then took several moments to read carefully. Determined not to rush for Stratton’s sake, she opened her document case and removed a few index cards and set them on the table beside her teacup, which she then picked up and held against her cheek until she’d finished reading. She took two or three more sips as she placed the report on the table and flicked through a few pages again, then she set down her cup, reached for a pencil in her case and proceeded to take notes.

“I say, I haven’t got all day, you know.”

Maisie smiled. Had he not known her professionally for some time now, Stratton might have thought that he was being manipulated. “Just a moment longer, Detective Inspector.” Maisie completed her notes, then leaned back. “The predictable broken neck, caused by an unfortunate fall at an awkward angle. Death almost instantaneous, according to the examiner. Now then, how about the bruises to the side of the head and to the upper arm. Is the pathologist sure that these indications of trauma are in keeping with the nature of the fall?”

“Second-guessing the doctor, are you?”

“I should not have to remind you that, not only was I a nurse, but I served a lengthy apprenticeship with Dr. Maurice Blanche. I am used to questioning the examiner; it is what I am trained to do.”

“The bruises are not severe enough to indicate an alternative cause of death and were, as the pathologist concluded, in keeping with the nature of the accident.”

“Hmmm, that’s two ‘in keepings’—I wonder what else they might be ‘in keeping’ with?”

“Miss Dobbs, you appear to be suggesting a lack of attention to detail, or perhaps ineptitude. I would not have closed the case had I any doubt—”

“Wouldn’t you?” Maisie did not allow the question to linger, and ensured only that it had been voiced. “If I seem confrontational, it is only because my brief from my client—thanks to you supporting the referral—requires me to ask such questions. Indeed, I do believe I could point out several anomalies, but at the same time, I can see why such a conclusion was reached by the attending physician.”

“May I?” Stratton reached for the document. “Now, I can’t help with anything else, I’m afraid. I am sure you have more questions, but if I had the time to answer—or saw reason to answer—then I wouldn’t have closed the case.” Stratton returned the report to the envelope, and then to his pocket. “I’ve got to leave now. Busy day as I’m leaving work early today.”

Maisie knotted her scarf and stood up as Stratton pulled out her chair. “Going away for the weekend, Inspector?”

Stratton shook his head. “No, just an evening out. A banquet, actually. Rather looking forward to it.”

They left the café, shaking hands before they went their separate ways. Maisie felt compelled to turn and look back as she walked toward her motor car, and as she did so, she saw Stratton crossing the road in the direction of the waiting black Invicta and the police driver who held open the door for him. It was at that moment that she noticed another motor car parked behind Stratton’s, and though she could not be sure, she thought that the second motor was a faster, newer model, and of the sort used by the Flying Squad. A man wearing a black hat and black overcoat who had been leaning on the door of the motor car threw a cigarette stub on the ground, then pressed into it with the sole of his shoe. He walked over to Stratton. Leaning toward each other, they spoke briefly, before turning to look in her direction. Maisie feigned interest in the window of an adjacent shop, then when she felt it was safe to do so, cast her eyes once again in the direction of Stratton’s motor, just in time to see the two men shake hands and climb into their respective vehicles.

Reaching the MG, Maisie checked her watch. Yes, she would be in Kent before half past two. As she drove, confidently, despite sleet that caused the London streets to become increasingly hazardous, she replayed the meeting with Stratton so that it was like watching a moving picture show in her mind’s eye. There were questions to be asked, but if she rushed to answer them at this stage, she might bring to a halt the possibility of reaching a full and complete conclusion to the case in a timely fashion. Her first questions—for Maisie’s curiosity rarely seemed to grow without more questions attached, as if it were a giant root with subsidiary tubers feeding—centered around Stratton’s delight that she was working for Georgina Bassington-Hope. Did he really want the woman occupied lest she pen some controversial piece regarding police procedure for a newspaper or one of the political journals? Had he reason to continue his investigation into the artist’s death without the knowledge of either Maisie or the next-of-kin?

Maisie used the back of her hand to wipe condensation from the inside of the MG’s windscreen while thinking about the second motor car and the meeting between Stratton and the man in the black hat and coat. Of course, collaboration between men with different police responsibilities—one dealing with murder, one with gangs, robberies and other such crimes—should not be suspicious; after all, their paths must cross all the time. But she felt a sensation at the nape of her neck, as if a colony of ants were beating a path from one shoulder to the other. The image that now seemed to impress itself upon her was of a cellar with steps leading down into the darkness. It was not an unfamiliar picture, one that often presented itself at the outset of a troublesome case, but Maisie shuddered as she realized that she had already gone beyond the top step. She was clearly in the dark when she took on the case and began her descent, but there was no going back now.

As she left the outskirts of London and crossed the border into Kent, the low afternoon sun finally managed to break through, casting a cut-glass sheen across the Weald. She was glad of a break in the weather, as it took just a hint of clear, bright sky to begin to warm her bones. Settling into what she hoped would be an easy run down to the coast, Maisie looked out across the countryside, the wintery white swath of land interspersed with patches of green where sheep and cattle clustered, their backs against the chill wind. Kent calmed Maisie, had tempered her since girlhood, when she moved from London to work at the Comptons’ country estate. Despite that calm, she was unsettled, the image of Stratton and the other man, and their furtive looks toward her giving rise to more questions. Then Georgina and Stratton came to mind. Might they be attending the same function this evening? Together, perhaps? As she changed gears to negotiate a turn, she wondered if there was a plan already in progress, and whether she could be a pawn in the game. But if so, whose pawn might she be? And how serious was the game?

Five

Maisie arrived in Dungeness at two o’clock, having made good time. The flat expanse of shingled land, a promontory that reached out into the western limits of the Straits of Dover, seemed to extend from the village of Lydd until one reached the sea. She thought the word windswept must have been invented for Dungeness, positioned at this southernmost point of the Romney Marshes, across which gales would howl, even on a good day.

Maisie made her way at a low speed along a track worn by the milk tender. She thought her MG might be the only motor car that had ventured down the road for a while, so quiet was the land, with no sign of even the fishermen. Looking both ways as she crossed the narrow-gauge lines of the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch railway, she held Georgina’s map against the steering wheel and looked down for a second or two as she continued driving. It seemed that most of the old railway carriage homes were to the south, so she turned right past the lighthouse and maintained a crawling pace until she reached the former railway carriage that was the home of Nicholas Bassington-Hope.

Maisie parked, pulled her scarf around her, then opened the MG’s door, which she had to hang on to, fearing that it would be swept back by the wind. Once she reached the carriage, she fumbled with the key but, thankfully, did not have to resort to the good graces of Amos White, as she gained entry after only one false turn in the lock. Maisie pressed all her weight against the door to close it again, then secured it behind her. She let out a deep breath, glad that she was finally inside and out of the freezing winter weather.

“Nothing like the marshes to brittle your bones!” Maisie said aloud, as she pulled back her scarf, removed her hat and looked around the dwelling. For a moment, she was surprised, for the converted cottage did not resemble anything she had envisaged.

Without taking off her coat—it was still far too cold—she used her scarf to wipe rain droplets from her hair and face as she walked around the room. In truth, she couldn’t really remember what image came to mind when Georgina first mentioned that her brother lived in a converted railway carriage, but vaguely thought of prickly vermillion-red wool fabric on seats, dark wooden walls and doors with signs that read FIRST CLASS or THIRD CLASS. She had imagined the artist living in a glorified goods wagon, as opposed to the tasteful interior she now beheld.

The sun was already going down, but Maisie found matches next to an oil lamp on the sideboard, so removed the flue to light the wick. She was rewarded by a warming light as she replaced the column of glass and then a yellow globe shade that had been set alongside.

“That’s better.” Maisie placed her document case on the table and walked around the main room. As neat as a pin, the room had been thoughtfully decorated, though Nick had clearly retained the more attractive elements of railway carriage design. The rich wooden bulkhead walls at either end had been stripped, varnished and polished to a shine, as had the floorboards underfoot. Side walls had been painted in a pale cream distemper, and there were dark linen blinds against windows that faced the sea. Two leather armchairs, the sort one might find in a gentlemen’s club, were positioned close to a wood-burning stove set against the bulkhead to the right of the front door. A stack of dry driftwood had been placed on one side of the red-tiled hearth, and on the other was a large kettle filled with water, alongside several fire tools. A wood-framed bed was set lengthways against the other bulkhead, the rich burgundy counterpane hanging low over the sides to mingle with a Persian carpet woven of what seemed to be every shade of red wool, from claret to vermillion, from maroon to a color that was almost burnt umber. Opposite the sideboard stood a dresser with upper cupboards and shelving for crockery and an open space underneath where Nick Bassington-Hope had placed a set of jars and a bread bin, with a heavy bread board placed on the flat working top to protect the dresser. Two more cupboards below held a frying pan, saucepan, and various dry goods and tins of soup. Turning around, Maisie thought the compact room seemed to exude warmth, something she thought was probably essential to life on this part of the coast, whatever the season.

Opening a second door, Maisie found that the accommodation was not one carriage, but two, positioned parallel to one another. A house-size door had been installed, which led to a small vestibule, built to connect the two carriages. Windows on this long side of the carriage had been painted white, then decorated with a mural. Maisie did not linger to consider the story depicted in the series of paintings, instead continuing her survey of Nick Bassington-Hope’s home. The vestibule gave way to a studio and bathroom, though there was no running water or plumbing for the residents of Dungeness. The bathroom consisted of a wooden washstand with a tile splashback and marble top. A jug and ewer were placed on top of the washstand, while underneath a chamber pot was covered with a plain white cloth. Maisie suspected that residents made a quick trip across the shingle to the water’s edge each morning to empty the “thunder pot.” Upon investigation, a small wardrobe held several items of clothing: three shirts, a pair of blue corduroy trousers, a brown woolen jacket and another jacket of heavy waxed cotton. Reaching farther into the depths of the wardrobe, Maisie felt the rough texture of heavy wool and drew the sleeve of another garment toward her. Nick Bassington-Hope had kept his army greatcoat. Pulling the coat from the wardrobe, Maisie lifted it out and instinctively held it to her nose.

Oh, my God, I should never have done that. She held the coat at arm’s length, then walked into the studio to take a closer look. Oh, dear. There was still a speckle of mud across the hem of the coat; then, as she pulled the fabric closer to the light, she noticed a broad, aged stain on the sleeve that she knew to be blood. My God, he kept it all this time. Maisie closed her eyes and gripped the coat to her, the smell of death lingering among the folds of fabric, as if the garment had absorbed something of what the artist had seen as a young subaltern. As Maisie returned the item of clothing to the wardrobe, her hand lingered on the door handle for some seconds while she tried to extinguish the thought of Nick Bassington-Hope and the greatcoat he could not part with.

It was almost dusk now and Maisie had barely dented the task she had set for herself this afternoon. Having made a note to ask Georgina why Nick’s clothing had not been taken from his home, she moved on. She had imagined an artist’s place of work to be somewhat untidy, perhaps with drawings here and there, paints weeping from unsealed pots, color-smeared rags, books and papers strewn across the floor. Looking at the clean, carefully tended studio, Maisie realized that she probably held the same impression as Stratton of an artistic “type.” Admonishing herself, she moved around the studio in which Nick Bassington-Hope created the work for which he had been feted.

On the wall that paralleled the first carriage, a special wooden case had been fitted to store the artist’s paints. It reminded Maisie of the mail slots at the block of flats that was now her home. Here each wooden pigeonhole had been allotted a certain color, and within held tubes and small pots of paint in the many hues that could be described as blue, red, yellow, green, black, orange and violet.

Jugs in varying sizes had been set on a gaily decorated wooden tea trolley to hold a collection of brushes, and though each brush showed the staining and wear associated with good use, it had been properly cleaned before being stowed again. An easel stood by the bulkhead close to the bank of windows, and against the new partition that had been fitted to form the bathroom was a chest of narrow drawers that held papers of different weights as well as wood for frames and sections of unused canvas. A basket of stained but clean cloths was set on the floor, and there was also a deep, cushioned armchair by the window. Alongside the chair was a small table with untouched sketchbooks and pencils.

“But where’s your work, Nicholas? Where have you put your work?” Maisie asked the silent studio.

Holding the lamp in her left hand, she used her right to open the bottom drawer of the paper chest. Bundles of well-used sketchbooks were stored there, so, still with her coat on, she sat on the floor, set the lamp alongside her, and began to leaf through the books, all of which were signed and dated. She had only just begun when there was a loud thump on the door.

“Oh!” Maisie was startled at the intrusion, but clambered to her feet, and with the lamp in hand went to answer what sounded like an impatient caller.

Opening the door, Maisie faced a heavyset man no taller than she was herself. He wore a long jacket of rubber-covered cloth and a woolen cap atop his graying red hair, which was drawn back in a long, thick braid. His trousers of the same rubbered cloth were tucked into boots that had been turned over at the top. Maisie wanted very much to smile, for she had no doubt as to the identity of this man.

“You must be Mr. White.” She spoke before he had a chance to open his mouth, to quell any questions he might have about her right to be in the house of a man not long dead.

He stared at her for some time, it seemed, as if taken aback by her forthright manner. Then he spoke, with the rounded brogue of the Kentish fisherman. “Just thought I’d look in, don’t want strangers looking into Mr. ’ope’s matters.”

“I’m not a stranger, Mr. White. I am a friend of Mr. Bassington-Hope’s sister Georgina. She asked me to look in as I was in the area.”

“Funny area to be in, bit out of the way for the likes of anyone, not a place you pass through, Dungeness.”

“No, I know, it was just a bit out of my way.” Maisie smiled again, though she felt her polite responses were having little effect on the fisherman. “I know the Marshes and was going to Hastings, so it seemed a good opportunity to help Miss Bassington-Hope.”

He shook his head. “Strange lot, them ’ope’s. You’d’ve thought they’d’ve been down a bit more, not just the one visit. Three of ’em just came in, then left as soon as they got ’ere. Funny lot.” He shook his head, moved as if to leave, then turned again. “You’d be best to move that little motor car be’ind the carriage, out to the back. Come mornin’ you won’t ’ave a roof on that thing, what with the wind.” He regarded Maisie without speaking, then continued. “You knowin’ the Marshes, I would’ve thought you’d’ve parked round the back to begin with.”

Maisie checked her watch. “Well, I didn’t expect to stay very long.” Maisie felt the sting of cold rain on her cheeks, and the lamp flickered. “Gosh, I really should be on my way.”

Amos White turned, speaking as he walked away. “Just remember to put that little motor to the lee of the cottage.” Then he was gone.

Maisie closed the door behind her and shuddered. Perhaps she ought to stay here in Dungeness, especially as she had barely started her search of Nick’s property, though she knew she would feel like an interloper, sleeping in a bed that was not hers, in a house she had not been invited to use as overnight accommodation. There was little time, and already more questions were lining up to be given voice, to be answered. Who were the three family members? Could it have been Georgina and her parents? Or perhaps the three bereaved siblings? She looked around the room. Either Nick was a tidy person, or someone else had come in and seen fit to ensure that the house was neat. Someone who had managed to escape the canny eyes of Amos White.

It was when Maisie stepped into the center of the room again that she allowed herself to push all questions to the back of her mind and studied the mural painstakingly crafted on the former railway carriage windows of the opposite wall. Each window, painted in a base of white to form a canvas, depicted a scene that was pure Romney Marsh, from the trees forced to lean inland by the wind, to isolated churches set in flat hedge-divided fields, with sheep grazing and, above the water-meadows, silvered clouds scudding across a gray sky. Maisie drew the lamp closer and smiled, for as her eyes moved from left to right, from the calm of the marshes to sea crashing against shingle, with some images larger than others to create an illusion of distance along with the immediacy of detail, she saw that the story told in the mural was one that had been part of the coast’s history for centuries. In the middle of the tale, day had drawn into night and the scene was of a fishing boat beached. Men were unloading their catch by lantern light, scarves drawn around their heads gypsy-style. Atop a black horse with wild eyes, a man in a tricorn hat and mask wielded a pistol while watching over the haul, which was not cod, nor plaice, huss, rock or haddock, but barrels and chests bursting open to reveal a bounty of gold and spices, silk and rum. Moving along the mural, the men had taken flight toward the church with their booty, where a welcoming vicar bid them enter, enabling their escape to a place beyond the pulpit. The next scene saw dawn break and the excisemen—as feared today as in ancient times—searching for the smugglers, to no avail. In the final scene, situated above the bed’s footboard, daylight has returned to the marshes once more. Sheep were grazing, the wind blowing against inland-leaning trees, and the thunderous sky had given way to blue. It was a scene of peace, of calm.

Maisie stood back to look at the mural in its entirety. The infamous eighteenth-century Kent gangs given life, given color, by the hand of the artist. She moved in toward the wall and held the light to the finely drawn faces, to marvel at the detail, even that of the dog cowering to one side as the horse reared up. Nick Bassington-Hope was indeed talented, that much was evident even in a whimsical scene depicting life gone by in the place where he had established his retreat.

She checked her watch and sighed. She would remain awhile longer, searching. It was already past four and dark outside, but she decided that she could not leave until she had conducted a thorough search of the cottage, even if it meant driving later in less-than-safe conditions, picking her way with care along the rough roads. As the air around her seemed to become accustomed to her presence, it occurred to Maisie that those who came before her might have visited in search of something of great import.

She moved the MG to a place behind the second carriage, where a surprisingly strong lean-to had been constructed and sheltered not only a carefully stacked pile of driftwood, but a privvy, and a barrel where water was collected from a clever gutter system. Maisie was able to park under the lean-to, and smiled as she walked around to the front of the cottage. It would seem that, contrary to Stratton’s assessment, this was one artist with a very practical streak, if one took into account the work involved in adapting the two carriages—work that she suspected Nick had completed himself.

Locking the door behind her again, Maisie pulled the blinds, made up a fire in the cast-iron stove and put the kettle of water on to boil. As the room warmed, she opened the door to the studio to allow heat to circulate so that she could move around in comfort. She looked around the home that Nick Bassington-Hope had created. No, none of this was the work of a man who would have had a slap-dash attitude toward the construction of a scaffolding platform.

RETURNING TO THE sketchbooks she had just opened when Amos White banged on the door, she saw they contained work from Nick Bassington-Hope’s early days—charcoal drawings and watercolors that lacked the mature interpretation of later years—and also more recent work that seemed to demonstrate a more confident hand. Maisie looked through the sketchbooks and felt certain that there should be more. Calculating that Nick would have used perhaps more than a hundred, or two hundred books, she began to search again, though there were precious few places for storage in the carriages. It was under the bed that she found a series of apple crates containing more sketchbooks, along with the many works of fiction and nonfiction he had acquired over the years. On hands and knees Maisie pulled out the crates, set them alongside the fire, and, sitting on the floor with the lamp on a side table, she began to leaf through their contents.

Unlike the rest of the cottage, in which everything seemed to have its place, the sketchbooks had not been catalogued or kept in any order, and if Maisie had to guess, she would have concluded that they had been worked through quite recently. Recalling her conversations with Georgina, she wondered whether the Bassington-Hopes had expected to find something that might indicate the location of the lock-up—something she rather wanted to find herself.

Nick’s early sketches were of pastoral scenes, of horses in Kentish fields, of farms and oasthouses, of cattle ambling toward the milking shed in late afternoon and of women gathered outside farm buildings, their jackets secured by string, laced boots muddied under heavy cloth skirts with pinafores. Strong as men, they were running newly washed hop-pokes through a mangle, two turning a giant handle, two feeding the sacking through twin rollers. There were detail sketches, a face here, a nose there, the arm of a farmworker or a child’s dimpled hand held by the worn, working hand of her father. And then came the war.

Maisie could barely bring herself to look at the sketches, and as she did so her head began to throb, the scar on her neck aching in unison. She could not continue, but turned instead to work completed in the time following Nick’s return from France, the time when, still recuperating from his wounds, he was called upon to work for the cause of war in designing propaganda literature. This time the sketches inflamed Maisie. She moved back from the fire, so heated was her response to the slogans revealed as she flicked through the pages. A small boy sitting on his father’s knee, and the words, WHAT WAR STORIES WILL YOU TELL, FATHER? A young man with his sweetheart, the woman looking away toward a man in uniform: ARE YOU STILL HER BEST BOY? Then another, a German soldier breaking down the door of a family’s home: YOU CAN STOP HIM NOW! Maisie had seen the posters herself in the war, but had never questioned who might have drafted each idea, never thought of the man who had challenged others to join the fight and who compelled those at home to push them toward service.

And here in her hands were the ideas as seeds. For each poster she had seen on a railway station, at a picture house or on a board outside a shop, there were ten, fifteen sketches, if not more, with the design at a different stage of development. At first she felt anger toward the artist. Then she found herself wondering if he’d had a choice, and, if not, how he might have felt, knowing the ultimate, deadly outcome of his work. As the fire inside abated, Maisie moved closer to the stove again and wondered what remorse, if any, might have shadowed Nick Bassington-Hope each day.

The sketches from his time in America were most interesting to Maisie, not only because they illustrated a land far away, but because they revealed a man who seemed to have found a peace of mind. Magnificent canyons backlit by a sun high in the sky; trees of such grandeur that she could barely imagine walking through the forest; then the plains—even in mere sketchbooks, with pencil and charcoal, with pastel chalks, with watercolor, she could almost smell the heat, the breeze pressed against fields of corn or whipped up spray on a river as it was forced downward across fearsome rapids. Again, Nick Bassington-Hope had drawn segments in detail, perhaps one of water rushing across a single rock, or of a branch, perhaps part of an eagle’s wing. And there, penciled into the corner of a single page, the artist had written, “I can dance with life again.” As Maisie closed one sketchbook and reached for another, she realized that tears had fallen, that the work of an artist she never knew was touching her deeply. His travels to the other side of the world had saved Nick Bassington-Hope’s very soul.

Taking up a collection of sketchbooks tied with string and marked CONSTRUCTS, Maisie dried her eyes and was intrigued as she flipped through the pages, for it appeared that not only had the artist planned his murals and triptych pieces with utmost care, but he had anticipated each step involved in exhibiting them, even down to the last bolt and anchor required to secure a piece. So, she was right, he was no fly-by-night who took chances, but a careful executor of his work. One might also remark that such attention to minutiae was an obsession. Flicking through, Maisie noted that the details here were of past exhibits and that there was nothing pertaining to the unveiling at Svenson’s Gallery. Had it been removed? Or was it still here? Or at the lock-up?

Maisie pushed the books to one side, rose to her feet and placed her hands on the back of first one chair, then the other. She smiled, for as she touched the chair on the left of the fireplace, it felt warm against her fingers—but not in a way that would indicate proximity to the embers. It was a different heat, a sensation that another person would likely not feel. As she rested her hand on the leather chair, Maisie knew it was Nick Bassington-Hope’s preferred seat, that he would have chosen this chair before the other, always. She sat in his place, closed her eyes and, with her hands resting softly in her lap, took three deep breaths, each time inhaling to the extent of her lung capacity before breathing out. Then she sat in silence, with only the crashing of the waves outside and closer crackle of burning driftwood for company.

Banishing all thoughts from her mind, she waited. In time—though she would not have known how much time, for Maisie had been taught that the moments and hours spent in silence without intellectual thought give the seeker the opportunity to transcend such human measurements—an image came to her of the artist in his home, moving from one room to another. The living room, this room in which she was sitting, was cozy and warm, as it was now, though instead of winter, it’s high summer and light is streaming through the windows. Now Nick is in his studio, a palette in his hand, his trolley of brushes along with a selection of paints at his side, and he is working. The image blurs, and there he is sitting on the chair alongside the chest of drawers. He is sketching, yet as he puts charcoal to paper, tears fall and he brushes the back of his hand against his red-rimmed eyes. Though it is a bright day, he is wearing the greatcoat, drawing it around him as he works, as he struggles with the emotion his work inspires. He stops and looks around the room, puts his work to one side, paces the floor, then takes a piece of paper from his pocket. He looks at the paper for just a moment, then returns it to his pocket. Then the picture becomes blurred and he is gone. The sea crashes against the shore, the seagulls screech and wheel overhead.

Opening her eyes, Maisie rubbed her temples and looked around to regain her bearings. Half past seven! Standing up, she moved as if to go to the studio, but suddenly stopped, for it struck her that to hear seagulls whooping in such an excited state was unusual at this hour of darkness. Her weekend visits to Andrew Dene’s home in the Old Town had given her a sense of the rhythms of coastal life. She stepped to the window, and as she did so, extinguished the lamp so that she stood in darkness to draw back the blind, just slightly.

Lights went back and forth, and there was a flurry of activity close to the shingle bank where a fishing boat had just been drawn up. Maisie watched as men—there must have been three, perhaps four—unloaded a haul. She had waited many a time for the fishing boats to come in with the morning’s catch, but what she was seeing now seemed strange to her. There were no nets, as far as she could see, no barrels for the fish, and it was late for the catch to come in. A rumbling, heavy sound distracted her as a lorry appeared, backing up as far as the driver could take the vehicle to the shingle bank. She squinted; it was hard to see in the dark, though the scene was illuminated by Tilly lamps. Yes, perhaps it was a late catch. Shadows could be misleading, tricksters of light and imagination. And she was weary, with work to do. But not so weary that she would not take precautions to protect herself, even if such protection were not necessary.

Extinguishing the fire, Maisie carried the lamp into the studio where she relit the wick and, with one hand, searched down into the folds of the armchair’s seat. Her slender fingers teased out a few pennies and even a florin, a dried-up paint tube and a pencil. Pushing her hands down farther, Maisie was frustrated to find nothing of consequence, when she had been so sure that her meditation would yield the clue she needed. She returned to Nick’s living room, pulled on her hat and coat, washed the cup and saucer and placed them on the dresser. Then she waited. Waited until the only light on the beach came from the lighthouse, until the coast was clear and she could leave. With her hand held out to guide her from the carriage, she crept back towards the lean-to and claimed the MG. The engine seemed loud, but—she hoped—was probably drowned out by crashing waves as she again made her way slowly along the shingled track out to the main road.

Her route was one that took her across Kent toward Chelstone. But it was as she left the marshes that her headlamps illuminated, just for a second or two, the back of a lorry as it pulled off the main road and down a lane. She thought that the driver had probably not seen her, though she recognized the lorry immediately. It was the same vehicle she had seen at the beach.

Maisie made a mental note of the place where the lorry had turned, and, as she drove along in the darkness, she knew she would be back.

Six

Maisie had arrived late at Frankie Dobbs’s home, yet despite the hour, father and daughter sat together until the small hours, sometimes saying nothing, at other times speaking of Maisie’s work or, as now happened increasingly, talking of the past. Frankie Dobbs would begin a sentence with the words, “Do you remember when…” and continue with a story of someone he’d known as a young man while working at a racing yard, or perhaps it was a story about one of his customers, the people to whom he’d delivered fruit and vegetables on his rounds as a costermonger. But since 1914 Frankie had lived in Kent, though his dialect was easily recognizable as being from within the sound of the tolling bells of Bow, marking him as a true cockney.

Frankie no longer asked Maisie about Dr. Andrew Dene and whether their courtship might lead to him welcoming a son-in-law to their family of two. As he commented to Mrs. Crawford, the cook at Chelstone, just before she retired at Christmastime, “Well, I like the boy—London born and bred, you know. Good sort. Got feet on the ground, and does right by Maisie, but, I dunno, she never seems to…” And with that he looked into the distance, so that Mrs. Crawford touched him on the shoulder and said, “Don’t you worry about our Maisie. She’s different. I’ve said all along: The girl’s different. And she’ll find her own way. Always has, always will. No, she’s not one to worry about.” Though as she spoke, Mrs. Crawford reflected briefly on the many times she herself had worried about Maisie Dobbs.

“There you are, fresh eggs this morning and two rashers of bacon! That’ll keep you going, my girl.”

“You spoil me, Dad.” Maisie admonished her father as he sat down to tuck into his own hearty breakfast.

Frankie looked at the clock. “I’ve got to get out to the horses a bit sharpish this mornin’. I tell you, we’re doing well, with another mare due to foal soon, though it’d sit better with me if it weren’t so cold for a young ’un to come into the world. Spend all my time makin’ sure the stables’re warm.” He turned back to his breakfast, dipping bread into fried egg.

“As long as you’re not overdoing it, Dad.”

Frankie shook his head. “Nah. All in a day’s work.” Deflecting any further harking back to injuries sustained in an accident the year before, Frankie repeated some gossip heard on the estate. “Well, you’ve certainly set the cat among the pigeons, haven’t you?”

“Me?” Maisie set down her knife and fork. “What do you mean?”

“There’s talk that, what with you moving out of Ebury Place, ’er Ladyship won’t keep it on because you’ve left and there’s no one she trusts to keep an eye on the property, that she’d be better off mothballing it, you know, until that James comes back to England.”

“But she didn’t keep it on for me, Dad. I was just there as a sort of overseer, and I admit it was handy. Helped me to get some savings in the bank. I’m sure this is just hearsay, you know how they all talk.”

Frankie shook his head. “No, I reckon there’s something in it this time. Costs a lot of money to keep a house like that going, and even if they just close it up, it’ll save a bit.” Frankie paused to take a sip of tea. “But I don’t think it’s the money, myself. No, I think that ’er Ladyship just doesn’t want to spend much time up there in the Smoke. And she doesn’t want to be out with them types anymore, you know, them what don’t know there’s a slump on. Reckon the only people she ever ’eld in account were the ones like old Dr. Blanche, them with a bit of nouse.” Frankie pushed back his plate, then tapped the side of his head with his forefinger. “She don’t much mind what station a person is, as long as they’ve got something to say for themselves. So I reckon it’s on the cards, especially with Mrs. Crawford gone to ’er brother and ’is wife in Ipswich. They’ve already brought that Teresa down to work in the kitchen, but it’s not as if anyone wants a big staff anymore, not like it was years ago.”

“I hope no one really thinks this is all my fault,” said Maisie.

“No, not your fault, love, just all come at the same time. And like you said: People talk.” Frankie looked at the clock again. “You’re off in a minute, I know, so I’ll say my good-bye now. Better get over to the stable.”

Maisie kissed her father and waved him off, watching him walk slowly down the path. Frankie hated to see his daughter drive away, so she had expected him to leave before she departed the cottage. It was time he retired, and Maisie was grateful for the fact that Lady Rowan had assured her that the Groom’s Cottage would be her father’s home for the rest of his life; she had never forgotten that Frankie Dobbs had saved her horses from requisition in the war.

After tidying up the kitchen, Maisie packed her bag and left before nine, with the intention of reaching Hastings by ten o’clock. In the solitude of the journey down to the Sussex coast, she could consider the case of Nicholas Bassington-Hope against the cold light of day. And it was most certainly cold, and bright, for a clearing wind had swept across the south leaving blue skies but frosty ground underfoot.

Maisie liked to work methodically through a case, while at the same time allowing for intuition to speak to her, for truth to make itself known. Sometimes such knowledge would be inspired by something as simple as an unfamiliar scent on the air, or perhaps uncovering information regarding a choice made by one of the victims. And Maisie had found that the perpetrator of a crime was often every bit as much a victim. Yet this case seemed to beg for another approach, requiring her to “work both ways at once” as she had commented to her father, when he had asked her about the assignment that had brought her to Dungeness. Not that she had said anything else about the case, simply that it demanded something quite different from her.

That something different was the need to build up a picture, an image of the victim’s life without, perhaps, some of the usual information that might have been available. As she drove, she reflected upon the fact that she had not had the advantage of being present soon after the accident, so the immediate environment was clear of that energetic residue she always felt in the immediate presence of death. She thought she might in any case visit the gallery again soon, alone. Thus far she was only just beginning to fill in the outline of Nick Bassington-Hope’s life. She had first to sketch in her landscape, then, as she uncovered new information, she would add color and depth to her work.

Maisie changed gear as she decreased speed down the shallow hill into Sedlescombe. Her thoughts were gathering pace. Wasn’t this whole case like creating one of those murals, building a picture across uneven terrain, telling a story by adding detail to give life and momentum to the masterwork?

She had her broad charcoal sketch of the artist’s life, now to the finer points. First Dungeness: Had she seen something untoward or had the eerie silence of the coast at night ignited her imagination? Perhaps Nick’s carriage-window mural had teased her, led her to see something that wasn’t there, as hardworking fishermen brought their catch ashore against the unrelenting winter weather. Perhaps the lorry ahead of her on the road was not the one she had seen at the beach, or perhaps it was the same vehicle going to a warehouse or rural factory where fish were packed in ice for transit to London. Maurice had often warned her that the emotional or unsettled mind could interpret an innocent remark into a cause for argument, could change a happily anticipated event into an outing to be dreaded. And hadn’t she been unsettled by the greatcoat, by the weight of a garment that had been dragged though Flanders’s mud, with sleeves covering arms that, perhaps, had lent support and final comfort to the young officer’s dying men?

As Maisie pulled into the narrow road that led to the outer edge of the Old Town, above the slum of broken-down beamed cottages on Bourne Street, and along to the houses that commanded views across the Channel, she knew that she had a list of detailed sketches to create: the Bassington-Hope family; Nick’s friends and associates; those who collected his work and those who hated it; the mysterious lock-up. She wanted to know why her client had argued with Stig Svenson at the gallery. Looking back to that first meeting, she remembered Georgina’s observation that if someone had murdered Nick, they might also prey on her. What event, what situation gave cause for such a fear, or was it a throwaway comment meant to egg on the investigator? Was she being played for a fool by Georgina as well as by Stratton?

It was early yet, only two days had passed since the first meeting with Georgina Bassington-Hope, but now there was work to do in earnest—if not for her client, then for herself. For she was now quite convinced that even if Nick Bassington-Hope was killed in a terrible accident, and possibly as a result of his own negligence, it had given Svenson a cause to argue with his client’s executor, had resulted in a rift between the Bassington-Hope sisters and was leading to some very strange behavior by Detective Inspector Stratton.

“Maisie! By golly, I thought I would never see you again—and why, might I ask, are you sitting in your little red car staring out to sea?”

Maisie shook her head. “Oh, sorry, Andrew, I was miles away.”

Dene opened the door of the MG, took Maisie’s hand and pulled her to him as she alighted. “You’ve been avoiding me, I think,” he said teasingly, though the statement clearly begged for contradiction.

Maisie smiled, and blushed. “Of course I haven’t. Don’t be silly.” She turned her head toward the sea. “Let’s go for a walk. I have to leave at about two o’clock, you know, so let’s not waste the morning.”

For just a second Dene’s expression revealed his disappointment, then he smiled in return. “Grand idea, Maisie. Come on in while I put on my coat.” He held out his hand for Maisie to go ahead into the house. “Just a pity you aren’t staying until tomorrow.”

Maisie did not reply, did not turn back to offer an explanation or even an apology. And Dene did not repeat the sentiment, thinking his words had been caught on the wind and swept away, which, he considered, was probably just as well.

IT TOOK ONLY fifteen minutes to amble down to the High Street and then on to Rock-a-Nore toward the tall fishermen’s net shops at the Stade, where the couple stopped to watch a boat being winched ashore. Nets from other boats had been heaped in piles, ready to be cleaned out, mended and stowed for another day’s fishing. Though Dene was an orthopedic surgeon at the nearby All Saints’ Convalescent Hospital, he traveled to London regularly to lecture medical students on matters concerning injuries to the spine and the rehabilitation of those who are adversely affected by accidents, disease or the wounds of war. A protégé of Dr. Maurice Blanche, Dene thought that this connection in common with Maisie might promote their fledgling courtship, but after a promising start, he now wondered if he had not been rather optimistic. This morning he had opened his mouth to speak several times, hoping to open a deeper dialogue, only to remain silent.

Strolling along, Maisie and Andrew Dene watched as the womenfolk of the Old Town sold fish, winkles and whelks to winter day-trippers from London, who would take them home, a special treat with a bit of bread and dripping for their Sunday tea. Then there were those who paid a few pence for a white saucer of jellied eels or whelks to eat while leaning against the counter, a delicacy when washed down with a cup of strong tea.“Lovely plate of whelks, that.”“Have you tried them jellied eels?”“Nice day, when you get out of that wind, innit?”

All around them conversations could be heard, but little passed between the pair. Dene was about to try another tack, start another conversation, when he noticed Maisie looking across the Stade at one of the fishing boats. She was squinting, holding a hand across her forehead to shield her eyes from the light.

“What is it, Maisie? Seen one of the boys unload a fish you’d like?” quipped Dene.

She barely moved, still staring in the direction of the boat, then looked back at him. “Sorry, Andrew, what did you say? I was rather preoccupied.”

Dene replied in a clipped manner. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Maisie, you have been rather preoccupied since you arrived. What’s the matter? Can’t we even have one afternoon together without you seeing something that sparks a thought that clearly takes you back to your work—or to somewhere other than here, with me, in any case?”

Maisie did not address his comment, but instead asked a question. “Andrew, do you know the fishermen here? Are their names familiar?”

Dene suspected that Maisie had barely even heard him. “I—I…yes, I do, Maisie. I know most of the families, simply because I’m a doctor and I choose to live close to Bourne Street, where the ordinary people live.” He felt tension rise as he spoke, a mixture of annoyance at her avoiding his observation and fear that she might have used the moment to speak of her feelings—feelings he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear. He was relieved when she laced her arm through his and continued to walk in the direction of the men she’d been watching.

“Come on, let’s wander back to the tea shop. I’d love a cup before I leave for Tenterden.” With that she smiled, though Dene was quick to notice that, although she continued speaking, her attention had been drawn to three fishermen now standing alongside their boat. They were deep in discussion, backs against the wind, heads almost touching. As the couple passed by, Dene saw the men look up in unison, then turn back to resume their talk. Maisie was facing him now, as if, he thought, she did not want them to know she had seen them. They crossed the road.

“So, do you know who those men were, Andrew?”

“Look, what’s going on, Maisie? I know it’s none of my business, but—”

“Just their names, Andrew.”

Dene sighed, not for the first time today. “I don’t know the one in the middle with the red ponytail, but the other two are brothers. The Drapers: Rowland and Tom. They run Misty Rose, the boat they were all leaning against.”

Maisie walked faster now, unentwined her arm and faced Dene again. “Andrew, do you know anything about smuggling along the coast?”

Dene laughed, shaking his head as they reached the tea shop. “Oh, the things you ask, Maisie, the things you ask.” Placing coins on the counter for two cups of tea, Dene waited until they were served and had secured two seats at a table before replying. “Of course, smuggling has flourished along the coast from the Middle Ages, you know. Once upon a time it was cloth, fine wool or silk. Spice was valuable enough to be smuggled, then alcohol or even the fruits of piracy. It’s all a bit cloak-and-dagger and Dr. Syn-ish.”

“Dr. Syn?”

Dene took a sip of his tea before replying. “You should read a few more adventure stories, Maisie, then perhaps you wouldn’t look for trouble.” He paused to see if she would rise to the bait, but she continued to listen, without comment. “Dr. Syn, the Romney Marsh vicar and smuggler—a tale of devil riders and witches, me ’earties!” He mimicked the voice of a pantomime pirate and was delighted when Maisie laughed at his joke, but she soon became serious again.

“And what about now? What do they smuggle now?”

Dene leaned back. “Oh, I don’t know if there is smuggling nowadays, Maisie. Of course, there’s talk that those caves up on the cliffs all lead to tunnels that in turn wind their way into Old Town cottage cellars—so you know the smuggling went on, and they had a way out with the spoils, so to speak.”

Maisie was thoughtful. “But if you had to hazard a guess, what do you think people might smuggle, if they could?”

Dene shook his head, and shrugged. “I really don’t know. I mean, I suppose people smuggle things that are hard to get, and that you can get a good price for. I’m not sure that means alcohol anymore, or spices, or silks and wools.” He thought for a moment. “People probably smuggle things for different reasons….” He paused, shaking his head. “Now you’ve got me at it, Maisie. Speculating over something of little consequence.” It was Dene’s turn to consult his watch. “You’d better be getting on if you want to arrive at your appointment in Tenterden on time.”

They reached the MG in silence. Maisie turned to Dene before taking her seat and starting the engine. “I’m sorry, Andrew. I don’t seem to be able to give you what you want, do I?” She looked into his eyes, as if to gauge the effect of her admission, her assessment of their situation.

“We’re probably the kind of people who end up wanting the same thing at different times.” He smiled, though as his shoulders sagged and he looked down at the ground, it was the smile of a man resigned to a situation, rather than one who knew how he might change it.

Maisie touched his cheek with her hand but did not kiss him. It was just as she was about to drive away, her face framed in the side window of the motor car, that Dene leaned down and kissed her. He drew back, then spoke again. “Oh, and about those smugglers—I would imagine that the only reason for smuggling now is if someone is prepared to pay handsomely for something they desire, something that’s hard or impossible to get here. There are people who will do almost anything for something they really want, you know.” Dene patted the roof of the car as he stepped back to watch Maisie drive off.

THERE ARE PEOPLE who will do almost anything for something they really want, you know. Maisie repeated the words as she drove toward Tenterden. The third man on the beach, the one Dene didn’t know, was Amos White, the Dungeness fisherman. Maisie wondered whether it was usual for the fishermen to meet in this way. Of course, it must be. Surely the fishermen all know one another, they fish the same territory, probably trade together. But they had seen her, had found it necessary to comment to one another as she passed. Though they whispered, the tension in their bodies, the way they clustered as if to protect a secret, all served to speak directly to Maisie, as if they had uttered their very thoughts to her, or shouted their conversation above the wind. Yes, she had seen them all before, and so had Nick Bassington-Hope. She knew that now.

THE SKY HAD become lightly overcast by the time Maisie reached Tenterden, but instead of being a portent for rain, the cloud cover shimmered, backlit by a low sun that served to render the fields greener, the bare trees more stark against their surroundings. The conditions were ideal for ice on the roads, perhaps snow later. She had allowed more than enough time to drive from Hastings and had enjoyed a clear journey, so there would now be an opportunity to complete a couple of errands. At the florist she bought a small bouquet of flowers for Mrs. Bassington-Hope. Blooms were scarce at this time of year, but greenhouse flowers from the Channel Islands of Jersey and Guernsey were available, though expensive. As she left the florist, Maisie wondered how long the shop might remain in business, as expenditure on items such as flowers was becoming increasingly difficult for everyone—not that the poor ever had money for frivolous extras.

The local bookshop was another business run from premises with limited space. She was curious to see a copy of Dr. Syn, the book mentioned by Andrew Dene. There were two copies in stock, and Maisie settled into a chair to read the first few pages. If the novel had in some way inspired the artist, Maisie wanted to know more about the story. Before leaving the shop, she made a notation or two on an index card, then slipped it into her shoulder bag as she approached the bookseller to thank him for allowing her to look at the book.

“Maisie!” Georgina Bassington-Hope waved to Maisie when she saw her pull up at the station, then walked over to the passenger side of the MG, opened the door and sat down. “I cajoled Nolly into giving me a lift into town. She had to run a few errands, you know, visit the farm tenants, and so on, but if I ask a favor of her, she acts as if I’ve petitioned her to go in and feed herself to the lions.”

Maisie checked the road, then pulled out.

“No, don’t let’s go yet, I’d like to have a word first.”

“Of course.” Maisie drove on for a few yards, parked the motor car, turned off the engine, then reached for the scarf and gloves she’d pushed behind her seat. “Only you won’t mind if we walk rather than sit here. I see you’re wearing sturdy shoes, so come on, let’s go.”

Georgina agreed, but appeared rather taken aback. Maisie guessed that she was usually the one with the ideas, the one who made suggestions.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Well, first of all, Nick’s carriage-cottage. Did you glean much from your visit?”

Maisie nodded, composing her reply, while at the same time assessing Georgina’s mood. The way she walked, held her hands at her sides, opened and closed her fingers into her palm, then just as quickly pushed her hands up into the sleeves of her coat, all revealed a depth of tension, but what else? As they walked, Maisie came into step with her client, holding her hands and shoulders in the same fashion. She felt that not only was Georgina afraid, but her fear came from an expectation of something untoward. In her work, Maisie saw fear revealed time and time again but had learned that it was experienced in degrees, demonstrated in quite different actions and responses from person to person, from one event to another. Anticipation of bad news resulted in a more depressed aura surrounding the one who was afraid—different from, say, that of one who was fearful of another person, or who feared failing to do something by a certain time, or perhaps the consequence of a given action. Maisie suspected that Georgina was rather afraid of what might be uncovered, and that she was also somewhat regretful of her decision to delve into the cause of her brother’s accident. She considered that such feelings on Georgina’s part could have come as a result of some new information received, or perhaps a sense she had bitten off more than even she could chew.

“I came away with more questions than answers, to tell you the truth. Mind you, that’s not unusual at this stage in an investigation.” Maisie paused. “I find that I have become rather curious about Nick’s work. He was a most interesting artist, wasn’t he?”

Georgina took a handkerchief from her pocket, which she dabbed against the small drops of perspiration on her brow and on either side of her nose. “Yes, he was certainly interesting, and innovative. But, in what way did you discern that he was ‘interesting’?”

Maisie reached inside her coat and glanced at the old nurses’ watch pinned to the lapel of her jacket. “I noticed on one or two pieces that Nick depicted people he knew—their faces—in scenes that they couldn’t have posed in. I thought it was interesting that he would do such a thing. In fact—and bear in mind, I know nothing about art—I assumed that, much like a writer who casts a character inspired by a person known to him, yet who then protects that person with a fictional name, so the painter will employ all manner of disguises to avoid revealing the real person in a given scene. Nick seems to have gone out of his way to do the opposite.”

“Which piece are you referring to?”

“The mural on the walls of his cottage.”

“The smugglers?”

“Yes. It appears he used the fictional character, Dr. Syn, from the books by Russell Thorndike, to inspire an illustrated story. Yet when you look at the faces, they are men known to him.”

“Oh, of course! You know, I think he only did that the once. I remember him saying that fishermen have such weatherbeaten faces, like rocks chiseled by sea over the years, so he wanted to paint them in an historical context. He said that the sheer look of the men brought to mind the whole mythology of smuggling in the area. Then, of course, he read that book and was inspired to depict the story as a decoration for his carriage—all very appropriate, I must say, being on the edge of the mysterious Marshes.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, I thought it was rather clever. Mind you, I was curious about one thing, you know.” She turned to Georgina as they walked back to the MG and noticed beads of perspiration across her forehead.

“Oh, what’s that?”

Maisie took her seat and leaned across to open a door for Georgina. She started the engine, then continued. “I’ve placed the three fishermen who inspired the smugglers in the mural, but not the face behind the character of their fearless leader on his charger.” She let the comment hang in the air, looked both ways to check the road, then pulled away from the station and drove toward the High Street. “Left or right?”

Seven

The entrance to Bassington Place was flanked by two moss-covered pillars from which rusted iron gates hung open. Maisie thought the gates had probably not been closed for years, judging by the ivy tethering them in place. There was a one-story sandstone lodge, to the left, also covered in ivy.

“Gower, our gamekeeper, occasional footman and general estate factotum lives there with his wife, the housekeeper. Frankly, I wonder why we still have a gamekeeper, but Nolly is determined to raise funds by opening the estate to shooting parties. We’ve always had the locals, you know, and they all pay a bit to shoot, but Nolly has her eye on bigger things—in fact, she got the idea from one of Nick’s clients.” Georgina pointed to the right. “Carry on along here, then turn right, over there, by that oak tree.”

Making her way along a drive bordered by snow-dusted rhododendrons, Maisie drove slowly to avoid ruts in the road, following Georgina’s instructions. “One of Nick’s clients?”

“Yes, the American tycoon who is desperate to have the triptych. He said that there are still men with plenty of money over there, and they’re all looking for a bit of old Europe. I think that if Nolly were left to her own devices, she’d sell the whole place and my parents along with it—now there’s a bit of old Europe for you!”

“Is this it?”

“Yes, we’re here. And thank heavens, Nolly isn’t back yet.”

Maisie slowed the MG even more on the approach, so that she could study the property, which she thought was a magnificent example of a grand medieval country house, if now a little down-at-heel. It appeared almost as if three houses had been joined together, there were so many pitched roofs and even some ornate candy-twist Elizabethan chimneys, clearly added at a later date. The sturdy beams that framed the structure were completed by brownish-gray rendering that Maisie suspected had been laid on top of walls made of ancient wattle-and-daub. Diamond-paned windows had changed shape with the centuries, and here and there the beams were less than true where the ground had settled under the weight of walls and burden of years. Despite its size, the ivy-clad house seemed warm and welcoming, and in its way reminded her of Chelstone.

As she parked the MG, the heavy oak door opened with an eerie sound as cast-iron hinges groaned for want of some oil. A tall man of about seventy years of age approached them, but before he reached the motor car, Georgina leaned toward Maisie.

“Look, I realize I should have let you know before now, but I thought it best to tell my parents I had briefed you to look into Nick’s accident. Of course, even though I swore them to secrecy, they told Nolly, who has completely gone off the rails about it. Not that I’m scared of Nolly, but she can be such a bloody nuisance, even though one always feels sorry for her…but I’m fed up with dancing around her moods.” She clambered from the MG, walked toward her father and kissed him on the cheek. “Hello, Piers, darling, let me introduce my old friend from Girton, Maisie Dobbs.”

The Bassington-Hope patriarch held out his hand to Maisie, who immediately felt his warmth and strength. He was tall, over six feet in height, and still walked with the bearing of a younger man. His corduroy trousers were well kept, if slightly worn, and along with a Vyella shirt and a rather colorful lavender tie, he wore a brown cable-knit pullover. His ash-gray hair, which matched that of his eyebrows, was combed back, and his steel-gray eyes seemed kind, framed by liver-spotted furrowed skin at the temples and across his brow. Though Georgina had portrayed her parents as being somewhat eccentric, Maisie had been prepared for unusual behavior but was surprised when the woman used her father’s Christian name. As she observed the pair, she gained an immediate sense of Piers Bassington-Hope and suspected he might well use any appearance of eccentricity to his advantage, should such a thing be necessary.

“Delighted to meet you, Miss Dobbs.”

“Thank you for inviting me to your home, Mr. Bassington-Hope.”

“Not at all. We’re so glad you’ve come and that you’ve agreed to help Georgina here. Anything you can do to put her mind at rest, eh?”

Bassington-Hope’s smile of welcome was genuine but could not camouflage a gray pallor that pointed to the man’s sorrow at losing his eldest son. It didn’t escape Maisie’s notice that he used his smile, punctuating his words to great effect, as if to suggest that any investigation was purely for Georgina’s emotional well-being, an indulgence of her unsettled state. She suspected that, as far as Nick’s father was concerned, the matter was closed, with no further questions on his part. She wondered how Nick’s mother was bearing up under the weight of the family’s loss.

“Come along, Mrs. Gower has put up a tea, the like of which we have not seen in years! Your favorite this weekend, Georgie—Eccles Cakes!” He turned to Maisie. “Our children may well have grown, but Mrs. Gower feels a certain need to fill them up with their favorite foods when they make a weekend visit. Nolly’s here all the time, poor girl, but of course, if Nick were here…” The man’s words trailed away as he stood back to allow the women to enter the drawing room before him.

Even before she reached the drawing room, Maisie thought she would need a week to absorb her surroundings. Had this been Chelstone, or perhaps one of the other grand houses she had visited in the course of her work, the decor would have been more reserved, more in keeping with what was considered good taste. There were those adherents of Victorian mores who covered every table leg in sight and who filled every room with heavy furniture, plants and velvet curtains. Others adopted a softer approach, perhaps using those older pieces of furniture but blending them with brighter curtains and light, cream-painted walls instead of a forbidding anaglypta. Then there were those who had plunged headfirst into what the French had termed Art Deco. But for most, the decorating of a house was often a question of balancing personal taste with available funds, so even in the grandest homes, a blend of furniture and fittings illustrated the family’s history as well as investment in a few new pieces—a gramophone, a wireless, a cocktail bar. But this, the decor in the Bassington-Hope house, represented a departure she found at once stimulating and a little alarming.

In the entrance hall, each wall was painted a different color, and not only that, someone—perhaps a group of people—had left their mark by adding a mural of a garden of flowers and foliage growing up from a green skirting board. It appeared as if ivy had snaked in from the exterior of the house. On another wall, a rainbow arched over a doorway, and even the curtains had been dyed in a variety of patterns to match the artistic frivolity around her. An old chaise longue had been recovered in plain duck, then the fabric painted in a series of triangles, circles, hexagons and squares. Avant-garde tapestry wall hangings and needlepoint pillows of red with yellow orbs or orange with green parallel lines added to the confusion of color.

The drawing room seemed to be named more for the activity that went on there than as a place to which guests would withdraw for tea or drinks. The walls were painted pale yellow, the picture rail in deep maroon, while the skirting boards and doors were hunter green. When she had the opportunity to look more closely, Maisie saw that the beveled edges of the paneled doors were finished in the same burgundy, along with the window frames.

Georgina’s mother turned from her place in front of one of two easels set alongside French windows, wiped her hands on a cloth and came to welcome Maisie, who thought she was as colorful as the house itself. Her gray hair was coiled and pinned on the top of her head in a loose braid, with wisps coming free at the back and sides. A paint-splashed blue artist’s smock covered her clothing, but Maisie could see the lower half of a deep-red embroiderd skirt. She wore hooped earrings, and bangles of silver and gold on her wrists. She looked like a gypsy, reminding Maisie of the Kalderasa immigrants who’d flooded into London’s East End some twenty years earlier, bringing with them a mode of dress that had been adopted by many of those tired of dour, lingering Victoriana.

“Thank heavens Georgina found you. With Nolly driving, we thought she might insist on completing her errands first before running Georgie to the station to meet you. We were worried you’d be left in the lurch.” Emma Bassington-Hope clasped Maisie’s hand between both of her charcoal-stained hands. “As you can see, Mrs. Gower has laid out a magnificent tea—did you tell them, Piers? Come along, let’s sit down to our feast and you can tell us all about yourself.” She turned to her daughter and husband. “Throw those books on the floor, darlings.”

Becoming comfortable on a settee covered in floral fabric, she beckoned Maisie and patted the place next to her. Georgina and her father seated themselves in armchairs that reminded Maisie of old gentlemen in the midst of an afternoon nap. The settee springs had softened in the middle, so that, despite the large feather cushions, Maisie couldn’t help but lean toward her hostess. It was as if the settee was conspiring to bring her into the woman’s confidence, which wasn’t a bad thing, as far as Maisie was concerned.

“Emsy, Maisie is here on business, remember. She will have to ask you some questions.”

Maisie smiled and raised a hand. “Oh, that’s all right, Georgina. Later. There’s plenty of time.” She turned to Emma Bassington-Hope, and then to Georgina’s father. “You have a lovely house, so interesting.”

Georgina poured tea and passed cups to her guest, then her mother and father before offering cucumber sandwiches. Emma continued the conversation with Maisie.

“Well, it is a wonderful house for people who love to paint. We’re surrounded by the most exquisite countryside—we grow all our own vegetables, you know—and we have all this space to experiment with. And Piers and I have always been proponents of the notion that our canvases do not have to be squares constructed of wood and cloth.” She pointed at her daughter. “Why, when Georgie was a child, she would compose whole stories on the bedroom walls, then Nick would come in and illustrate them—we still have them, you know. Couldn’t bear to paint over them, and now, of course, it’s even more…” She held her hand over her mouth, then reached for the edge of the painter’s smock and pressed it against her eyes.

Piers Bassington-Hope looked down at his feet, stood up and walked to the window, stopping alongside his wife’s artwork, where he picked up a charcoal and added to her piece, then crushed it between his thumb and fingers. For her part, Georgina studied her hands, and glanced at Maisie, who had made no move to comfort the woman, whose shoulders moved as she sobbed into the smock. After some moments, moments during which Georgina’s father had opened the French doors and walked outside, Maisie reached across, taking the older woman’s hands in both of her own, as Emma had held Maisie’s hands when they were introduced.

“Tell me about your son, Emma.”

The woman was quiet for a while, then sniffed and shook her head, though she was looking directly at Maisie. “This is quite unusual for me, you know. I have barely met you, yet already I feel as if I am here with someone I have known for a long time.”

Maisie said nothing, waiting, still with her fingers cocooning the woman’s hands.

“I’ve been lost, quite lost, since the accident. Nick was so much more like me, you see. Georgina’s like her father—he writes, you know, and he’s also accomplished in other ways: designing furniture, drawing and composing music. That’s where Harry gets it from, I would think. But Nick was an artist through and through. I saw that even in boyhood. His work was so sophisticated for a child, his sense of perspective, the level of observation, acute. I remember thinking that not only could the boy draw a man working in a field, but he seemed to draw the very thoughts the man held within him. It was as if he could tell the complete story of the field, of each bird, of the horse, the plow. I could show you his boyhood drawings and paintings, and you would see—his heart and soul were poured into every line of charcoal on the paper, every sweep with sable and color. Nick was his work.” She choked on a sob, then leaned forward toward her knees, her forehead now touching Maisie’s hands as they continued to clasp her own. So earnest was her grasp that Maisie herself felt drawn to lean forward, to acknowledge the mother’s trust in allowing her tears to fall, and to gentle her by resting her cheek against the back of the grieving woman’s head. They remained so for some moments, until Maisie felt the dreadful keening subside, whereupon she sat up, but did not move her hands. Some moments later, when Emma Bassington-Hope raised her head, Maisie drew back her hands and looked into the woman’s eyes.

“Goodness me, I…I…do excuse me, I…”

Maisie spoke, her voice soft. “Say nothing, there’s no need.” She paused. “Would you like to show me some of Nick’s work, tell me more about him?”

IT WAS PERHAPS an hour later that Georgina’s mother and Maisie returned to the drawing room. During that time, Maisie had received a tour of the house, seen that every room was decorated in a different color and style and had concluded that this family seemed to typify everything she had associated with the word bohemian. The Bassington-Hope parents had clearly adopted a way of life that would have shocked the elders of their time, but they were not alone in their day in seeking an authenticity through which to explore their creative sensibilities. They had been fortunate to inherit land and property, resources that enabled them to pass on the indulgence to their children, who had no reason to believe that any door was closed to them, though Maisie was now intrigued to see if such an assumption was shared by the eldest child.

More of Nick Bassington-Hope’s work was on display around the house, though Emma pointed out that Nolly had sold a few pieces, gifts to his parents, even before Nick’s death. It was an action that, apparently, had caused Nick to argue with Nolly and had later incurred Georgina’s wrath. The parents had acquiesced at the time, realizing that the family trust was presently looking more than a little underfunded. During their conversation, Maisie became even more curious about Harry, as his name was seldom mentioned.

Maisie and Emma returned to the settee, where the demonstrative woman had taken Maisie’s hands in her own once again. She was talking about Nick’s wartime service, explaining how he had felt the need to “do his bit” for King and country, and had joined the Artists’ Rifles at the outset of war in 1914.

“I think it was having been in Belgium before the war, he felt that he should. Of course, we were completely against it—after all, Nick was a sensitive boy.” She smiled. “Now if they had given a rifle to Nolly or Georgie, I might not have worried so much, but then Georgie went in, anyway, and rather got herself in trouble with the authorities. And as for Nolly—”

“‘As for Nolly’ what?” The door slammed, and a tall, fortyish woman wearing a tweed walking skirt, brown leather shoes and a brown woolen jacket strode into the room. Pulling a beret from her head and running her fingers through mousey-brown hair cut in a sharp bob, she cursed the snow that had begun to fall again and glared at Maisie as she helped herself to tea and a scone. With features more pointed than Georgina’s, Noelle Bassington-Hope appeared terse and inflexible, and it occurred to Maisie that worry and tension had taken a toll on her looks.

“Go on, Mother, confess all, ‘as for Nolly’—what?”

“Oh, don’t be boring, Nolly. Miss Dobbs is our guest.” Georgina fumed at Nolly as she and her father had entered the drawing room through the French doors, just in time to hear the elder sibling demand an explanation of the overheard conversation.

Maisie held out a hand to Noelle, though she realized that she did not know Noelle’s married surname. “Mrs….”

“Grant. You must be Georgie’s inquiry agent, not that there’s anything to inquire into.” She took a bite from her scone, set the plate back on the table and held out her hand. Her actions were revealing: the nonchalant insult, executed with a certain flippancy, though Maisie understood her manner to reveal a lack of confidence, and something else, a sensation she had encountered already today. She’s afraid of me.

“A pleasure, Mrs. Grant.” Maisie paused. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Hmmph!” Noelle sat down next to her mother, in the place just vacated by Maisie. “I’m surprised a woman of your intelligence would get involved in this sort of thing—after all, our family was bereaved by an accident. Mind you, the things that women of supposed intelligence are wont to get up to always did flummox me, eh Georgie?” She looked across at her sister, who had claimed her seat once more, though her father was now holding out his hand for Maisie to be seated, while reaching for a sturdy wooden chair that was not simply varnished but painted in a wine color, with gold stars embellishing the seat.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Noll.” The younger sister rolled her eyes.

Though a family row might well have revealed much to her, Maisie did not want to become embroiled in sibling arguments. She stood up, claiming her shoulder bag. “Mrs. Grant, I realize that Georgina’s decision to enlist my services must have come as a complete shock to you—after all, your family is so recently bereaved, and of course you have broad responsibilities as a justice of the peace here and also in managing your parents’ estate. I would very much like to speak with you, especially as, in your role as a JP, you are familiar with the need for detail—is that not so?”

“Well…I…when you put it like that, I suppose…”

“Good.” Maisie held out her hand toward the garden, where one could just about make out the path against the dusk. “Let’s go for a stroll. It’s not as cold as it was and it’s only just started to snow lightly. I would value your opinion on a few matters.”

“Righty-o.” Noelle Grant set down her cup and plate, clearly warming to Maisie’s compliments. “I’ll whistle for the dogs and off we’ll go. Just a tick while I grab a scarf and gloves.” She stopped by the window as she looked out. “We’ll go out by the back door—I’ll find you some gum boots and an old jacket; you’ll need them.”