Messenger of Truth

Noelle led Maisie to the gun room, which smelled of wet dogs, rubber boots and stale pipe smoke. Once furnished with suitable outdoor clothing, Noelle took two walking sticks from an old clay pot, handed one to Maisie before opening the door and striding forward into the gently falling snow.

“Hmmm, I hope this doesn’t settle, you know. Otherwise I’ll have to get old Jenkins out with his horses to clear the drive in the morning.” She went on, barely glancing at Maisie as she spoke. “The man has a brand-new tractor in his barn and still maintains the shires do a better job. I keep telling him, ‘Move with the times, Jenkins, or be done for!’”

Maisie kept up stride for stride as they passed an old shooting brake that she supposed Noelle used to drive herself to and fro between committee meetings and visits to tenant farmers. “There are some folk who are just more confident with tools they know, and he will probably do a better job with the horses than the tractor because of it.”

“Hmmph! Well, we’ll see about that tomorrow morning, won’t we?”

The footpath ahead was barely visible under a layer of snow, so as far as Maisie was concerned, it would have to be a quick walk if she were to get on the main road to Chelstone before the weather made the going difficult for her low-slung MG.

“Mrs. Grant, I—”

“Call me Nolly, everyone else does—we’re nothing if not informal at Bassington Place.”

“Nolly, I wonder if you could tell me about your brother Nick, from your perspective. I’m curious to know more about him—and I understand you may have more insight than most, given that your husband served with him during the war.”

Maisie looked sideways and noticed creases form around her companion’s mouth as she pressed her lips together. Though she could not see her forehead under her hat, she knew the woman was frowning.

“I don’t think Nick was ever as much a flibbertigibbet as Georgie. Yes, they were twins, but Nick was always more single-minded.” She paused for just a second or two, then continued. “Now, I know you asked about Nick, but if we go back to the beginning then we have to talk about them both, for they were twins, and although they were always each their own person, there were obvious similarities, and people tended to think of them together.”

“I see.”

“Georgie could—and still can, I must say—be a bit of a will-o’-the-wisp, a new idea every five seconds—like hiring you, if you don’t mind me saying so.” She turned toward Maisie, her frown now evident. “Of course, the war calmed her down a lot—a grand idea to do what she did, but she almost bit off more than she could chew. It made her pull her neck in a bit, being in the midst of the horror. Don’t get me wrong, I admire her for it, but…anyway, you asked about Nick.” She paused to negotiate a fallen branch and beckoned Maisie to walk ahead of her for a moment or two before continuing along the path side by side. “Nick had all of Emsy’s emotion, all of that feeling, that intensity, but it was tempered by something from my father, a solidity, I suppose you could call it. Of course, they’re all an arty lot, my family, but Piers has a bit more—Lord, what would you call it?” Nolly stopped and looked up, taking a moment to call the dogs back to heel.

“Practicality?” suggested Maisie.

“That’s it! Yes, Piers may be a creative individual, but he also has a practicality about him—for example, his skill is in making furniture that’s both functional as well as artistic; he is craftsman and artist in equal measure. Now, if you take me—I am under no illusions, no illusions whatsoever—I am all practicality, and not a shred of the arty. Nick, as I said, was both. But as boy and man he could and did sail close to the wind.”

“Just like Georgina?”

“But in a different way. Georgina didn’t care who she upset, whereas Nick was more deliberate. He wanted to shake certain people, certain types of people, out of assumptions they may have made. Georgina sprayed her bullets with abandon; Nick always had a target before he took aim. And don’t get me wrong, I admired him terribly. I just think…oh, I don’t know…I just think certain sleeping dogs should be allowed to lie, that’s all.”

“The war?”

“Yes, the war, for a start.” Nolly looked up again and across the land now covered with soft, white snow. “We’d better be walking back soon. It’s getting dark and this snow is in for the night now. We’ll put on the wireless to listen to the weather forecast when we get back.”

The women walked for a while, talking about Nolly’s various occupations and plans for Bassington Place and the surrounding land. The estate extended for some considerable distance before reaching the first farm. Though much of the land was obscured by snow, there were meadows and woodland where, Maisie imagined, primroses, bluebells and abundant white wood anemones bloomed in spring. A river meandered across part of the land, probably to join the river Rother as it flowed on through the Marshes.

Maisie continued her questioning as they made their way back to the house. “So, tell me about the war and Nick.”

“He joined up straightaway, dragging his arty friends with him, even that one who was far too young at the time, what was his name”—she pulled up her collar—“Courtman, that’s the one, Alex Courtman. Anyway, they were all sent to different regiments following their training, so it was rather a surprise when Godfrey and Nick found they were serving together.”

“I was sorry to learn that your husband was lost in France.”

Nolly Grant shook her head. “Nothing lost about it. He was killed, buried over there. No, he wasn’t lost, I know exactly where he is. My husband died a hero on a battlefield, fighting for his country—and proud of it, I’ll have you know! Let’s get down to brass tacks here, none of this ‘lost’ or ‘passed’ business. I get so fed up with all this pussy-footing around the truth. People die, they don’t get lost and they don’t pass anywhere either!”

Maisie raised her eyebrows. “I understand that Nick was close to him when he died.”

“Nick was wounded shortly after Godfrey died. I received the telegram informing me that I was a widow, then looked after my brother as soon as he was brought home. Kept me busy. No time to think about it, you know. You have to get on and look after the living, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Maisie nodded, choosing her words with care. “Nolly, did you appprove of Nick?”

The woman sighed, looking at cobblestones underfoot as they came back into the stable yard. “What did it matter whether I approved or disapproved? This family does what it wants when it wants, without thinking of anyone else. And if they don’t let me go ahead with plans for the estate, we’ll all be at the doors of the poorhouse!” She paused. “Of course, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I’m the only one with any sense of the money it takes to run the place or how to deal with the tenant farmers—Godfrey was a sort of de facto manager after we got married and before he went over to France and we ran things together. Now I want to draw people in, you know, visitors. And visitors would never come if two of the Bassington-Hopes—make that three, if Harry has his way—manage to rub people up the wrong way all the time. So, did I approve? No, I didn’t. They tried to change things that you just can’t change.” She looked directly at Maisie. “Did Nick and Georgie really think they could stop a war with their pictures and words? Bloody stupid if you ask me. Frankly, someone should have stopped them long ago. Here, use this to pull off your boots.”

The women removed boots and coats, and before entering the main part of the house, Nolly looked out of the window to cast judgment on the weather.

“Well, Maisie, I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere but a guest room tonight. From here I can see that the avenue down to the main road is barely passable now. In fact, you should bring your motor around to the stable yard and get it under cover.”

“But I must—”

“Please don’t argue. We never allow guests to leave impaired by wine or weather. Now at least Piers can impress you with his 1929 elderflower!”

“NOLLY’S ABSOLUTELY RIGHT, you simply cannot expect to drive as far as Chelstone in this weather—it’s probably even worse over toward Tonbridge anyway. No, you must stay, mustn’t she, Emsy, Piers?” Georgina looked at her mother and father while her sister poured glasses of sherry from the tray just brought into the room by Mrs. Gower.

Maisie acquiesced. “Thank you for your hospitality. I do have to ask a favor, though—I’ve left my bag at my father’s house and I should really telephone him so that he won’t worry about me.”

“Of course, my dear. Nolly, do show Maisie the telephone. Let’s just hope the lines aren’t down, you never know. The good news is that, according to Jenkins, who came to the door just after you left, this little lot should clear with ease tomorrow morning. He said—his words—that it was the light fluffy stuff, not the hard stuff, so he’ll be over with Jack and Ben to clear the avenue first thing.”

“Not the tractor?”

“No, the horses.”

“That silly man!” Nolly cursed as she led Maisie to the telephone in the entrance hall.

Having assured her father that she was safe with friends, Maisie moved the MG to a spare stall in the stable block. Originally built to house fifteen horses, the stables were now home to four hunters, with other stalls kept for storage and for horses belonging to the paying guests welcomed by Nolly Grant. Returning to the house, she was shown to a guest room by Georgina.

“Good, the fire’s been lit, and Mrs. Gower has laid out fresh towels for you. Here, let me show you, there’s a bathroom next door. It’s a bit old, you could do a lap or two in the bathtub. I’ll bring along some nightclothes for you, and a dress for dinner, though it may be a bit big. Nolly likes to keep up appearances and as much as she annoys me, she’s stuck down here, so I just go along with it. We never did that sort of thing when we were growing up, so she was always embarrassed to bring friends home. Shame really.” Georgina smiled, waving as she left the room. “Drinks in about half an hour, then we’ll have dinner. I think it’s roast duck this evening.”

Maisie looked around the room. The wooden paneling must have once been dark brown, varnished then waxed to a glorious shine. Now it was painted in different colors, a checkerboard of green and yellow with a blue border. In each yellow square, someone had painted a geometric interpretation of a butterfly, a moth or a bee on the flower. Above the blue picture rail, a golden spider’s web ran up to and across the ceiling, with the center of the web at exactly the point at which the light fixture had been added.

“Caught in the Bassington-Hope web!” Maisie smiled to herself as she contemplated the serendipitous assignment of guest room. She walked through to the bathroom, which was mercifully plain, she thought, painted in white, with white tiles surrounding the ancient claw-footed bath and covering the floor. A dark oak chair was situated in one corner and a matching towel rail in another. As she leaned over to turn on the taps, however, she noticed that both pieces of furniture had likely been made to match the room, for the chair had a butterfly carved as if it had just landed on the back, and the towel rail bore a wooden spider climbing along one side. Returning to the bedroom, a closer inspection of the counterpane revealed a patchwork design of garden insects, with needlepoint cushions on the window seat crafted to match. As the bath filled with piping-hot water, Maisie turned to see a poem painted on the back of the door. It was a simple verse, a child’s poem. No doubt the room was the work of Georgina and Nick together, the furniture had been made by Piers, with the counterpane and cushions designed by Emma. Was every room in this house an exhibition of the Bassington-Hopes’ artistry? And if so, how did Nolly feel about being excluded from the hive of activity, for thus far Maisie had seen no evidence of her involvement.

Maisie found Piers to be most solicitous toward his wife and daughters, formally crooking his left elbow for Emma to rest her hand and be escorted into the dining room, then stepping aside for his daughters and Maisie to enter first. He led Emma to one end of the table, made sure she was comfortable, then waited for the women to be seated before taking his place opposite his wife. Emma was wearing a deep-red velvet gown with a black shawl around her shoulders. Her gray hair had been brushed back, but remained loose, neither braided nor coiled.

“Now you’ll be treated to Daddy’s wines!” Georgina reached for her table-napkin, then turned to Piers. “What are we having this evening to grace the duck, Daddy?”

Piers smiled. “Last year’s damson.”

“Fruity with an oakish balance,” added Georgina.

“Utter tosh!” Nolly reached for her glass, as Gower, now dressed in formal attire, served a rich blood-red wine from a crystal decanter. “Not the wine, of course, Daddy, but Georgina’s description, as usual trimmed with lace!”

“Girls, please! Let’s not bicker in front of our guest.”

“Hear, hear, Em, hear, hear.” Piers raised an eyebrow in mock annoyance, then reached out to place a hand on the hand of each daughter. “They may be grown women, Maisie, but together they can be like cats!”

“And when Nick was here, why—”

Maisie looked from Emma to Piers. The head of the Bassington-Hope household had released his daughters’ hands, and now looked down, shaking his head.

“Oh, darling, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.” Emma shook her head, admonishing herself. “It was the wrong moment, with us all together here, and with company.”

“If you would excuse me—” Piers placed his table-napkin next to his still-full glass and left the room.

Nolly pushed back her chair, as if to follow her father.

“Noelle!” Emma used her elder daughter’s Chistian name, which, Maisie noticed, caused her to turn immediately. “Let your father have a moment. We all feel grief, and we never know when it might catch us. For Piers, it is as a father for his son, and none of us know how deeply that might touch the heart.”

“Emsy’s right, you know, Nolly, you always think you can—”

“Enough, Georgina. Enough!” Emma turned to Maisie and smiled. “Now then, Maisie, I understand that you are good friends with Lady Rowan Compton. Did you know we were presented at court in the same year?”

Maisie held her wineglass by the stem and leaned aside as Mrs. Gower served pea soup from the tureen. She smiled at her hostess. “What a coincidence! No, I didn’t know. I bet she was quite a firebrand in her day.”

“My goodness, yes. In fact, I think that’s why I quite admired her, you know. After all, neither of us really enjoyed that sort of thing, though one was terribly honored to be presented to Her Majesty. Of course, she went off and married Julian Compton—he was considered quite the catch—when, according to my mother, her mother feared that she might take up with that funny man, what was his name?” She tapped the table, trying to remember.

“Maurice Blanche?” offered Maisie.

“Yes, that’s the one. Of course, he’s very famous now, isn’t he?”

Maisie nodded.

“And I—thank heavens,” continued Emma, “found an artist who saw the world from eyes like mine, and who also had a name, much to my parents’ delight.”

“Talking about how fortunate you were to bag me, eh, Emsy?”

“Darling, yes I am!” Emma Bassington-Hope’s eyes glistened as her husband entered the room once again, taking his place at the head of the table.

“Here we go, ready for a walk down memory lane, Piers?” Nolly rolled her eyes in a conspiratorial fashion.

“A finer walk could not be had—if our new friend could bear to join us.” Piers looked to Maisie.

“Of course. And I must say, this is an exquisite wine.”

“Yes, and hopefully there will be more of it—where’s Gower?” Nolly interjected again.

Two more decanters of Piers Bassington-Hope’s carefully crafted wine tempered the family’s tensions and, thought Maisie, made them sparkling company. By eleven o’clock they were lingering over the cheese course, Piers had loosened his tie at Emma’s request and the two sisters were finally at ease with each other.

“Do let’s tell Maisie about the big play. You remember, when Nick almost drowned dear little Harry in the river.”

“Should’ve held his head down a bit longer!”

“Oh, Nolly, come on!” Georgina reached across and tapped her sister playfully on the hand, and they both began to laugh. She turned to Maisie. “Now then, I think Nolly must have been sixteen, because Harry was only four.”

“I was sixteen, silly—it was my birthday!”

Piers laughed. “Sweet sixteen and we invited everyone we knew for the weekend. How many sixteen-year-olds have two members of Parliament, three actors, a clutch of poets and writers and I don’t know how many artists at her party?”

“And not one other sixteen-year-old!” Nolly turned to Maisie, giggling. Maisie thought that she was most like her sister when she laughed.

Georgina took up the story. “We decided to do a river play—all of us.”

Maisie shook her head. “What’s a river play?”

“A play on the river! Seriously, we had to compose a play that could be acted from the rowing boats, so we thought it would be a good idea to plunder Viking history.”

“Pity we didn’t know your friend Stig, then, isn’t it?”

“Now then…” Piers cautioned his eldest daughter, concerned that such a remark might annoy Georgina, who just waved her hand as if swatting a fly.

“There we were, all dressed up in our finery, the actors in boats, thee-ing and thy-ing and throwing hysterical fits of dramatic art back and forth, and Nick decided, on the spur of the moment, to bring some realism into the play. Harry, dear Harry, had just mastered the recorder and had been cast as a court jester—he was always either the dog or the court jester—” Georgina could hardly speak for laughing, aided, thought Maisie, by another glass of the somewhat lethal damson wine.

Nolly continued where her sister left off. “So, Nick picked up Harry, saying, ‘I shall cast yonder servant into the sea!’ and threw him in the river. Well, of course, Harry went down like an anchor, and there was a bit of laughing, until Emma screamed from the bank, which reminded us that he couldn’t swim! Very stupid, when I come to think of it.”

“Anyway, Nick leaped into the water—which wasn’t that deep—and pulled out poor spluttering Harry.” Georgina was now in fits of laughter.

Piers smiled. “Maisie, this is the sort of high jinks our children got up to when they were younger—terrifying at times, thoroughly mischievous in hindsight, but good for a laugh later on.”

Maisie inclined her head and nodded agreement, though she wondered if Harry found the experience mischievous, in hindsight.

“And,” added Georgina, “I remember poor little wet Harry screaming, ‘I hate you, Nick, I hate you! Just you wait until I grow up!’ Which of course incited Nick to even more teasing, along the lines of ‘You and your army, eh, Harrykins?’”

The laughter subsided and Emma suggested retiring to the drawing room for coffee. As they relaxed in front of the fire, Emma brought out photograph albums, telling detailed stories of this event or that. Soon, however, the wine that had aided such mirth an hour earlier now rendered the group more than a little soporific.

Maisie returned to her room, warm and cozy as Gower had made up the fire before retiring. A hot-water bottle had been placed in the bed and an extra blanket folded across the counterpane. She undressed, put on the nightgown left by Georgina and snuggled under the covers. Before turning off the light, Maisie leaned back on the pillows and gazed at the golden threads of the spider’s web above. She found the Bassington-Hopes almost as intoxicating as Piers’s homemade wine, though she had taken only a few sips at dinner. She was warmed by the intimacy of their stories, the sharing of family events and photographs. But was she captivated by the color, by the sheer audacity of the family? And if so, could she be blindsided by them, unable to discern something important with her usual integrity?

It was clear that Nick Bassington-Hope was the blue-eyed boy of the family. And despite their differences, Maisie detected a respect between Noelle and Georgina, as if each held the other’s strength and bravery in some account. Though Noelle might have thought that Georgina took enormous risks, and clearly disapproved of her way of life, she was proud of her sister’s accomplishments as a journalist. For her part, Georgina may well be frustrated by her sister’s bossy behavior, the disapproval even of her parents, but she was filled with compassion for the woman who had lost her husband to war, the young man she clearly adored. Georgina, too, was a woman alone, and understood Noelle’s quest to rebuild her life, the need to fashion a future with financial security, with companionship and with meaning.

Noelle had been completely honest with Maisie about her ambitions for the estate, and her belief that they should use Nick’s legacy to fund repairs and an income foundation based upon more than the leased farms and proceeds from the sale of various crops. It was evident that she considered both Nick and Georgina “troublesome” and Harry a lost cause. A musician, if you please!

And as Maisie replayed each and every sentence in their conversation, along with an image of the way Noelle moved when she made a point, or waited for Maisie to complete a question, she was struck by the fact that the eldest sibling—the one who tried, with limited success, to rule the Bassington-Hope roost, who acted more like a matriarch than her mother—had, apparently, never asked to speak to the person who discovered Nick’s body, had held back from visiting the gallery and had declined the pilgrimage to a London mortuary to say that final farewell to her brother. While the older sister was recounting events at one of Nick’s exhibitions, Georgina—who was more than a little tipsy and leaning toward Maisie on the soft-cushioned settee—whispered, “She didn’t even come to see him at the chapel of rest.”

No, Maisie had not finished with “poor Nolly” yet, any more than she had with any of the Bassington-Hopes, Georgina included. And then there was Harry. What was it that Georgina’s father had said about his younger son, when they were looking at photographs taken of the children in the summer of 1914? It was when he pointed out the photograph of Noelle, Georgina, Nicholas and Harry, who was about twelve years of age at the time, some ten years younger than the twins, and about half Noelle’s age. “And there he is, bringing up the rear. Harry. Always behind, always on the edge, that’s Harry.”

Burrowing under the covers, Maisie pondered the words before sleep claimed her: Always behind, always on the edge, that’s Harry.

Eight

An early morning thaw, together with the efforts of the industrious tenant farmer and his shire horses, meant that the avenue leading to Bassington Place was cleared of snow by eleven, allowing Maisie to leave at noon with Georgina, who had claimed a lift back into London. After a journey that proved to be slow-going, they reached Chelstone. The women conversed comfortably throughout the drive, though in quiet times, Maisie found herself questioning the source of an unease in Georgina’s company that had dogged her from the time the woman had first come to her office in Fitzroy Square. At first she had brushed it aside, but now the sensation was hard to ignore. As much as she admired Georgina’s strength and felt a compassion for her as she mourned her brother, there was something that nagged at her. It was as they drove through the village of Chelstone that a single word came to Maisie with such power that she almost said it out loud. The word was doubt. Her sense of confidence was being undermined by doubt, though she did not know whether it was her ability that she doubted, or her relationship with Georgina and the other Bassington-Hopes or the case itself. She wished she had time alone to think, to discover the cause of a potentially crippling emotion.

“I say, what a pile, Maisie. And I thought Bassington Place was sprawling! You certainly kept this quiet, didn’t you?” Georgina’s voice sounded loud to Maisie.

“Oh, we’re not going to the main house, Georgina. My father lives in the Groom’s Cottage.” She turned left down a lane just past the Dower House, where Maurice Blanche lived, and drew up alongside the small beamed cottage that was her father’s home. “I shan’t be a moment.”

“I’m not sitting out here in the freezing cold! Come on, you’ve met my family. It’s my turn now.” Georgina opened the passenger door and almost ran to the cottage, rubbing her arms as she went.

Before Maisie could take another step, the door had opened and Frankie Dobbs, expecting to see his daughter, instead came face to face with Georgina Bassington-Hope. Maisie felt her cheeks flush. This was only the third time since her mother died that someone she would introduce as a “friend” had come to the house. There had been Simon during the war, then Andrew last year, but no one else.

“Dad, this is—” Maisie slammed the driver’s door.

“Georgina Bassington-Hope. Absolutely delighted to meet you, Mr. Dobbs.”

Frankie appeared somewhat startled, but was quick to welcome Georgina. “Pleasure to meet you, miss.” He beamed as Maisie approached, taking her in his arms as she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. “Come on inside, both of you. It’s brassy out here.”

Once in the cottage, Frankie pulled another chair in front of the fire. “You didn’t tell me you’d be bringing a friend home, Maisie. I’d’ve bought something special for tea.”

“It was a last-minute decision, Dad. We’d been snowed in and Georgina needed a lift back to London.”

“I’ll put the kettle on.” Frankie moved toward the kitchen.

“We’re not staying, Dad. I’ve just come to—”

“Nonsense!” Georgina took off her coat and scarf, placed them across the back of an armchair and stood with her back to the fire. “A cup of tea to fortify us for the road would be excellent. Shall I lend a hand?”

Maisie flushed again, annoyed with Georgina for taking liberties—first when she insisted upon coming into the house, and now in assuming that she could just march in and do as she wanted. “No, that’s all right. I’ll go.”

Laughter came from the sitting room as Maisie bustled around the kitchen gathering cups and saucers and setting them on the tray with such energy that she thought they might crack. She knew her behavior was juvenile, knew that if she tried to explain her mood, she would seem—and feel—churlish, but as she listened to Georgina asking her father questions, drawing him out so that the usually reticent man conversed easily, Maisie wanted to run into the room and stop the exchange immediately. Why do I feel like this? Was it possible that she was jealous of Georgina, of her colorful family, of the ease with which she assumed the position of engaging guest? Lifting the heavy kettle from the stove, Maisie filled the teapot with boiling water, realizing, as she pulled away from the rising hot steam, that she wanted to protect her father, wanted to stop the conversation so that no more was revealed of their life together. She set the kettle on the stove again, placed the lid on the teapot and lingered. I do not trust her. Yes, that was where the doubt was rooted, in a lack of trust.

Having let her guard down while at Bassington Place, Maisie felt that Georgina was using that knowledge of her, overstepping the mark, giving her father the impression of a friendship that did not—could not—exist between them. She picked up the tea tray and, stooping to avoid the low beam above the door, returned to the sitting room, determined to wrest control of the conversation.

It was a half an hour later that Maisie insisted they should leave, given the possibility of poor road conditions. Frankie Dobbs donned a heavy woolen jacket so that he could wave them off. As she pulled out onto the carriage sweep, she automatically looked to her left before proceeding right and saw Lady Rowan walking across the snow-covered lawn with her three dogs at heel. She waved her walking stick in the air to attract Maisie’s attention.

“Who’s that?” asked Georgina.

“Lady Rowan Compton. Look, please stay here, Georgina, I really must say a quick hello.”

Georgina opened her mouth to speak, but Maisie had already stepped from the motor car and slammed the door behind her before running to greet her former employer.

“I say, lovely to see you, Maisie—though I do wish I had known you were at Chelstone. It’s a long time since we sat down for a chat.”

“It’s a flying visit, Lady Rowan, I needed to collect my case. I was snowed in while visiting a friend and couldn’t return to Chelstone until this morning. Now we’re back off into town.”

Lady Rowan squinted toward the motor. “Is that your doctor friend in the MG?”

Maisie shook her head. “Oh, no. That’s the friend I stayed with last night, Georgina Bassington-Hope.”

“Bassington-Hope?” Maisie noticed the older woman’s posture change with her words, her back becoming straighter, her shoulders bracing. “Daughter of Piers and Emma Bassington-Hope, by any chance?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Lady Rowan shook her head. “Well, I never.”

“Is something wrong, Lady Rowan?”

“No, no, nothing at all.” She smiled at Maisie, then added in a brisk manner, “Better not keep you. It’s turned into a lovely day, with the sun streaking across the snow. The roads will be clearer now, so you’ll have a good run back into town.” The dogs began to bark as they ran in the direction of the Groom’s Cottage, for they had seen Frankie Dobbs, whom they knew to be a source of treats. “Oh, dear, just when I thought they were behaving. Cheerio, Maisie.”

Maisie said good-bye, ran to her MG and set off. When she looked back before turning onto the Tonbridge Road, she saw Lady Rowan standing with her father, both of them staring after the motor car. Though Frankie Dobbs gave a final wave, Lady Rowan did not raise her hand. Even from a distance Maisie knew that she was frowning.

MAISIE WAS DELIGHTED to return to her own flat to find that the radiators were now warm to the touch. It was enough to contribute to the costs of the central boiler, without adding on a gas fire. Thank heavens the builders had decided not to put in one of the efficient, but so expensive, electric fires.

Sitting in an armchair, her legs curled to one side, she rested a notebook on her knees and jotted some notes. Despite thoughts and feelings that assailed her earlier in the day, there was nothing to convince her that Nick Bassington-Hope’s death was anything but an accident. However, if she assumed foul play, she might make progress swiftly. She must look for evidence, motive and a killer. She had not wanted to work in this way at first, for a method based on assumption might lead to misunderstanding, viewing some innocent item as a vital clue, or an offhand comment as the basis for an inaccurate conclusion. She had seen such things happen with the police, when it was obvious that pressure was coming from a higher quarter to make an arrest. Though her approach sometimes took more time, the accuracy of her accomplishments bore out the integrity of her work. But this time, to create momentum, she would take that alternative tack.

Maisie closed her eyes. Envisioning the gallery, she brought to mind the artist working on his platform. He was securing the anchors that would hold the triptych, which must have been quite large. Or was it? The studio in his carriage home would have accommodated a canvas of about eight feet in height, at a pinch, if the canvas were set at an angle for the artist to work. She considered the place where the triptych would hang. Yes, that would have been about right for a center piece, say, eight feet by four or five feet. Then side panels. She thought back to the mural. Everyone assumed that the lost work comprised three pieces, but what if there were more? Would that make a difference to the outcome? She would study the wall in as great a detail as possible to try to ascertain what preparation Nick was making—indentations in the wall where anchors had been placed might provide a clue to the number of pieces, though the screws and nails used in the construction of scaffolding had also left their mark, despite later renovation work.

A clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour. It was six o’clock, time to get ready for Georgina Bassington-Hope’s party. She was dreading it. The truth was that she knew she would feel ill at ease, and not only due to the doubts that had enveloped her earlier in the day. The very thought of a party brought to mind her years at Girton, when she returned after the war to complete her studies. There were occasions when she and other women were invited to parties, usually by men also taking up their studies once again, or younger men embarking upon them. And it seemed as if everyone wanted to dance the past away. For Maisie, such events usually meant an hour or two holding up the wall, a barely sipped drink in her hand, before leaving without even locating a host to thank. She had been to only one party she had ever enjoyed, where she had ever allowed herself to let down her defenses, and that was at the beginning of the war. Her friend Priscilla had taken her to a party being thrown by the parents of Captain Simon Lynch, who wanted to give him a joy-filled farewell before he left for France. Memories of that party remained bittersweet. Since then, despite the passage of time along with academic and professional success, she had never managed to garner confidence in such social situations.

Dressing in her black day dress along with the knee-length pale-blue cashmere cardigan and matching stole that Priscilla had given her last year, Maisie brushed out her hair, rubbed a little rouge on her cheeks and added a sweep of color to her lips. Checking her watch as she dropped it into the cardigan pocket, she took the navy coat from the wardrobe in her bedroom, collected her black shoulder bag, then pushed her feet into her black shoes with the single straps that she’d left by the door.

Maisie had debated the most appropriate time to arrive for the party, which, according to the invitation, started at seven, with a light supper to be served at nine. She didn’t want to be the first to arrive, but neither did she want to enter late and miss someone with whom it would behoove her to engage in conversation.

It was not possible to travel at more than a crawl along the Embankment, so dense was the ochre smog that enveloped buses, horses and carts and pedestrians alike—not that there were many of the latter out on a murky Sunday night. Parking close to the red-brick mansions, Maisie was grateful to secure a parking spot from which she could see people enter Georgina’s flat, and get her bearings, if only for a moment. It was cold, so she pulled the wrap around her neck and blew across her fingers as she waited for more guests to arrive.

An elegant couple arrived in a chauffeur-driven motor car, the woman—thankfully, observed Maisie—not wearing evening dress but clearly something shorter for what had now become the “cocktail” hour. On her way to Chelsea, it had occurred to Maisie that an evening dress may have been more appropriate, an academic thought, in any case, as she did not own a gown. Another motor car screeched to a halt in front of the wrong mansion, whereupon the driver slammed the vehicle into reverse gear with a grinding crunch, the brakes squealing as he then shuddered to a halt alongside the correct address. Two women and a man alighted, all looking a bit tipsy, whereupon the driver yelled that he was going to find a spot for the motor car, which he drove just another few feet and parked haphazardly before leaving the vehicle with the lights on. Maisie decided that rather than call after him, she would locate the man when she went into the party.

Maisie reached for her bag and was just about to open the door when another motor car pulled up, followed by a second that she recognized immediately. She hoped that her vehicle could not be easily seen from the front of the building. Fortunately, in the darkness, the usually distinctive claret would blend in among other motor cars parked on the street. As she watched, Stratton stepped from the Invicta, whereupon he approached the first motor car just as the man she had seen him speaking to yesterday alighted onto the pavement. They didn’t shake hands, so Maisie assumed they had met earlier, or—and this was a new consideration—that they didn’t particularly care for each other. A young woman, dressed for a party, followed the man from the first motor, and as both Stratton and the man spoke to her, she nodded. Maisie suspected the woman might be one of the new female recruits to detection working with Dorothy Peto at Scotland Yard. She waited. Soon the woman entered Georgina’s building, whereupon the two men returned to their respective vehicles and departed. Maisie ducked as they drove past, hoping, again, that she had not been seen.

She waited as two more motor cars, both chauffeur-driven, deposited party guests at the mansion. Then a man came out of the shadows and swirling smog, walking along the street. He was swinging a cane, his gait suggesting that of a young man, a man who was perhaps singing to himself. He wore no hat, and his overcoat was open to reveal evening attire, with a white dinner scarf hanging rakishly around his neck. Maisie suspected that this was Harry Bassington-Hope. As he walked up the steps to the front door, another motor car emerged from the shadows, and drove slowly past, much as a predator tracked his prey. But just as a lion might stalk for a while just for the sport, so the driver seemed only to be following. The scene suggested to Maisie that this was someone who was simply watching and waiting, someone in no hurry to make his move. At least, not yet.

Though the street was dimly lit, as the motor car came alongside, the driver looked directly at the MG. Maisie leaned back into the seat and remained as still as a statue, but at that moment a light went on in the window of the mansion to her left, illuminating his features. Despite the limitations of a sideways glance, she recognized him at once.

“MAISIE, LOVELY TO see you, so glad you’re here.” Georgina waved a waiter to one side, then linked her arm through Maisie’s, a demonstration of affection that unsettled Maisie, though she understood that for the people she was now mixing with, certain social boundaries and codes of behavior had been eroding in the past ten years.

“Let me introduce you to a few people.” Georgina turned to another waiter and took two glasses of champagne, passing one to Maisie, before tapping a man on the shoulder. The family likeness was instantly evident, and he was, without doubt, the same man Maisie had seen walking along the street, cane in hand. Though his coat was now gone, he was still wearing the dinner scarf.

“Harry, I want you to meet Maisie Dobbs.”

The young man reached out to shake hands. “Charmed, I’m sure. Always good to meet one of Georgina’s Amazons.”

“Amazons?” asked Maisie.

“Oh, you know, accomplished independent new women and all that, a fellow marauder abroad. Likes to cut off a man in his prime—don’t you, Georgie Porgie?”

“Don’t make me sorry I asked you to come, Harry.” Georgina shook her head at her brother, then led her guest through the crowded room toward three men standing close to the fireplace. “Come and meet Nick’s old friends. It’s such a pity you missed Duncan and Quentin in Dungeness—they came up again this morning. Alex, as ever, had already cadged a bed here for a few nights!” As they approached the men, Georgina gained their attention. “Gentlemen, I’d love you to meet an old friend from Girton: Maisie Dobbs. Maisie—allow me to introduce Alex Courtman, Duncan Haywood and Quentin Trayner.” Georgina glanced back into the room, then extricated herself from the group. “Oh, do excuse me, the Sandlings have arrived.”

They watched Georgina vanish into the gathering throng, then turned to one another again. Maisie was the first to speak. “So, you’ve known each other for years, I understand.”

Duncan reached up to the mantelpiece to press a half-smoked cigarette into a silver ashtray. He was shorter than his friends, with a wiry build, quick in his movements and precise in manner. His features were sharp, with a small slender nose, mouselike eyes and light brown hair swept back away from his forehead. Maisie thought he looked like a vole. He was about to reply when Alex responded to Maisie’s question.

“Yes, since before the war, actually. Duncan, Quentin, Nick and I met at the Slade.” Alex nodded toward his two friends as he recited their names, and at the floor when he spoke of Nick. “And when the powers that be learned that I was a bit on the young side to have joined up—wanting to follow my compatriots into the fray but thwarted when my mother insisted I was to be sent home, whereupon she boxed my ears for good measure—I was put to work at the ministry. Nick turned up after he was wounded and we both ended up drafting pictures to shake the populace out of its midwar torpor. Then Nick was sent over again for a stint with a paintbrush instead of a bayonet.”

“I see.” Maisie thought Alex painted an almost romantic picture of the friends’ wartime exploits, though was hardly surprised, for he seemed to be something of a romantic figure himself, with dark brown hair combed into place in such a way as to remind her of a poet, or an actor, someone she had seen at the picture house—Leslie Howard, perhaps. He was the taller of the three, and had retained something of the lanky adolescence of youth. His eyes seemed to narrow into half-moons when he smiled, which was often, and Maisie thought that one could see every one of his teeth when he laughed. Quentin, who was of medium height and stocky, with light brown hair and deep, hooded eyelids, seemed to stand apart, looking down at his feet or across at other guests as Maisie conversed with Duncan and Alex. She felt something akin to fear emanate from him, as if he wanted nothing more than for her to leave the three in peace.

“…so you should have seen us, raw recruits on the Friday route-marches across London.” Alex was speaking of the early days following their enlistment. “We’d be led by the regimental band along the Euston Road, past Lord’s, up the Finchley Road, past Swiss Cottage then on to Hampstead Heath. It was a lark, for us lads, because all the shopgirls used to come out and throw cigarettes and sweets at us.”

Duncan spoke up. “Frankly, as Nick always said, the most objectionable and insufferable enemies we had to face were mud and rats.”

“Oh, and do you remember the anthem?” Alex nudged Quentin, and looked at Duncan before bringing his attention back to Maisie. “Nick would get everyone singing—in fact, I think he wanted a spot at the Artists’ Rifles recruiting concert in 1915, but of course, we’d all gone over by then.” He cleared his throat and began to sing a verse.“Danger and hardship ne’er can alarm us.Ready at England’s call are we,The Arts of Peace themselves shall aid us,We fight for Queen and Liberty.”

A group nearby turned and applauded, calling out for more, whereupon Alex bowed and shook his head. He turned to Maisie. “Actually, I think that’s the only verse I can remember, and of course, it’s ‘Queen’ because the Rifles were founded in old Victoria’s time.”

Quentin spoke for the first time, adding in a surprisingly strong voice, “And we were never ready, any of us, for anything, especially not for France.”

The group became quiet, a few seconds of discomfort until a waiter approached with a tray of glasses filled to the brim with champagne.

“I say, over here!” Alex handed fresh glasses to his friends, while Maisie raised hers to indicate that it was still half full.

“And now you all live down in Dungeness?”

Once again Alex was first to reply. “We’re all moving on now, aren’t we chaps?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Duncan has recently married his long-suffering fiancée, so he’s moved to an idyllic cottage in Hythe. And Quentin’s in the process of moving.” He turned to Maisie and said in a mock whisper, “To live with his thrice-wed paramour in Mayfair.”

“That’s quite enough, if you don’t mind.” Quentin’s voice signaled a warning.

As the conversation listed toward matters of property in London, Maisie wondered how she might orchestrate a meeting with each man alone, deciding that the party presented neither the time nor the place. For now it was enough to have made the acquaintances necessary to reintroduce herself when they met again, which she planned would be within the next few days.

Maisie chatted to the men for a little longer, then excused herself, claiming a need to catch up with an old friend she had just noticed standing in the corner. As she walked toward the young woman she had seen with Stratton earlier, she was aware of the silence behind her and knew that Nick’s fellow artists were waiting until she was out of earshot before discussing the encounter.

“Oh, hello, I think we’ve met before, haven’t we? Was it at the Derby last year?” Maisie addressed the woman as she was reaching for an hors d’oeuvres offered by a waiter.

“I—I—yes, I do believe we have. And yes, it must have been the Derby.”

Maisie smiled. “Hadn’t you just backed a horse called Murder Squad?”

“Oh, crikey!” The woman all but choked on a vol-au-vont, then shook her head.

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me, but next time, don’t agree to having seen someone at a place you haven’t visited. Best to admit that you don’t recognize them, then take it from there. A downright lie will always catch you out, unless you’re very clever.”

“Who are you?”

Maisie smiled as if she really were chatting to an old friend. “I’m Maisie Dobbs.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“At least you know I’m friend, not foe. Are you working for Stratton?”

She nodded. “I—I can’t tell you anything. Look, I really should be going.”

“No, don’t give up now, you’ll likely lose your job—or end up in front of a typewriter at Scotland Yard. Just tell me who you’re here to report on. Does our hostess know who you are?”

“No. I came in and latched on to one of those frightful men over there, they were leaning against the door when I came in, it was just the situation I needed.”

“Go on.”

The woman sighed. “I was seconded to come here by Stratton, and also Vance, from the Flying Squad.”

“And who are you watching?”

“Harry Bassington-Hope.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

She shook her head. “I’m just here to report back on what time he arrived, who he spoke to, what time he leaves. I’m to note whether he arrived by taxi and whether he takes a taxi when he departs.”

“And how were you supposed to know how he arrived here if you were here first?”

“I’d ask him.”

“Have you?”

She shook her head.

“What’s your name?”

“Doris Watts.”

“All right, Doris, here’s what you need to know. He came on foot from the far end of the road, possibly having walked or caught a tube from his digs or another engagement—though you can hardly be expected to supply such details, unless he tells you. He’s currently drinking and entertaining anyone who cares to talk to him, so why don’t you go across and introduce yourself.”

“Will you tell Stratton you saw me?”

Maisie glanced around the room to locate Georgina, then replied, “Yes, I probably will, but I will also tell him that you were acting quite inconspicuously and that I would only have guessed that you were with the Yard because I saw them drop you off—now that was amateurish, so it’s entirely their fault.”

Doris Watts was about to speak again, when there was a commotion at the door as Georgina welcomed another guest into the party, the noise level of which had increased in the short time since Maisie had arrived. The hubbub of conversation died down and people began looking at the new arrival, stepping back as their hostess maneuvered the man into the center of a group standing by the window. Maisie turned away, for she had grown cold.

“Oh, my goodness, look who it is.” Doris Watts placed her hand on Maisie’s arm.

At that point, Maisie looked around, her curiosity piqued by the guest who had not only caused the sea of onlookers to part but whose presence had chilled her to the bone.

“Mosley,” she whispered.

“It is him, isn’t it? Wait until I tell D.I. Stratton that she knows Oswald Mosley.”

As the man began to speak to the group, more guests edged nearer to him. And with his immediate circle burgeoning to become an audience, what was at first an intimate conversation began to develop into a speech. Maisie, too, was drawn to the clustering guests, though not to listen, but to observe the effect one man could have on the surge of people around him that now encompassed the entire party—with the exception of Alex, Duncan and Quentin, who had quite noticeably moved away, each of them frowning as they looked back and forth from the man, then to one another as they whispered.

Oswald Mosley, the former Labour member of Parliament, was a suave, almost hypnotic orator, with black hair accentuating his piercing dark eyes. Maisie found him cobralike, with a power to beguile that mesmerized those present as he expounded his views on the future of the country.

“The New Party will lead the way, friends. There will be no more unemployment, which has only been increased by our Labour Party’s policies. There will be new friendships forged with our former enemies, and never, ever will we march again, to die on foreign lands in defense of our soil. We will build our country and protect our own borders. And we will go forward to take up our rightful place as leaders of the modern age.”

The cheers and shouts of “Hear, hear!” and “Hurrah!” escalated around her, with men and women reaching out to touch the charismatic politician as he began to shake hands with those who were queuing up, almost as if he were Midas and one touch would give them the blessing of untold riches. Maisie decided to take her leave. She stopped on the way to the front door to speak to Alex Courtman, who was reaching for another glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray.

“I say, Miss Dobbs, not leaving already, are you? The dancing will start in a moment!” As if on cue, the music changed from a background melody to a loud rag. “Oh, jolly good!” Courtman took Maisie’s glass and set it on the waiter’s tray with his own, and pulled her into the center of the room, where others were already moving in time to the music. “Just one before you go.”

“Oh, no, I—I—”

But before Maisie could object further, she had been caught up in the melee. And though she professed not to be able to dance, her feet found the rhythm and, looking sideways at the other dancers, she followed their lead, and was soon one with the partygoers bent on dancing the night away. She laughed as Courtman caught her around the waist with one hand, clutching her right hand as they stepped back and forth in unison to the ragtime number. She even laughed when she stepped on his toes, a move that caused Courtman to wince in mock pain. Maisie cast the worries of the morning to the side, allowing the music to buoy her spirit and touch her soul. Claiming two more dances before she waved her hands to indicate that she really must leave, Courtman pressed his hand to his heart at her departure, then gave a theatrical bow to signal his farewell. Smiling, she made her way from what had become a dance floor, then looked around just in time to see her partner grab a horrified Doris Watts and pull her to him, while the music grew even louder.

Maisie was still smiling as she searched for her hostess to thank and say goodnight before leaving. The hall was quiet and empty as Maisie turned the corner, in time to hear raised voices coming from a room off to the side. She had glimpsed into the room as she entered the flat, and had seen the journalist’s book-lined sanctuary. Now, as she crept closer, she heard Georgina’s voice, followed by that of her younger brother.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Georgie, you really are a fusspot. In fact, you’re getting more like Nolly every bloody day.”

“If asking you what in heaven’s name you think you’re doing is making me like Nolly, then so be it. Do you think I can keep handing over more money to pay off your debts?!”

“Come on, Georgie. You’re always flush and this is a matter of life and death.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Harry.” As Georgina spoke, Maisie heard paper rustle. “There you are. It’s all I can let you have at the moment.”

There was a pause in the conversation, then Harry Bassington-Hope spoke again. “Nick might have nagged the stuffing out of me, but there was always a bit more in my pocket after the upbraiding.”

“Well, I’m not Nick! The least you could do is say thank you.”

Maisie heard the already ajar door open wider and stepped back so that when she retreated into the hall, there would be no suspicion raised that she had heard the exchange. The front door slammed behind Harry Bassington-Hope, who had not even bid his sister good night.

“Georgina, I’m leaving now, I—”

“Must you go?” Georgina appeared tired, but in the manner of the true hostess began the pretense of being put out by the departure of her guest. As she spoke, she looked over Maisie’s shoulder and smiled in the direction of another guest, adding, “In a moment, Malcolm.” She turned back to Maisie. “Well, I hope you had a good evening, Maisie, dear.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, indeed, it was. I was rather surprised to see Sir Oswald Mosley here—do you know him?”

“My dear, everyone who’s anyone knows Oswald. Future PM, just you watch.”

“What do you think of him?”

Georgina shrugged her shoulders, as if there really was no other answer than the one she was about to give. “I think he’s a brilliant politician, an amazing man. We’re lucky to have his like among us—it was quite a coup, having him come this evening. Everyone wants him at their parties.”

Nodding again, Maisie changed the subject. “I’d like us to confer tomorrow morning as early as possible. I have some more questions for you, and there are aspects of the case I wish to discuss.”

“Right you are, but let’s hope you don’t mean too early. How about ten?”

“Of course. Can you come to my office?”

“All right. Ten o’clock at your office.”

Maisie smiled. “Thank you for inviting me to the party.”

Georgina Bassington-Hope moved forward and pressed her cheek to Maisie’s, then looked around to ensure they were alone. “Maisie, I’m so glad you came. I know it probably seems heartless, having a party when someone you love has died, but…”

Maisie nodded. “It’s all right, Georgina, you don’t have to explain. I do understand.” She paused, placing her hand briefly on the woman’s upper arm to reassure her. “Your life must go on. I am sure Nick would approve—everyone’s having a wonderful time and I have enjoyed myself thoroughly.”

Georgina nodded, assured Maisie that she would see her in the morning, then turned aside to indicate to the butler that her guest was leaving. As Maisie departed, she heard Georgina in the distance say, “Not leaving so soon, Oswald?”

MAISIE SLIPPED INTO the driver’s seat of the MG and sighed. Despite earlier misgivings that had remained uppermost in her mind, she had seen a vulnerability in Georgina Bassington-Hope and had allowed it to touch her. She was still on her guard, but that did not preclude the compassion she felt for her client when she overheard the conversation with manipulative Harry Bassington-Hope. She understood that the truths that lay between black and white, in the gray areas of experience, were never cut and dried, and though she did not trust Georgina—doubting her in some way she had yet to identify—she had always tried to see the humanity in others.

She started the motor, turned on the lights and pulled out into the street. The smog was even thicker, if that were possible, and once again rendered any speed in excess of a crawl dangerous.

Leaning forward as she drove, Maisie stopped at the junction with the Embankment before turning right to continue her journey. It was then that she saw an unexpected movement by the river wall, an activity that sparked her suspicion and caused her to pull over and turn off the MG’s lights. She could barely ascertain what was happening, so thick was the air around her. In the murky light shed by gas lamps, she saw two men talking to a third man who had his back to the wall. One of the first two poked the third man repeatedly on the shoulder, until he reached into his pocket and pulled out something that he passed to the second man. The first man poked him again, whereupon he and the second man stepped into a waiting motor car and drove off. The man with his back against the wall took a few moments to compose himself—he also seemed rather drunk—then he turned and ambled off along the Embankment, as if he were not entirely sure where he was going. The man was Harry Bassington-Hope.

At first, Maisie thought she should offer him a lift, but then decided against such a move. She did not want him to consider that she might have seen what had just transpired, the passing on of money taken from his sister. Even drunks have memories, if unreliable. And she thought that he was probably safe now, seeing as the piper had been paid. But who was the piper? Experience informed her that such men as those encountered by Georgina’s younger brother were usually servants to one who was much more powerful, and certainly the conversation she overheard earlier indicated that Nick had baled out his brother before.

Maisie parked in her customary place, close to her flat. As she closed and locked the door, she smiled, remembering the dance, and took one or two steps in rhythm to the rag she could still hear ringing in her ears. But that smile soon evaporated. She stopped to listen, to pay attention to the physical sensation of fear that at once enveloped her, then continued walking. She considered that the sensation might be associated with the scene she had witnessed alongside the Embankment and entertained the possibility that the one to whom Harry Bassington-Hope was indebted might have previously approached Nick directly. Or, if he had not approached him, it was even more likely that he tried to find a weakness he could exploit. She considered the driver of the motor car that had trailed the younger Bassington-Hope to his sister’s party, and it occurred to her that she had already discovered the source of Nick’s Achilles’ heel. It was therefore crucial that she speak to his friends as soon as possible.

With the feeling of dread increasing as she approached the door, Maisie took the flat key from her shoulder bag, then looked toward the brightly illuminated center stairway and the silhouette of a man pacing back and forth. Now she understood the root of her dread. The appearance of Billy Beale waiting for her late on a Sunday night could mean only one thing.

Nine

Driving at what amounted to breakneck speed, considering that she could barely see three feet beyond the front of the motor car, Maisie was so intent upon getting to Billy’s house that she took chances she would never otherwise have taken. Barely missing a horse and cart, the carriage lanterns dim as the man made his way home, she turned into Billy’s street with a screech that must have given half the neighborhood cause to believe the police themselves had come in search of criminals. It was a neighborhood where to see a motor car was still a rarity, and where residents lived in damp, cramped conditions, most with no running water, and windows that had to be shut tight against the fetid air that came up from the docks.

Billy’s wife stood at the already open door as Maisie leapt from the MG, reached behind the seat for what she called her “medicine bag” and rushed into the house.

“We’ve got her downstairs, Miss Dobbs.” Doreen Beale had been crying but followed Maisie as she made her way along the narrow passage through to the kitchen at the back of the house. A pregnant woman sat holding Lizzie Beale, who was whimpering and, it seemed as her eyes rolled back, was on the brink of unconsciousness.

“Clear the table, and set a blanket and sheet on it for me—and Billy, bring over that lamp so that I can see her.” Maisie reached for Lizzie, cradling her in one arm as she pulled open the shawl that swaddled her, and then the buttons on her flannel nightdress. “She’s burning up and fighting to breathe—and you say you couldn’t find the nurse or the doctor?”

Billy shook his head as Doreen laid out a blanket across the table and topped it with a clean sheet. Maisie set Lizzie down.

“No, Miss,” replied Billy. “And every time we tried to pick Lizzie up, she screamed, so I knew we’d never get ’er to the ’ospital, that’s if they would take the nipper.” He paused, shaking his head. “The ’ospitals might be run by the council now, but it don’t seem to ’ave changed much, not really.”

Maisie nodded, wishing that one of Maurice’s clinics were nearby. She reached into the bag that Billy had set on a chair next to her and pulled out a white cotton mask that she placed over her nose and mouth, then secured with ties knotted behind her head. She reached into the bag again and took out a thermometer, along with a wooden speculum that she would use to depress Lizzie’s tongue. She also unpacked a small, narrow pan with a handle at each end, which she set on the table and filled with hydrogen peroxide, a makeshift form of disinfection. Taking up the thermometer, she shook it a couple of times before placing it between the soft folds of skin under Lizzie’s armpit. Then, leaning closer to Lizzie’s face, she lifted each eyelid and studied the child’s eyes. She shook her head, gently opening the cherry-red lips a little wider, and pressed down on Lizzie’s tongue.

“Closer with the light, Billy.”

Billy leaned over, holding the oil lamp close with both hands.

“She’s been sick for about four or five days now, hasn’t she?” Maisie removed the instrument, and set it down on the table, running her hand across Lizzie’s forehead as she did so, then reached for the thermometer, leaning toward the light to study the result.

Billy and his wife nodded together, then Doreen spoke. “At first we thought she was getting better, then she started to get worse, and now this.” She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and leaned against Billy. “What do you think’s wrong with her, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie looked up. “She has diphtheria, Doreen. The tell-tale thick gray membrane has formed across her throat, she has severe inflammation of the tonsils and adenoids, she has a temperature like a furnace and she must be taken to the fever hospital immediately. There is absolutely no time to lose when the disease has progressed this far.” She turned to Billy. “If I’m right, I think the nearest is in Stockwell. If we take her to another hospital, we will most certainly be turned away, money or no money. But we must act immediately. Doreen, come with me, we’ll go now. I have room for only one passenger, and you’re the child’s mother. We’ll use this sheet and blanket to wrap her.” She took off her mask and went to the sink to rinse the instruments, which she wrapped in a clean cotton towel before replacing them in her bag. “Now, here’s the important thing: You have got to disinfect this whole house. Normally I would say to burn the sheets, but linen doesn’t come cheap, so take all the sheets and blankets and boil them in the copper—and I mean all of them and I mean a rolling boil with disinfectant. As soon as you can, get all the children up and into a tin bath with disinfectant. Scrub everything, Billy, everything. Scrub yourselves, the children, everything and everyone. Throw away any milk in the larder. Keep the windows closed against that air out there. Leave no stone unturned. Boil the children’s clothes. You’ve got four more children in this house, and they’re all at risk. Make sure they’ve all got handkerchiefs, and check for cuts, which you must cover with a clean dressing. Here—” She took a roll of paper-wrapped bandage from her bag. “Children get cuts and you don’t even know about them, but it’s a way to spread the disease. You’ll probably have the inspector around tomorrow in any case, and they may take them in as a precaution. Now, we can’t spare any more time.” She gathered her belongings, but stopped to issue one last instruction, directed at Doreen’s pregnant sister, who was already banking up the fire to heat the water. “You must be doubly careful, madam.” She took a clean mask out of her bag. “This may be overdoing it, but please wear this whenever you are with the children. At least until they have all been examined.”

It was almost midnight when Maisie sped off once again, this time balancing regard for the comfort of her passengers with the need to get Lizzie to the fever hospital. She had not said as much to Billy and his wife, but Maisie knew only too well that Lizzie’s chances of clinging to life would have increased greatly had she been admitted to hospital three days ago. Each day without medical care following onset of the disease increased the mortality rate in young children. The knowledge that one in five children left untreated at five days after first signs of sickness would die caused Maisie to press down on the accelerator. Parking the car in front of the hospital, Maisie put her arm around Doreen’s shoulders as they rushed into the dour Victorian building. A doctor was summoned and Maisie gave an immediate diagnosis and details of symptoms and Lizzie Beale was taken away. The women were instructed to remain in the waiting room until the doctor came out to give a prognosis, though Maisie suspected it would be a long wait, for she knew that the child was bound for the operating theater, where she would be given injections of antitoxin to protect her vital organs from the vicious disease. Without doubt, she would have a tracheotomy to clear the upper airway obstruction, plus removal of her tonsils and adenoids. Would her little heart be able to bear such a dangerous operation?

“Oh, my precious Lizzie. My precious girl.” Doreen Beale broke down in Maisie’s arms, tears coursing down her face. “We could’ve sold something, pawned my wedding ring. I blame myself, I should’ve said to Billy, ‘Sell my ring.’ I wish I had, I wish I had known. I didn’t think.” Her heaving sobs seemed to crush her chest, such was the grief and self-recrimination.

“Don’t blame yourself, Doreen, you mustn’t. It’s not your fault. Some children don’t display the usual signs until the disease has progressed. It must have looked just like a cold to start with.” As she clutched the woman to her, she concentrated on pouring strength into the mother who would need every ounce of resolve in the hours and, if they were fortunate, days ahead. It had been a long evening, and as they stood in the hospital waiting room, Maisie thought back to the party, to those who would never need to think twice about money to help a sick child, or adult, for that matter. Though she had taken an instant dislike to him, she could see why the man whom Georgina predicted would one day be prime minister had begun to appeal to both rich and poor alike. He promised a government that would look after its own first. He promised hope. And the people desperately needed reason to hope.

Maisie’s thoughts turned to Billy. “Look, Doreen, Billy should be here with you and Lizzie. The doctor will be out as soon as he has some news, and after he’s seen you, they’ll likely advise you to leave. I’ll go and get Billy, and”—she reached into her shoulder bag—“here’s the money for a taxi-cab home.”

Doreen began to object, but Maisie countered immediately. “Please, Doreen, take it. I’m too tired to argue my point, and you’re too worn out to be proud.”

The woman nodded, still sobbing, and Maisie left.

Later, having dropped Billy at the hospital, with an instruction to send word if there was anything else she could do, Maisie returned home. The cold silence of the drawing room barely touched her, for she was as numb now as she had ever been when faced with the prospect of death. She had blamed herself all the way home: She should have insisted on coming to see Lizzie earlier. But now, even in her own home, and even from a distance of some miles, she was not without resources. There was a part she could play to help the little girl win her fight for life. She did not bother to remove her coat, but took her place in one of the armchairs and closed her eyes. With her feet square on the ground, her hands resting on her lap, she allowed herself to descend into a deep meditation, as she had been taught by the wise man Khan, and as he had been taught by his elders before him. She sought the timeless state where, according to her teacher, everything was possible.

Maisie had been so full of doubt in earlier days, wondering what this strange practice was supposed to do, and why Dr. Blanche took her to receive instruction in something so embarrassing, so seemingly useless. But later, in her darkest hours, the worth of those lessons was proven to her time and time again, and she had come to hold the word of her teacher in high account. Opening her mind, she imagined the sweet face of Lizzie Beale, the mop of curls, her chuckle when amused, the rosy cheeks and red, red sweetheart lips. She saw her in the hospital and began to speak to the child who was in another part of London. She told Lizzie that her heart was strong, that she could rest now, and that when she awoke, she would be well again. Maisie imagined the child giggling in her bed, her mother and father at her side. And before she opened her eyes, and brought her consciousness back to the room, she petitioned the little Lizzie Beale of her imagination to choose life.

When she finally slipped into her cold bed, pulling the blankets around her, Maisie could not sleep at first, the events of the past week playing over and over again in her mind, with conversations repeated as if the needle were stuck on a gramophone record. To her surprise, the emotion that weighed heavy upon her was anger. She appreciated that her view of the world was blighted by the events of the evening, but even so, she found that, like Billy, she was becoming resentful of the very people who provided both her bread and butter and the roof over her head. Of course, she had been fortunate in life, for hadn’t she managed to straddle the barriers of class, of education and opportunity? But when she considered the money that passed hands, the seeming inequity of a society where people would spend thousands on a painting, while a child could die for want of a few pounds worth of medical attention, she was left with a sour taste in her mouth. At the end of the day, wasn’t it all about who had money, and who hadn’t; who could make money, and who couldn’t? And no matter how pleasant the people might be, wasn’t it just plain unfair that there were those who had the wherewithal to paint all day, when others knew only the bitterness of unemployment, the gnawing hunger of want?

Turning over yet again, Maisie’s divergent thoughts began to blend, with her conscious mind finally giving way to fatigue. She had come to learn that there was often a theme to her work, as if in the dance with fate, cases would come to her that at first seemed unrelated, but were connected, perhaps by emotions raised in the search for truth or by a similarity of circumstance. Since the very day that Georgina Bassington-Hope had retained her services, she had been mindful of the web of connection that existed among that rarified community of people who had money and power. She considered the threads that linked those who wanted high office dearly, and those who would put them there; the relationship between those who wanted something so much that they would pay handsomely to own it, and those who would acquire that object of desire for them.

And couldn’t it be argued that the artist wielded uncommon power? One only had to look at the propaganda created by Nick Bassington-Hope. The gift of a creative dexterity gave him the power to move a population to think in a certain way, and to direct the actions of people accordingly. In the moments before sleep finally claimed her, Maisie remembered seeing a group of students clustered around a recruitment bill on the station wall at Cambridge in the autumn of 1914. It challenged them to do their bit for King and Country. GO NOW, BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE! She was a shameless eavesdropper, listening to the to and fro of words as the young men considered a slogan that amounted to a dare. They concluded that it would be a “jolly good show” and left the station bound for the enlistment office. Now that was power, and Nick Bassington-Hope was ashamed of it. And, in truth, wasn’t she too a little ashamed? Ashamed that she had used the power available to her to attain a flat of her own, when the Beales were struggling to share their home, their food and the income of one man with another family?

MAISIE WAS NOT in the best of moods when she arrived at the office the following morning. Having risen early, she left the house before six, planning to visit the Beales. As she drove down the narrow cobblestone street with terraced houses on each side, she saw a gray fever ambulance outside Billy and Doreen’s house. She parked behind the vehicle in time to see three children being brought out wrapped in red blankets. Already a clutch of local street urchins formed a standing audience to the scene, holding their collars and chanting:“Touch collar,Never swallow,Never catch the fever!Touch collar,Never swallow,Never catch the fever!”

Billy came from the house to send them on their way, shaking his fist as they ran up the road, still singing. He seemed as gray as the vehicle into which his middle child had been gently placed, along with Doreen’s sister’s two children. Turning to go back into the house, he saw Maisie.

“You didn’t ’ave to come, Miss. You did enough last night.”

“What’s happening, Billy? Do you have news of Lizzie?”

“I came ’ome a couple of ’ours ago; Doreen stayed. They didn’t like it, at the ’ospital, but she weren’t leaving with our Lizzie so ill. And what with the poor little scraps all lined up in cots, it’s a wonder they can keep an eye on all of ’em, though Lizzie is in a special ward, because of the operation.” He paused and rubbed his eyes. “They operated as soon as she went in there, had to do the cut ’ere.” He drew a finger across his throat. “Took out ’er tonsils. And she’s been given injections of antisomething or other.”

Maisie nodded. “What do they say?”

“It’s touch and go. They say they’re surprised she’s still alive, still fighting. What with ’er bein’ so young. They said they thought they’d lost ’er in the operating theater, but she started to pick up again. Shocked all of ’em, it did. Like I said, it’s touch and go though. And now they’re taking the others, all except the eldest, who’s not showing any symptoms. Inspector said that was because ’e’s older and in school. They pick up something there to protect ’em, what did the man call it?” Billy shook his head, his exhaustion plain to see.

“He probably has an immunity, Billy. And the others aren’t as far gone as Lizzie. Do you want a lift back to the hospital?”

Billy kicked his foot against the step. “But what about my job, Miss? Can’t afford to be out of work, can I?”

Maisie shook her head. “Look, let’s not worry about that now. I’ll drop you at the hospital. Mind you, I daresay the matron will give you your marching orders; they don’t like family waiting. Our matron used to complain all the time about family getting in the way, and that was at visiting time. Even the doctors were terrified of her. Anyway, come back to work when you’re ready, Billy.”

Later, as Billy was about to get out of the MG at the fever hospital in Stockwell, he turned to Maisie. “There’s many an employer would ’ave put me on the street for this little how-d’you-do. I won’t forget it, y’know.”

“It’s not important, Billy.” She sighed. “Just keep imagining Lizzie at home, back to her old self. Don’t see the sickness. See the life in your child. It’s the best thing you can do.”

MAISIE COULD NOT help but reflect upon her thoughts from the night before. Certainly there was plenty to inspire her, for as she made her way around London she could see men on their way to join the lines for assistance, or queues at factories where it was said a man could find work. And there were those who predicted that the situation would get even worse before it got better.

Feeling the anger, and shame, rise again, Maisie tempted her thoughts even more as she watched the exodus out in search of a job. Many of the men limped along, others bore scars on their faces or wore the expression of those embattled to a point where any last vestige of optimism had been lost. These were men—and women—whose country had needed them but who were now without a means to support themselves. They were the forgotten heroes now waging another battle for honor.

Slamming the door of her office, Maisie was in high dudgeon as she picked up the telephone receiver and dialed Scotland Yard. She asked to be put through to Detective Inspector Stratton.

“Yes!” The detective sounded rushed.

“Detective Inspector Stratton, I’d like to have a word with you this morning. Can you be at the usual caff, at around half past eleven?” She was aware of her clipped tone, but did nothing to correct her manner.

“All right. I assume it’s something important.”

“Important, Inspector? Well, you can tell me when we meet whether Harry Bassington-Hope is important or not.” She did not wait to hear a response before setting the black telephone receiver back in its cradle.

Maisie looked at her watch, then the clock. Georgina Bassington-Hope would arrive in approximately half an hour. There was time to compose herself before the meeting, which she was dreading, so much so that part of her did not want to become settled at all, but wanted to encounter her client with the fury that had been building since she arrived home last night. The telephone rang.

“Fitzroy—”

“Maisie.”

“Oh, hello, Andrew.”

“You don’t sound pleased to hear from me.”

Maisie shook her head, even though the caller, Andrew Dene, could not see her. “No, not at all. Just a bit pressed, that’s all.”

“You’re always pressed, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

As far as Maisie was concerned, it was the wrong comment, at the wrong time, the match that lit bone-dry tinder. “Well, Andrew, perhaps I am. Perhaps a dying child is a pressing thing, or a murdered artist. Perhaps you should go back to whatever you were doing and leave me alone to my pressing things!”

“Maisie, that was absolutely uncalled for. You are not the only person in the world with demands upon them, or the only person who’s ever had to deal with death—come down to my neck of the woods and you’ll see that!”

“Andrew, I—”

“We can talk about this when we meet. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, there’s much to be laid on the table.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right.”

“Well, I’d better go, Maisie. You’re busy—and I know from experience that this is not the time to extend our conversation. I’ll be in touch.”

There was a click on the line. Maisie slammed the telephone down in frustration and pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. It was not how she had intended to end her courtship. She knew that she had been curt, her manner unforgivable. She had allowed her sadness regarding the sick child to become anger, which didn’t help anyone. But she had to put the exchange to the back of her mind—there was a morning of work to get through.

Another woman might have waited by the telephone, expecting the ring that would herald the start of a conversation where contrition was expressed on both sides. Or she might have picked up the receiver, poised to utter I’m sorry. But Maisie was already considering the comment she had made. A murdered artist. Though she had wanted to keep an open mind for as long as possible, and despite the fact that she had suggested to Billy that to accept the Bassington-Hope case as a murder investigation would move their work along, she had not until this moment made a declaration of her personal feelings about the matter. And now she had. Burdened by emotion, had her intuition spoken? Andrew Dene was almost forgotten as Maisie leaned over the case map and prepared to meet Georgina Bassington-Hope, who, she thought, was not quite above suspicion herself, despite the feelings expressed, hand on heart, when they first met.

Maisie was about to make a notation on the map when the telephone rang again. She was inclined not to answer it—she wasn’t ready to speak to Dene yet; she didn’t really know what to say—but when the caller did not give up, she relented.

“Maisie, I am glad I’ve caught you.” Lady Rowan spoke before Maisie could give her number.

“Lady Rowan, how good to hear from you. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Well, no, not really, that’s why I’ve taken the liberty of telephoning you at your office.”

Maisie sat down at her desk. “It’s not a liberty, Lady Rowan. Is there something I can help you with?” She ran the telephone cord through her fingers.

Lady Rowan continued. “Actually, I hope I am about to help you. Look, I know this is none of my business, and I did think that perhaps I ought not place the call, but—you know me—I have to speak as I find.” She paused, and when Maisie did not respond, went on. “It was seeing you with the Bassington-Hope woman, I just wanted to know—are you good friends?”

“She’s an acquaintance. I was invited to Bassington Place for tea on Saturday, and when the weather closed in, they insisted I stay until the following day.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“What do you mean?”

The woman sighed. “I’ve known the Bassington-Hopes for years, since before Piers and Emma were married. You could say it was a marriage made in heaven, two art lovers coming together. I know that sounds all very romantic, but I wanted to warn you.”

“About what?”

“Oh dear, this is so hard to explain without seeming terribly narrow, but I felt you should know what type of people they are—how they work, so to speak.”

“Work?”

“All right, I am just going to launch in—it’s my way and at least I will have said my piece.”

“Go on.”

“The Bassington-Hopes have always been spoiled, both before their marriage, and afterward. Their way of life is completely indulgent, and it’s rubbed off on their children. Now, I know there’s no law against all that; however, such people can be dangerous—not in an aggressive manner, you understand—but in the way they use people.” She paused. “I’ve seen it happen. They seem to collect people, people who interest them—even artists can get bored with one another, after all. It is as if they suck upon those who are chosen to entertain them, then spit them out when they are done—then they move on to someone else.”

“Oh dear…Lady Rowan, if I may say so, that sounds rather harsh.”

“I am not saying that there’s something terrible in the way they do things, Maisie, and one feels desperately sorry for them, losing their son in that accident—I read the obituary. Awful business, that accident.” She paused, taking a deep breath before speaking again of the reason for her telephone call. “And you know, they can be enormous fun. But when they are no longer interested, when they’ve taken what you have to give, they drop you. One can never feel safe with them.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Maisie? Have my comments made me sound like an old fusspot? I was worried because I feared such a thing might be happening to you. I know you are terribly clever and can see this sort of thing for yourself, but I wanted to make sure—you’re just the sort of person they would draw into their circle, someone interesting, someone with something to say. Then when you were comfortable, you’d find that their curiosity had waned, and someone you thought to be your true friend wasn’t, after all. I don’t think that makes them bad, or even that they do it consciously. As I said, you can see it in their children, except perhaps that older girl—she must be forty by now. Didn’t she lose her husband in the war? Poor dear. I remember we were invited to a party when she was sixteen or thereabouts. The house was full of all sorts of people—like puppets in a play, I felt—but there was no one there for her, none of the younger set. Instead there were all those supposedly bright lights with new ideas—politicians, writers, artists, professors—even a royal presence.”

“I understand—and I know it isn’t like you to speak out of turn, so I appreciate your candor. Thank you for your concern, Lady Rowan, and for taking the trouble to telephone.”

“And I haven’t poked my nose where it doesn’t belong?”

“Of course not. I hope you always draw my attention to such things. And the conversation will remain between us.”

“Yes, I know that, Maisie. I can trust you.”

MAISIE SET THE telephone receiver back on the cradle and remained seated and still for some moments. Lady Rowan’s warning had illuminated a dark corner in Maisie’s understanding of the Bassington-Hope family, a blind spot where feelings of doubt and a lack of trust had been seeded. Now I know why I could not feel safe. She had been an audience to the Bassington-Hope show, a performance that went on despite the shadow of death. She thought about Nick and Georgina, and could see where the traits described by Lady Rowan had manifested in the children. Nick using real people in his paintings, despite the fact that he risked causing pain or embarrassment to another—yet, for the most part, those same people were drawn back to him. Then Georgina, throwing a party full of “interesting” people, inviting a controversial politician, drawing energy from the bright lights she gathered around her.

To her surprise, Maisie felt a wave of tenderness for Georgina. Where Lady Rowan saw a woman who used others, Maisie saw one who hungered for the attention and associations that would define her. Could it be that her past accomplishments meant little to her now? Maisie stood up and began to pace back and forth. She looked at her watch. Georgina would be here soon, and she wanted to consider the conversation with Lady Rowan before meeting her client. The Bassington-Hope offspring clearly had flaws—don’t we all, she thought—but how might such flaws have contributed to Nick’s death? That was her main concern, as was building respect between Georgina and herself. She remembered a discussion with Maurice, years ago, when there was an obvious disconnect between her mentor and a new client. Maurice discussed the issue of character with Maisie. “I don’t particularly like the man. However, I do respect him. I suspect his feelings toward me are the same. I’ve come to the conclusion that liking a person we are required to have dealings with is not of paramount importance, Maisie. But respect is crucial, on both sides, as is tolerance, and a depth of understanding of those influences that sculpt a character.”

The doorbell rang. Georgina Bassington-Hope had arrived.

Ten

“Lovely to see you at the party, Maisie. I feared you might have had more than enough of us.” Georgina eased into a chair by the gas fire. “Everyone had a smashing time—and Nick wouldn’t have wanted life to grind to a halt, you know. In fact, he would have said to party away merrily.”

“It was a colorful evening—a lot of fun,” replied Maisie, as she placed the woman’s coat on a hook behind the door. “I had an opportunity to speak to Nick’s friends, and to meet Harry. Thank you for inviting me, Georgina. Would you like tea?”

“No, thank you.” Georgina looked around. “Where’s your man this morning?”

Maisie seated herself close to her client. “His children are rather ill, so it seemed only right that he should be with his family. All being well, he’ll be back at work tomorrow.”

“Oh, dear. I am sorry…. Now then, to Nick.”

“Yes, Nick.” Maisie was surprised that the plight of Billy’s family had been brushed off so quickly, though she allowed that perhaps Georgina did not want to linger on illness, which might be interpreted as akin to loss. “I’d like to ask some more questions of you, if I may.”

“Fire away.” Georgina fidgeted in her seat and crossed her arms.

“First of all, I’d like to have a more detailed picture of Nick’s relationships with those he was closest to and those who had an effect on his life. Let’s start with his work, and Stig Svenson.”

Georgina nodded. “Yes, indeed, Stig. He was a supporter of Nick’s work right from the beginning, more or less as soon as he left the Slade. At first he would exhibit a piece of work here and there, as part of a larger exhibit, and always encouraged Nick to develop his range. He made it possible for Nick to go to Belgium; then, after the war, to America.”

“How did he make it possible? Contacts? Financially?”

“Both. He believes in nurturing new talent along with close hand-holding. He’s very good at his job, steering his clients toward works that not only reflect their tastes but that prove to be lucrative investments. He knows his market and he understands his artists.”

“I see. And does he represent Nick’s friends as well?”

“Yes, to some extent. They are certainly at the gallery on and off. They’ve all known Stig for years.”

“How did Mr. Svenson react when Nick enlisted?”

“The Viking vapors, a sort of hot sweaty state that he gets himself into when things run out of control or if he’s about to lose money. He was furious, telling Nick that he was ruining his career, that he was on the cusp of fame, how could he…and so on. But when it led to such stunning work, Stig was amazed. He couldn’t wait to get out and sell to the highest bidder.”

“So, Svenson has done quite well out of his relationship with Nick?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll say, very well indeed. I don’t think he loses money on anything.”

Maisie nodded, stood up and paced to the window, then back to the fireplace, where she leaned against the mantelpiece to continue the conversation. “Georgina, it’s important for me to have a true sense of who your brother was in his heart.” She touched her chest as she spoke. “I know the war affected him deeply—how could it not? But I would like you to recall conversations, perhaps, that might lead me to have a greater understanding of him.”

“Is this necessary?”

Maisie remained calm at her place by the fire. “Hmmm, yes, it is. If I am to establish a motive for murder, then I must inhabit the victim, as far as that might be possible. It is my way.”

“Yes, I know.” Georgina Bassington-Hope paused, then rubbed her hands, whereupon Maisie leaned down and turned up the gas jets. The woman continued.

“To say that Nick lost an innocence in France would be too light an observation, but the description serves to explain what happened to him.”

Maisie spoke softly. “Yes, I understand. Very well. Go on.”

“It wasn’t so much that first time, when he was wounded—though that was bad enough. But going back disturbed him deeply.”

“Tell me about the wounds first.”

“To his shoulder, a shrapnel wound that effectively gave him a ‘blighty.’ He was also gassed, and…” She paused. “He wasn’t unbalanced, not like some of the shell-shock cases I wrote about, but he was disturbed. Then they drafted him to work in propaganda. No choice about it.”

Maisie was thoughtful. “I’d like to go back to him being disturbed. Does anything stand out from your conversations immediately following his repatriation?”

“What stands out was his silence, though within that reserve, there were stories here or there, if you happened to be with him.”

“Stories?”

“Yes.” Georgina paused, her eyes narrowing as if she were looking into the past. “He saw some nasty things. Well, didn’t we all? But these were more disturbing, from what I can gather, than the shocking things that you or I experienced. And he didn’t say much, but I knew he remembered things…”

“Are you all right?” Maisie sensed her client had weakened.

Georgina nodded. “As an artist, Nick saw events as messages, if you know what I mean. He would see a man killed and at the same time, in the melee, look up and see the dot that was a skylark overhead. It was something that touched and intrigued him, the reality of that moment.”

Maisie said nothing, waiting for the woman to continue her reflection.

“He told me that he had seen overwhelming acts of terror and, on the other side of the coin, acts of compassion that touched him to the core.” She sat forward. “I wrote about one of the stories, you know. This is the sort of thing that you would never have heard about in The Times, but I managed to sell it to an American magazine. There was a man, not someone he knew well because he had just joined a regiment following training with the Artists’ Rifles. It was after a big show, and the man had completely lost his mind, running here and there, uncontrollable. Nick said that he thought there would be compassion for him, understanding, but no, something quite different happened.” She paused again, as if choosing her words with care. “Someone called him a shirker, then another said, ‘What shall we do with him, boys?’ to which it was decided that he would be sent out alone in broad daylight to check the wires. So the man staggered out toward the line and was cut down by an enemy sniper in short order.”

Maisie shook her head and was about to speak when Georgina went on.

“And that’s not the end of it. His body was brought back and hung from a post above the trench, whereupon the soldiers used the dead man’s remains for target practice, having daubed the letters ‘LMF’ on his back. Now that’s the sort of thing you’ll never hear about in an official record.”

“LMF?”

“Low Moral Fiber.”

Maisie tasted the salty saliva that flooded her mouth. She swallowed before continuing her questioning. “Georgina, I know you said Nick had just joined the regiment, but did he know the men who committed this dreadful act, or their commanding officer?”

Frowning, Georgina replied. “Well, that’s the thing, I believe he must have, because I can just remember him saying that it was terrible what war could do, to change a man, to bring about a sort of anarchy where soldiers—human beings—would do something out of fear.”

“Fear?”

“Yes, that fear we have of someone who was one of us, but who has now changed. Nick always said that he wanted to show how people were joined, how they were the same, that it was something sacred. And he said that’s what scared people—people like those men—seeing something terrible that could so easily have been them, so they have to destroy it. Mob rule.” She shook her head. “And isn’t it funny, that ‘sacred’ can be ‘scared,’ if you jiggle the letters around a bit.”

“Did he paint this scene?”

“I’m sure he did. I looked for it when I went to the carriage after he died. In fact, I looked for work that depicted some of his stories and found only those general war sketches that you must have seen.”

“I’d hardly call them general.”

“Yes, I know.”

Maisie checked her watch, taking a seat next to her client once again. “And what about compassion? Did he draw those episodes?”

“I can see no reason why he wouldn’t have. I believe there’s a whole body of work that we haven’t seen, to tell you the truth, and I believe that Nick kept those sketches and detailed pieces safe away from view because they were like a rehearsal for the big show—the piece we can’t find, the triptych.”

Picking up her notes, Maisie knew she must make progress. “I’d like to come back to Nick’s work next time we meet. However, I do have a few more questions for you now. To get straight to the point, had Nick had any arguments with anyone lately? I know I have asked this before, but I must ask again.”

“Well, though they all lived in Dungeness, the boys—Quentin, Alex and Duncan—weren’t quite as close as they once were. They’re all pretty much moving away now. In fact, I understand that Duncan and Quentin are going down again on Wednesday—they’re both moving, you know, I think they have to pack and such like.” She paused, for a second. “And Nick was distancing himself from everyone, it seemed, though that isn’t unusual for someone like my brother, an artist preparing for months for a major exhibition.”

“And within your family?”

“Nick had argued with Harry. You have probably guessed that by now. Harry is both man and boy, with the boy being more obvious most of the time. And he gambles with a nasty losing habit, so he’s come to both Nick and me for help. No good going to Nolly. Nick took him to task last time he got into big trouble.”

“What do you call big trouble?”

“A few hundred pounds.”

“And Nick could help?”

“He had reached a position where his art commanded a good price. Since Nick died, Harry has come to me twice. I was careful with my money, and I invested a bequest from my grandmother very wisely and managed to pull it out of stocks just in the nick of time, but I can’t fritter it away on Harry. Mind you, I have helped him out just lately.”

“Where does he work?”

“Various clubs, you know—the Kit Kat, the Trocadero, the Embassy, that sort of thing.”

Maisie didn’t know, but needed to locate Harry. “I’d like to talk to him, Georgina. May I have his address?”

“I—I don’t actually have it.”

“I see. Well, then, a list of the clubs, perhaps?”

“All right, I’ll scribble a few down. I always depend on Harry to turn up when he needs something, to be perfectly honest. And he never disappoints me.”

Maisie flicked through some notes. “Now, then, how about Nick and Nolly?”

Georgina sighed. “As you know, Nolly can be terribly difficult. And she hasn’t always been like that, though she wasn’t quite like the rest of us. She adored Godfrey, her husband, and is bent upon cherishing his memory as a war hero.”

“Yes, she said as much to me.”

“It’s sad, really. I mean, he was a delightful chap, but a bit bland. We all joked that it was her quest to breed some common sense into the line—you know, a few farmers, accountants and solicitors. Being a Bassington-Hope must have been so terribly hard on her, when I think of it. Mind you, she and Nick were very close when he came back.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Of course, I was still away, and Nolly visited him just about every day in hospital and convalescence, then remained in London with him, just to make sure he was all right when he started work at the Office of Information. I think the fact that he was with Godfrey when he died—”

“Nick was with Nolly’s husband?”

“Didn’t you know? I was sure…well, anyway, he was with him when he died. Godfrey was in the regiment that Nick joined—just a fluke, but that sort of thing happened all the time.” Georgina was thoughtful, then she looked at Maisie, frowning. “It’s just awfully sad that Nolly and Nick fell out and didn’t really put their differences behind them.”

“What were their differences?”

“I’m trying to think when things deteriorated. I do know that she took an intense dislike to his work, said that he should forget the war, that it was idiocy to dredge it all up just for the sake of a picture.”

“When was that?”

“They were on the outs just before he went over to America. Yes, that’s it, I remember her saying, at lunch, just after he sailed, ‘Let’s hope the cowboys and Indians capture his imagination instead of the bloody war!’ Daddy agreed with her—mind you, Daddy always tries to see Nolly’s side of things. She’s the eldest and he’s really rather protective of her, endeavors to understand what makes her tick, though I think he’s as flummoxed as the rest of us. I say, Maisie—”

“I’m sorry, Georgina. I was listening, but just thinking about something you said.” Maisie was pensive for a moment. “And how about you and Nick? Were you on good terms when he died?”

“Of course. I mean, we had our little differences of opinion, perhaps about a play we’d seen, or about something in the newspaper. But Nick and I were terribly close, not fighters.”

As she spoke, Maisie watched as Georgina systematically pressed down the cuticle of each finger with the thumbnail of the opposite hand.

“Now then, just two or three more questions today. Was Nick seeing anyone, did he have a sweetheart?”

Georgina smiled. “Such an old-fashioned term, sweetheart. Nick’s mind was on his work most of the time, and when it wasn’t he played the field in a dark horse sort of way. There was always a girl here or there for him to squire along to a party, if he wanted someone with him. And I do mean girl. No one of note, though, and certainly no one I can remember.”

“What do you know about Randolph Bradley?”

Georgina shrugged, and as she looked away, Maisie noticed the faintest color rise to her cheeks. “Typical American businessman. Pots and pots of money, and he’s managing to hold on to it, which is a feat—I hear the economic woes are worse over there than they are here. He’s been one of Stig’s clients for years, so he began collecting Nick’s work some time ago. I understand he has a gallery at his house dedicated to Nick’s work—these trade millionaires do like to show off their acquisitions to one another, don’t they?”

“Do they?”

“Oh, absolutely! I’ve heard that Bradley will stop at nothing to get a piece he wants.”

“And he wants the triptych?”

“Yes, but when it’s found we’re not selling. Nick didn’t want to. After he died, Nolly thought it would be a good idea to get rid of everything. Which is strange, as at one point she wanted to have all of Nick’s work hidden away. Change of heart caused by impending financial doom on the estate, I shouldn’t wonder. Plus the fact that it would go overseas. As I said, she hated Nick’s war work, said that it shouldn’t be allowed to hang anywhere in Britain or Europe.”

“I see.” Maisie consulted her watch again. “You know, I do have one last question—for now, anyway. You hinted that if Nick was murdered, then your life might be at risk. What caused you to say that?”

Georgina shook her head. “I think I was being overcautious. It’s just that Nick and I did the same kind of work, the same things were important to us. It’s hard to explain, but we both wanted to do something with our chosen fields. I didn’t want to just doodle away with words, I wanted to write exactly what I saw when I was driving an ambulance in France. Nick wanted to do the same thing with his art, whether it was to show the beauty of nature or the violence of men and beasts.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“Do you think he was murdered?” She looked directly at Maisie.

“There is compelling evidence to support the pathologist’s conclusion that his death was the result of an accident, though I have a feeling in my heart—as you do—that the truth is not quite as straightforward. I believe we have made progress this morning, Georgina. I will be leaving for Dungeness again on Wednesday, but I would ask you not to tell anyone else that I will be there. I plan to go to the gallery again, and to pay a visit to Mr. Bradley. But, I cannot continue to feign a passing interest in Nick for much longer. Inevitably, others outside your family will learn that I am investigating your brother’s death.”

“And what tack will you take in these meetings?”

Maisie tapped the index cards with her pen. “If Nick sought to illustrate personal or universal truths, there are many who must have been touched by his work. Some might have been grateful for such enlightenment, but as experience taught Nick in the trenches, people do not always like to see what is so, especially if they see themselves reflected in the brutal honesty of the artist. I’m curious to know how he touched his more immediate audience—friends and associates—with his work. You see, if Nick was the victim of a crime, it is more than possible that he knew his killer. Which means that you are likely known to that person too.”

“INSPECTOR, I’M SORRY I’m late. My first appointment of the day went on a bit.” Maisie took off her scarf and placed it on the back of the chair facing Stratton, who was already sipping tea. “Another cup?”

“No, thank you, this will do.”

“Then you won’t mind waiting while I just fetch myself some.”

Maisie returned with a cup of strong tea from the urn and a plate of toast and jam, setting them down before taking her place at the table.

“So, Miss Dobbs, what is it this time?”

“Inspector, as I said before, I am most grateful to you for supporting Miss Bassington-Hope’s decision to seek my help—though, as we have established, the purpose was to keep her occupied and out of your hair. However, what has become clear to me is that something else is going on. Now, I appreciate that your investigations are your own business, but you must have known that I would stumble across the fact that you—and the Flying Squad chappie—have an intense interest in the activities of Harry Bassington-Hope.”

Stratton shook his head. “I told them you would find out.”

“Vance?”

“I even told them you would know his name in short order.”

“And whose idea was it to deliver Doris to her place of surveillance without regard for who might be watching?”

Stratton sighed. “All right, so you know there’s been an interest in young Harry.”

“You’re going to have to tell me more than that, Inspector. I seem to have become enmeshed in your work without being asked if I minded!”

Stratton shook his head, and took a sip of tea. “Harry Bassington-Hope, as you probably already know, has got himself involved with some rather undesirable people. In fact, undesirable is an understatement. Typical story, the odd flutter on the gee-gees or seat at the card table became something of a regular pastime, and the gambling habit, together with some of the types he meets in those clubs, led him deeper into debt with people one should never be indebted to.”

“How does this all connect to his brother?”

“I’m getting to that, though we doubt if there’s a direct connection, apart from the elder Bassington-Hope bailing out the younger from time to time. No, the reason why there was a collaboration between departments, between myself and Vance, is that a small-time punter one step shy of crooked—another Harry Bassington-Hope type—was found dead a couple of months ago, we believe murdered by the very same men that Harry is indebted to.”

“Harry’s the mouse to catch the big cat, is that it?”

“Yes. We are simply watching and waiting.”

“So, again, Inspector, the connection—or not—to the death of the artist?”

“Nick Bassington-Hope tripped over his feet on scaffolding, as we know. However, the timing was dreadful as far as our investigation was concerned. The last thing we wanted was that hot-headed sister—with her connections in Parliament, and unable to believe her beloved perfect brother could be so clumsy as to kill himself—running amok in search of a killer, ruining months of solid police work in the process.”

“I see. But what if there was no accident?”

“You mean our criminal element? No, they would have no interest in Nick Bassington-Hope. As far as we know the men at the top would not have even made a connection. Art isn’t their game.”

“What is?”

“They make a lot from the clubs—protection, that sort of thing. They’re fencing jewelry—diamonds, gold. They are involved with bank robberies. The crime barons of London, you could call them. It’s like a pyramid, from the little weasels on the ground tucking away a pound or two here and there, right up to the top, the men who run the show.”

“I see…”

“You see what?”

“Oh, you know…it’s clearer to me why you kept things quiet, though I do wish you had told me more a week ago.”

Stratton sighed. “Well, I must say, you’re doing a good job of keeping that woman quiet.”

“Am I, Inspector?”

“Yes. I’m sure we’ll have the string-pullers behind bars soon enough. We just have to keep very close to young Harry, and at some point we will nab them in the process of committing a crime.”

“Hmmm…”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Miss Dobbs?”

“Nothing, Inspector. Nothing at all.” Maisie took one last sip of tea, finished the toast, then set her cup on the saucer and reached behind her for her scarf. “By the way, how is Doris?”

“Well, I don’t think we’ll be using women in detection for a while. Wasn’t quite up to the job.”

Maisie stood up, her chair scraping against the bare floorboards. “Oh, I wouldn’t write off the likes of Doris just like that, Inspector. You never know what a woman might be able to uncover that you’ve completely missed.”

MAISIE FOUND BILLY and Doreen Beale in the waiting room of the fever hospital. “What news of the children? And Lizzie?” She had hurried into the building and was unwrapping her scarf and removing her gloves as she spoke.

Billy had his arm around Doreen, comforting her. Their faces bore the signs of strain, the skin around their eyes lined and drawn. Billy shook his head. “We’ve been waiting all night again, what with one thing and another. The eldest is at ’ome, with Doreen’s sister, and right as ninepence, and the other nippers—our Bobby, and Jim and Ada’s two—are all doin’ all right. But Lizzie…it’s still touch and go, like I said before. And we was just about to go in to see the little lass again, and they turfed us out, said there was an emergency.”

Maisie nodded, then looked around for a nurse or doctor to speak to. “Have they told you what the emergency was?”

“The poor little mite is in trouble all over ’er body. I reckon they’ve shoved some more of that antiwhatsit into ’er.” Billy faltered. “And it’s not just ’er breathin’, no, it’s ’er ’eart, her kidneys, it’s everything. She’s fighting though, by God she’s fighting.”

“I’ll see if I can find out anything more for you.” Maisie placed a hand on Doreen Beale’s shoulder, nodded at Billy, and went in search of a nurse. She had barely reached the door when a doctor came into the waiting area.

“Are you Mrs. Beale?”

“No,” replied Maisie, “I am Mr. Beale’s employer, and I have come to see if I might be of assistance to them. I was a nurse, so I have an understanding of the situation, and I brought their daughter in.”

“Good, it’s quite troublesome talking to the parents at times, especially from the East End, you know—words of one syllable, if you know what I mean.”

Maisie glowered. “No, I don’t know what you mean. The parents are perfectly capable people, but they are distraught—and they depend upon your compassion and honesty, if I may say so. Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to give me the details, and I will talk to them.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…we’ve just had a lot of children brought in overnight. Half the time the poor souls haven’t had a good meal because the father can’t get work, and the whole situation isn’t getting any better. They haven’t the heart for the fight.”

Noting his waxen skin and the way he rubbed a hand across his forehead, Maisie softened her tone, which she realized had been rather too harsh, still bearing some residue from the earlier conversation with Stratton. She had seen such strain years ago, in France, though the frontline fight was against the weaponry of war, not diseases left to flourish amid decay and want. “How is Lizzie Beale?”

The doctor sighed. “I wish I had better news. How that child is still alive beggars belief. She clearly didn’t present early signs of diphtheria, and of course it progressed until it came down hard on the poor little wretch, like a wall of bricks. As you know, we proceeded with an immediate tracheotomy, tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy, so the risk of infection is terribly high. Antitoxin was administered, but she’s fighting to keep vital organs functioning. There’s little more we can do except watch, wait and keep her as comfortable as possible.”

“And your prognosis?”

“Well, every minute she’s alive is like money in the bank. I can’t promise she’ll still be with us by this time tomorrow, though.”

Maisie felt the lump in her throat grow. “And the other Beale children?”

“Got it in time; early stages, so they are expected to make a full recovery.”

“Can the parents see Lizzie?”

The doctor shook his head. “Strict rules, you know. Matron would have my entrails for garters if she thought I’d let family in at this time.”

“Doctor, I know all about matrons. You have cause to feel as you do. However, the child is clinging to life, and the parents in turn are grasping for a shred of hope. Why not allow them to be together, just for a few minutes?”

He sighed again. “Good Lord, you will have me shot! But…oh, all right. Go and get them, then come with me.”

Nurses shook their heads as the doctor led the Beales along the corridor, first into a small anteroom where they were instructed to wash their hands and put on masks, then into a ward where the most serious cases were quarantined. Austere, iron-framed cots were lined up, each with just a sheet and rough blanket to cover the feverish body of a child. The vapor of disinfectant barely masked another lingering smell, the foul breath of death waiting for another victim to weaken.

“I’ll wait outside, just in case Matron comes along,” said Maisie. “I can bear the brunt of her temper if she finds the rules have been broken.”

The doctor nodded and was about to take the Beales to their child when Maisie spoke to the couple. “Don’t be afraid to touch her. Hold her hands, tell her you’re there, rub her feet. Let her feel you. It’s important. She’ll know…”

Maisie departed the hospital a half hour later, leaving the Beales to wait for an opportunity to see young Bobby before returning home. Billy maintained he would be at the office the following morning. Rearranging her plans as she drove to the Ritz, where she would call on Randolph Bradley, Maisie decided that a visit to Stig Svenson would be more effective tomorrow, before her visit to Dungeness. If Billy were with her at the gallery, it would provide an introduction to conversation with the caretaker. And she didn’t want to arrive at the coast too early. No, she needed to be there at dusk. To wait.

Eleven

The clerk, with perfectly oiled, swept-back hair, pushed a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles to the bridge of his nose and peered at Maisie’s calling card. “And Mr. Bradley is not expecting you?”

“No, but I am sure he will see me as soon as he knows I am here.” She reached for the card. “Look, let me scribble a quick note for him on the back. Do you have an envelope?”

Maisie wrote on the card and slipped it into the envelope, then passed it back to the clerk, along with a coin. “I’m sure you can arrange for him to receive this directly.”

The man executed a short bow, then turned to another clerk, who nodded, then went on his way. Twenty minutes later, as Maisie stood waiting in the foyer, a tall, distinguished man walked toward her. She estimated him to be about six feet two inches and probably forty-five years old. His suit was impeccably tailored and indubitably English. A royal-blue kerchief had been placed in his breast pocket with a flourish and matched his tie. His shoes shone. He had one hand in his trouser pocket as he walked across the foyer and waved to the clerk with his free hand. His smile was engaging, his blue eyes sparkled. This was a very successful man, a man who seemed to excel at cultivating Englishness, though in his ease of manner, it was clear that the British Isles was not his home.

“Miss Dobbs?” The man had taken the hand from his pocket, and now held it out to her. “Randolph Bradley.”

Maisie smiled. She had only ever met one American, and that was Charles Hayden, Simon’s doctor friend, in the war. She remembered that same relaxed style, despite the gravity of his work. “It’s very good of you to see me, Mr. Bradley.”

The man looked around, clearly searching for a place conducive to private conversation. “We’ll have coffee in there.” He pointed to the dining room, where it appeared the waiters were preparing for lunch. Undeterred, Bradley simply strode to a table, stood as a waiter pulled out a chair for Maisie, then took a seat, ordering a large pot of fresh coffee as he did so.

“So, Miss Dobbs. You want to know more about my interest in Nick Bassington-Hope’s work?”

“Yes. When did he—and his work—first come to your attention, as a collector?”

Bradley reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “Let me ask a question before I say anything. Are you helping the boys in blue?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The police?”

“No, I am not. I work privately, as I said in my note, and as you can see from my card.”

“So, who’re you working for? Who’s paying you?”

“I have been asked by Georgina Bassington-Hope to conduct a limited investigation into her brother’s death. She felt that there were a few unanswered questions. In order for her to put the family’s loss behind them, Miss Bassington-Hope retained my services.”

“So are you investigating me?”

Maisie smiled. “Mr. Bradley, you are an avid collector of Mr. Bassington-Hope’s work, so he obviously spent time with you—any artist would be anxious to keep the buyer happy, is that not so?”

Bradley nodded. “Yep, you’ve knocked the nail on the head there. Nick was nobody’s fool, and knew where his bread and butter came from. He may have had his garret on the beach—I never went there, but heard all about it—but he knew how to sell his work.”

“What do you mean?”

The American acknowledged a waiter who came bearing a silver coffee pot, setting it on the table with a matching jug and sugar-bowl. He did not speak until the waiter had left the table after pouring coffee for Maisie and himself.

“Cream?”

Maisie declined. “You were talking about Nick, his understanding of the business of art.”

Bradley took a sip of coffee, and went on. “A lot of these folks, artists, have no idea when it comes to selling their work. They have an agent, a guy like Svenson, and that’s it, they leave it all up to him. But Nick was interested—interested in my interest in his work. He wanted to meet me, and we talked a lot, got to know each other.”

“I see.” Maisie nodded as she spoke, setting her cup in its saucer.

“You see what?”

She cleared her throat, not quite used to conversing with someone so forthright, and embarrassed to recall that Stratton had challenged her with exactly the same words. “It’s a figure of speech. I’ve been trying to build a picture of who Nick Bassington-Hope was, and I find that he was something of a chameleon. He was an artist, and people sometimes jump to conclusions about artists, that they don’t have their feet on the ground, that sort of thing. Yet Nick was a most sensible person, someone who had seen unspeakable things in the war, and yet who did not draw back from depicting them. And he wasn’t afraid to use real people in his work either. So, when I say ‘I see,’ I am simply seeing more of the man than I did before. And seeing the man Nick Bassington-Hope was is essential if I am to submit a comprehensive report to my client.” Maisie did not miss a beat before putting another question to Bradley. “So, when did you first learn of his work? How did you go about building the collection?”

Bradley stubbed out his cigarette, went to reach for another, and changed his mind. “Remind me to hire you next time I want to check into the background of someone I’m about to do a deal with.” He paused and continued. “First let me tell you that I served in the war, Miss Dobbs. I’d already built a business by then, but was drafted in by our government to advise on supply of, well, you name it, anything and everything, before the first doughboys went over in ’17. I could’ve stayed in the States, but I shipped over to France myself, to make sure the job was done right. Didn’t come back until after the Armistice. So I saw the war, Miss Dobbs, saw what the boys went through. And your boys went through it all for a lot longer.”

Maisie said nothing, knowing that at this point in the meeting it was best to simply allow the man to speak. He had leaned back in his chair, not too far, but enough to indicate that he was letting down his guard. He reached for that second cigarette, poured more coffee for both Maisie and himself, and continued as he put away a silver monogrammed lighter, half closing one eye against a lingering wisp of smoke. “Svenson came to see me, oh, must have been in ’22. Nick had a few pieces in an exhibition at the gallery—of course, it was a much smaller outfit then. I reckon Svenson has made a mint off Nick Bassington-Hope, and those old masters he buys from Europeans on the brink of ruin. Anyway, he tipped me off early, so I came along—I was in England anyway—and saw, right there and then, that this was an artist I could appreciate. I’m not the kind of collector who will buy anything just for the heck of it, Miss Dobbs. No, I have to like the piece I’m buying. But…” he paused and looked at her directly, “I go all out for something I want. And I wanted this boy’s work.”

“Why?”

“It was just darn amazing! So simple, so—Lord, what did Svenson say? Measured, that’s it, measured. Nick didn’t just serve up blood and guts, no, he could touch the…the…essence of the scene. And he didn’t draw back from the horror of it all, in his war work, and that’s what I saw, at first. But he added something else, something…”

“Truth?”

“Right. He could touch the truth.”

“So you started buying.”

“There and then, like I said. And I wanted to see what he’d done before, and I wanted everything he painted that was for sale later. His American period is a departure, but has all the hallmarks that he’s known for—and remember, I know the place, done business all over.”

“So what about his latest collection? You’ve bought all but the main piece, I understand.”

“Yeah. Bought it all, didn’t even have to see it. I know what I’m buying with this boy—and it’s worth a heck of a lot more now that he’s dead. Not that I’ll sell.”

“But you didn’t procure the main piece?”

“Nick didn’t want to sell. But I’ll get it, you’ll see. When they find it, I’ll get it.”

“I understand there was another bidder.”

Bradley shrugged. “Small fry. I’ll get it, like I said.”

“Do you know anything about it, apart from the fact that it’s supposed to be more than one piece?”

“That’s what I’ve been told, Nick said as much to me, and it’s what I would have expected.”

“Why?”

“Well, you look at his other work; it has a serial quality to it. So I’m pretty sure this one is a triptych. And I’m sure the subject is the war. That’s why I want it.”

Maisie made no immediate response, whereupon Bradley stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

“I believe that this piece, whatever it is, will distill—yeah, I reckon that’s a good word—distill everything he thought and felt about that war. Remember, I’ve collected him for years, watched him grow, change, sort out his life with his art. I think that once it was finished, this final piece, he was ready to let the past be the past, you know, step forward to whatever was next. I predict that whatever he moved on to would be an example of…of…”

“Resurrection? Rebirth?” Maisie offered, almost absentmindedly, for her mind had wandered, thinking about Nick Bassington-Hope and the work that had caused his death.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. I like that. Yeah. It was there, to some extent, in his American period. But even that seemed to show an exploration, a journey, not an arrival.” He nodded again, and looked around the room, now filled with guests taking luncheon. He looked at his watch. “Any more questions, Miss Dobbs?”

“Oh, yes, just one or two if you don’t mind. I’d like to know how long you’ve been doing business with Stig Svenson, and—I promise this is confidential—what he’s like to deal with.”

“I’ve known Svenson since before the war, when we were both starting out. I’d made some money and I wanted to indulge myself. When I was a boy, an English fellow”—he grinned, checking that Maisie had caught the quip—“lived on our street. He wasn’t rich, none of us were in that neighborhood, but every day he left that house dressed as if he were going to the Bank of England. His clothes weren’t new, but they were good. I didn’t know anything about him, except that he was dapper, as you would say. Dapper. I wanted to be like him, and when he died his family—turns out he had kids in the city—came out and sold up everything. And you know what? He worked in a factory. Not a fancy office, but a factory. And he spent money on art, all sorts of pictures from artists you’d never even heard of. I was only young, but I bought a couple I liked, cheap. So, that set me on my path, my love of art. I came to see Svenson in ’19, when I was in London before shipping back home. I bought a couple of pieces from him—cut price, you guys weren’t in any position to haggle then—and we kept in touch. My business boomed and I was over here as much as I was at home.” He paused, once again reaching for a cigarette, then reconsidering before he continued talking, looking directly at Maisie. “Now, even though I’ve known Svenson awhile now, I believe he’d take the shirt off my back if he could. We respect each other, but I know what he’s about. He’s sharp, understands what sells—and right now, that’s European art, all your rich dukes and counts and princes selling off the family heirlooms. God only knows where he’s getting it from—and he knows who wants to buy. Make no mistake, if there is a pie with money anywhere in London, Paris, Rome, Ghent or Amsterdam, Stig Svenson’s finger is in it.” He stood up and came around to pull out Maisie’s chair for her. “And Nick had his number. Knew Svenson could pull a buyer, but watched him like a hawk all the same.”

Bradley accompanied Maisie into the foyer of the hotel.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Bradley. You have been most helpful, most kind to allow me so much of your valuable time.”

“My pleasure, Miss Dobbs.” He handed her a calling card. “Call me if you need any more information.” He laughed. “In fact, call me if you find that darn painting. I want it and I’ll pay the family whatever they want for it—Nolly Bassington-Hope knows that—in fact, she can’t wait to get it out of the country!”

Maisie drew a breath to put another question to the American, but he had turned and walked away. And though he appeared to move in an easy fashion, he walked with some speed, for in an instant he was gone.

MAISIE KNEW SHE was struggling with the case. Already the loose threads threatened to unravel before she could even distinguish a pattern. There were points she was missing and she understood that all the thinking in the world wouldn’t make the task any easier. She had to continue working away, trusting that each step taken would be like another drop of water on stone, gradually wearing down the hard shell that time and circumstance had wrapped around clarity. Except that she didn’t have time for gradually. Of course, it would have helped had she been able to set out right from the start with a letter of introduction from Georgina to the effect that she was investigating Nick Bassington-Hope’s death with her permission. But Georgina had not initially wanted her to reveal the nature of her inquiry, thus she had left the first interview with the caretaker to Billy, rather than question him herself. However, that might have been a good strategy, though she must speak to the man personally tomorrow, with Billy there to ease the path of conversation.

Nick’s three closest friends, according to Georgina, were still in London and, as far as she knew, Alex Courtman would be at Georgina’s flat this afternoon. As she traveled to Kensington, Maisie was struck by the fact that all three men were moving on, with two of them appearing to have recently become financially better heeled, which was interesting if one considered that an artist created something to be acquired on the basis of sheer desire, not need. On the other hand, thought Maisie, she had already seen that there were plenty of people who could still afford such luxuries and perhaps those people who bought art were viewing this as a time to build their collections at a lower cost than might otherwise be the case. She shook her head as she walked, wishing she understood the art world a little better.

The places where Nick Bassington-Hope chose to live were desolate. His past was desolate, as were the natural landscapes that drew him. There were women—girls, as Georgina described them, but his work was his life, his true love. And he too seemed to be financially secure, to have enough money to help Harry with his debts. Georgina said that Nick’s art was selling well, and of course Maisie knew that Bradley had spent a considerable amount feathering Nick’s nest. But could there be another source of revenue? And what was the relationship between Nick, Harry and the man who drove the motor car that followed the younger brother to the party? She knew the man by appearance already, and suspected—though she had no hard evidence—that Stratton was wrong when he assumed that the underworld known to Harry Bassington-Hope had not beaten a path to Nick’s door.

She parked the MG, walked to Georgina’s flat and rang the bell. A housekeeper answered, then showed her into the drawing room and went to summon Alex Courtman.

“Ah, Miss Dobbs, the dancer. How charming to see you again.” Alex Courtman held out his hand. He appeared even more youthful today, dressed in gabardine trousers, a white collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a reddish-brown cable-knit pullover. He did not wear a tie and did not seem unduly concerned about his casual appearance, which was exaggerated by unruly dark hair that appeared not to have had the benefit of a comb that morning.

“I wonder if you would be so kind as to oblige me with a moment or two of your time, Mr. Courtman?”

“Of course.” He extended his hand toward an armchair, then sat down on the end seat of the chesterfield, close to Maisie, who glanced around before turning to face him. There had been so many people at Georgina’s party, she had hardly looked at the room, which now seemed quintessentially bohemian, though perhaps not as outlandish as the Bassington-Hope family seat. There were antique pieces that immediately suggested a connection to old money, but instead of the gravity an ill-lit room might inspire, this interior was bright with windows flanked by heavy swags of pale gold silk. In one corner a carved screen was draped with fabrics from Asia, and a collection of masks from around the world were displayed on a wall.

Maisie felt comfortable in the room, now that she was able to pay attention to the details. The walls were painted a pale yellow, the picture rails and mantelpiece white; nondescript colors chosen to provide an accommodating backdrop for the works of art. There were three paintings by Georgina’s brother, and several others by artists unknown to Maisie.

“How may I help you, Miss Dobbs?”

“As you know, I am working on behalf of Miss Bassington-Hope to discover more about the circumstances of her brother’s death. To that end, I must find out more about his life. You were one of his dearest friends, so I thought you might be able to”—she smiled—“paint a picture of him for me, by answering some questions?”

“Fire away!” He leaned back into the chesterfield, a move that caught Maisie’s attention. It occurred to her that she felt as if she were on a stage with Alex Courtman, who, having just read his words from a script, was now waiting for her to play her part. Instinctively she wanted to unsettle him.

“You’re all moving on now. Nick’s dead, of course, but Duncan has his house in Hythe, Quentin’s bought a flat ‘with his thrice-wed paramour,’ and you’re spending more time here than in Dungeness. It couldn’t have all been planned since the accident.”

Courtman answered calmly. “Well, these things tend to happen all at once, don’t they? It just takes one to step off the boat and everyone else gets itchy feet. Duncan was courting for ages, poor girl must have wondered if he was ever going to make an honest woman of her. Then Quentin grasped his opportunity to make a dishonest woman of someone else—the woman’s still married to husband number three—and I found myself up here more and more.” He looked out the window, then back at Maisie. “I’ll probably get my own flat soon.”

“You’ve all done very well with your work, haven’t you?”

He shrugged. “Nick’s work sold very well, and I do believe we were affected simply by being associated with him, as if some of that stardust flaked off onto us. And, frankly, Svenson makes the most of the friendships. If you stick around him long enough, you’ll hear him talk about the ‘Bassington-Hope school’ and how our work was influenced by Nick.”

“And was it?”

“Not at all. We’re all quite different, but if I can go up the ladder hanging on to Nick’s coattails, then that’s what I’ll do.”

Maisie paused before continuing. “You said at the party that you met some years ago.”

He nodded. “Yes, as I told you, we all met at the Slade, though I knew Duncan better than I knew Nick and Quentin, to tell you the truth. Not that you would guess, but I’m a bit younger than the others, a latecomer to the group. It doesn’t make much difference now, but in those days I was definitely the new boy. Then we joined the Artists’ Rifles together, more or less, which sealed the friendships, though Nick, Duncan and Quentin are—were—something of an exclusive trio. But when it comes to a move such as the one to Dungeness and away again—it only takes one and we all fall in.”

“And who was the one?”

“Nick. He’s the one who said that we ought to do our bit in the war. Seemed as if that’s all people said then, you know, do your bit. Trouble was, it was a bit too much to have bitten off, if you ask me. Old men always tell the young to do their bit, and half the time it isn’t anything they’d want to do themselves.”

“Indeed.” Maisie nodded, familiar with the stream of disillusion that formed an undercurrent to conversations concerning the war. Sometimes the emotion came from angry defense of the war, but more often, she realized, it was inspired by an inability to understand how and why the war happened, and why so many who fought were now all but abandoned, or so it appeared. Hadn’t Mosley exploited the situation at Georgina’s party? And hadn’t so many been drawn to his words, as if he could provide answers to their own deepest questions? She continued. “Perhaps you can tell me about the Rifles. Was this where you got to know each other really well?”

“In training, not over in France. We were all assigned to different regiments. Nick ended up in the same regiment as his brother-in-law, much to his dismay, though I understand he came to rather like the old chap.” Courtman stared out the window, his eyes blankly focused across chimney pots and into the distance. “He said in a letter that he’d always thought the man was a bit wet, but came to regard him as simply kind. Nick was quite shattered when he was killed.”

“Do you know the circumstances, specifically?” Maisie had not expected the conversation to take this turn and was intrigued enough to allow the man to reminisce.

Courtman turned to Maisie. “Circumstances? You mean other than two lines of men with guns pointed at each other?”

“I meant—”

“Yes, I know what you meant. I was being facetious. Talking about the war does that to me. How did Godfrey Grant die? As far as I know it was during a cease-fire.”

“Cease-fire?”

“Yes. I mean, you’ve heard about the Christmas truce and all that? Well, there wasn’t just one truce, you know. It happened fairly often. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for there to be a quick truce for both sides to whip out, collect their wounded and bury their dead. Imagine it, men like ants scurrying back and forth, trying to honor their own before some smart-aleck officer calls them all back to their own side for another round.”

“Nolly’s husband was killed in a truce?”

“Yes, as far as I know. Not sure what happened, of course. Probably didn’t get back to his trench before they were under starter’s orders again, something like that.”

“I see.” Maisie made note of the conversation on an index card, shuffled a fresh one into place and looked up. “So, back to Nick. What was your training like? Did he continue with his work?”

“Never saw him without a sketchbook. Mind you, we’re artists, we all had our sketchbooks, even though it was Nick who was on a quest to render those drawings into something more substantial.”

“You’ve never sold your war paintings?”

“Miss Dobbs, I have never completed any war paintings. Even though Svenson might like to say that my work is of the Bassington-Hope school, I would rather draw everyday life here and now than bring those scenes to mind every time I put brush to canvas. In any case, I’ve just got a new job. Commercial artist, that’s the place to be now….” He paused, choosing his words with care. “Nick’s art was his exorcism, in a way. He painted the war out of his soul and into the open. Every time a picture was born of his memory, it was as if something dark was laid to rest. And if that darkness made one of the higher-ups hot under the collar, it was icing on the cake for Nick.”

“What do you know about the triptych?”

He shook his head. “If you know it’s a triptych, then I know about as much as you.”

“Do you think it was the last of his war paintings?” Maisie leaned forward.

Courtman was quiet for some moments, then he looked up at Maisie. “You know, I think it was. I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but when I consider his work and the way he spoke of that piece—he never said anything specific about it, by the way—I do believe it was the last of his war paintings.” He paused once more, just for a moment. “Yes, very intuitive of you, Miss Dobbs. How very astute you are.”

“No, not me. It was something suggested by Randolph Bradley, actually.”

“Hmmph! The American moneybags, eh? Well, he should know, shouldn’t he? He all but bought Nick himself, the way he snapped up his work. He was furious about that triptych, or whatever it is. Furious! He came to the gallery when we were setting up Nick’s scaffolding—and, let me tell you, we knew what we were doing, that scaffolding was solid, absolutely solid.”

“What did he want?”

“He called Nick aside. They started talking quietly, you know, backslapping from Bradley, lots of congratulatory comments, that sort of thing. Then there was a pause and the next thing you know, Bradley is saying, ‘I’ll have that painting if it’s the last thing I do—and if I don’t, your career is dead, pal!’ Makes you wonder, now that I think of it. Not that he would have done anything really. In fact, that’s what surprised me, you know, he’s always such a gentleman, as if he set out to show us how being British should be done. Bit of a cheek, for a bloody colonial.”

“Then what happened?”

“Oh, Svenson came out in a bit of a lather and everyone calmed down. Bradley apologized to Nick, to Duncan and me. He said that it just showed the sort of emotion Nick’s work inspired.”

“Did Nick say anything?”

“Oh, yes, that’s when he really let the cat out of the bag.”

“Yes?” Maisie inclined her head, in a manner that suggested simple curiosity, rather than the excited energy Alex’s words had inspired.

“He smiled, as if he’d really got the upper hand now. Then he said, quite calmly—you know, I’m surprised Georgie didn’t tell you this—”

“She knows the story?”

“For heaven’s sake—she was there! Anyway—”

“She was at the gallery, when this was going on?”

“Well, she came with Bradley.” He grinned. “Come on, you must have known about Georgie and Bradley?”

Maisie shook her head. “No. I didn’t.” She paused a moment, then was quick to go back to the conversation. She’d consider Georgie and the American later. “But, Mr. Courtman, how did Nick let the cat out of the bag?”

“He announced his intention for the piece—we’re all assuming it’s a triptych, but I don’t know, could have been more pieces—”

“And?”

“He said that this piece would not grace a private home, but instead he was going to give it to the nation, to the Tate or the National or even the war museum at the old Bethlem Lunatic Asylum in Lambeth—rather an appropriate place for a museum of war, don’t you think? A disused lunatic asylum? Anyway, Nick said, to everyone there, that it was his gift to the dead of war and those who would have us go to war in the future, so that we may never forget who we are.”

“Never forget who we are? Did he say what he meant?”

“Yes, in fact, Bradley asked him. ‘And who the hell are we, god-damn it?’ Bit embarrassing, to tell you the truth, but Nick wasn’t at all unnerved by it, even though the man spent a fortune, a fortune, on his work. He didn’t smile—his face said nothing about his mood—but he said, quite simply, “We are humanity.” And then he turned back to the scaffolding, and Duncan and I looked at each other and did the same, just carried on with our work, you know, shuffling Nick’s map of where the anchors for the painting—or paintings—should go, and getting down to it. Everyone went on their way with a bit of muttering here and there, as you can imagine. But Svenson never came back to tackle Nick, as far as I know, to give him a lecture about the purse strings. At the time I assumed he’d wait until everyone had calmed down before playing the diplomat, but…”

Maisie said nothing. Alex leaned back on the chesterfield and closed his eyes. He sat that way for some moments, until Maisie spoke in a soft voice. “You’ve been most helpful, Mr. Courtman.” She stood up, collected her black document case and checked her watch. “I really must be going now.”

“Righty-o.” Courtman came to his feet. “Hope I didn’t put my foot in it, you know, spilling the beans about Georgie and Bradley. You won’t tell her…well, if you do, please don’t let on that it was me who told you.”

“No, of course not.” Maisie held out her hand to Courtman. “I have one more question for you, if you don’t mind?”

“Yes?”

“Were Georgina and Nick on good terms when he died?”

“Oh, lummy, here we go.” He sighed before answering. “They had been having some spats before the opening. Nick was upset about the affair with Bradley—the American’s married, you know, has a wife in New York who doesn’t like coming over to Europe—and said as much to Georgie. I think there were some other things going on in the family as well. Harry played them off against each other a bit, to tell you the truth. Then on the day we left to go set up the scaffolding, I was in the guest room with Duncan and I heard Georgie and Nick at loggerheads. Yelling at each other—you this and you that, back and forth.” He shrugged. “I feel sorry for Georgie, actually. Must feel awful, now that Nick has gone. In fact, it’s a wonder she came to you, really, isn’t it?”

“Why?” Maisie had reached the door, and Courtman leaned past her to grasp the handle.

“Well, if I were a detective, I’d wonder about that temper of Georgie’s.”

Maisie smiled. “That’s the interesting thing about detection, Mr. Courtman. Things are rarely as they seem, and when they are, we tend to overlook them. I will keep our conversation in confidence and trust that you will do the same.”

“Absolutely! No problem there, Miss Dobbs. Let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help.”

“Oh, before I forget”—she turned back—“will Duncan and Quentin be here later?”

Courtman shook his head. “No, they both went back down to Dungeness, actually. I think Duncan has a buyer for his carriage, probably another forlorn artist, eh? And Quentin is still packing up. They said they both had a lot to do down there, so off they went.”

Maisie thanked Courtman again, waved, and was soon on her way. Now there were even more threads for her to gather up and spin onto bobbins. It was as if she were herself an artisan, standing before a giant loom with her skeins of wool, each one held ready to form part of the finished scene, the picture that would reveal the circumstances of Nick Bassington-Hope’s death. All she had to do was create the warp and then the weft, her shuttle flying in and out, up and down through the threads, laying her hands across the panel, her fingertips testing for tautness and give, the comb pushing the weft down to ensure close weaving without the hint of a space.

The thing that intrigued her, as she walked down the street, was that if Alex Courtman was as tethered to the roots of the case as she thought he was, why had he been so forthcoming during their meeting? Even more interesting was the fact that the two other friends had returned to Dungeness, a move that underlined the need for her to keep to her plan to drive down the following day—and to ensure that she was doubly careful.

Twelve

Maisie passed the parked Austin Swallow upon her return to the flat that evening. Oh dear, she thought, as she maneuvered the MG into its customary place. She locked the motor car, then turned to face Andrew Dene, who was walking toward her, his overcoat flapping and his hair swept up by a sudden whip of cold wind. To smile was his way, and he did so as Maisie greeted him, though she could see tension revealed in his hunched shoulders. He placed a hand on her arm and kissed her on the cheek. An onlooker might have thought them cousins or friends and would never have guessed at the intimacies shared in the now-floundering courtship.

“This is a surprise, Andrew.” Maisie searched for her keys, her hands shaking in anticipation of the looming confrontation, then walked to the main entrance of the block of flats. “Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.”

Andrew Dene followed her into the foyer, then to her flat, where she selected a second key to enter. “I thought it was about time we sorted things out,” he said, as she pressed the key into the lock.

Opening the door, Maisie turned and nodded, then automatically reached to feel the radiator before placing her hat and gloves on a small table. She took off her mackintosh. “Yes, of course, you’re right. Here, let me take your coat. Go and make yourself comfortable.” She waited as Dene removed his overcoat and scarf, then placed both coats over a chair in the box room.

“Shall I make a pot of tea?”

Dene, already seated in one of the two armchairs, shook his head. “No, thank you. I doubt I shall be staying long, Maisie.”

Maisie nodded as she made herself comfortable on the second armchair. At first, she thought better of removing her shoes, then, silently reminding herself that she could do as she pleased in her own home, she kicked off the shoes and tucked her legs up, rubbing her ever-cold feet as she did so.

“I thought we ought to talk about us, Maisie.”

She said nothing, allowing him to speak uninterrupted. She had learned early, from Maurice, that it was always best to allow a person who had something important to say—perhaps a declaration, or a complaint—the courtesy of an uninterrupted statement. To interject might only inspire the person to begin again, thus repeating themselves. And as she had already observed signs that Dene was unsettled, she would not give reason for the conversation to become inflammatory, for she wanted him to think well of her, if that were possible.

“I had hoped, when we first began seeing each other, that you might one day become my wife.” Dene swallowed deeply, causing Maisie to think that he would have done well to accept refreshment before embarking upon the conversation. “Despite appearances to the contrary, Maisie, I have not been lucky in love and am not the Lothario that some have thought me to be. I’ve just been waiting for the right girl, someone who would have an understanding of my background, what it takes to move up, so to speak, from one’s given station in life. And I thought that girl might be you.” His voice wavered briefly as he pushed back the hair that had fallen forward, and went on. “I know your work is so very important to you, but I trusted that it might, in time, take a second place to our courtship. Now, I don’t know.” Dene turned to her, his eyes glistening. “I have to say, Maisie, that I was flummoxed by your manner when we last spoke on the telephone. But even before that, buying this flat”—he swept his hand around, indicating the room—“it sort of put me in my place, even though I held out hope.”

Still Maisie said nothing, instead keeping her attention focused on the man in front of her. She was not without emotion, cradling in her heart a melancholy that it had come to this. But she knew well that another sensation lingered inside her: the bittersweet ache of relief. And she was sadder for knowing it.

“So, before I say anything else, I want to know, Maisie, if there’s any hope for me—for us, as a couple—if I proposed?”

She said nothing for some seconds. Even though she had practiced this conversation at night, tossing and turning, wondering how she might reveal herself and be understood, she felt incompetent with words where personal matters were concerned. Her voice was soft, measured. “Andrew, you are, and have been, a wonderful companion. I enjoy your company, so how could I ever fail to be charmed by your presence?” She paused. “But the truth of the matter is that…oh, this is so hard to explain.” Dene opened his mouth to speak, but Maisie shook her head. “No, please let me try, Andrew—I must try to say what I mean, so that you understand.” She closed her eyes as she searched for words. “After my…my breakdown last year—for that is what it was, I know that now—I have struggled to see the path ahead. I know both you and Maurice said I should rest longer, but it’s not my habit; I feel that I have some…some sort of mastery over circumstance when I am working. That command—oh, that’s not the right word.” She bit her lip. “That order makes me feel safe, gives me battlements and a moat. And the truth is, Andrew, my business takes all the stamina I have at the moment—and you deserve more.” She cleared her throat. “I have found myself fearing that as time goes on there would be pressures upon us to conform to the accepted role of a doctor and his wife, and that would mean I would have to choose. So, I have chosen now, Andrew. Now, instead of later.” Maisie paused. “I have seen how the joys of our courtship have been compromised by my responsibilities to the people who come to me for help, and my choice has often been the source of great angst for us both. Even though you have been in London every fortnight, and I have journeyed to Hastings in between…it hasn’t been conducive to a happy courtship, has it?”

Dene inspected the palms of his fine hands, the long fingers stretched out before him. “Don’t mind me saying so, Maisie, it’s all very well you saying that, but you could have been more honest from the start. You must have known all this, and that I wasn’t prepared to sort of drift along—in fact, I came here to end our…our…courtship. At least I’m the one with the courage to face the—”

With tears blurring her vision, Maisie interrupted Dene, having not expected the angry response. “I believe I have been responsible toward you, and respectful, I—”

“You haven’t been honest with yourself—until now, I suppose. I’m sure you never intended to prolong the courtship, and in the meantime, I might have met someone else, been able to get on with my life. In fact, I have met someone, only I wanted to find out where we stand.”

“Well, Andrew, you should do as you please. I believe I have been sincere in my dealings with you, and—”

“Dealings? Sincere? Maisie, you surprise me, really you do. I have been a handy diversion for you, a weekend here, a dinner there, walks when you want them and the ball in your court.”

Maisie stood up, shaken. “Andrew, I think it’s time for you to go. I wish we could part on better terms, but in light of this conversation, I fear that isn’t going to happen.”

Andrew Dene, now on his feet, responded in a tone laced with sarcasm. “So be it, Miss Dobbs, psychologist and investigator.” He sighed, adding, “I’m sorry, that wasn’t called for.”

Maisie nodded, and without saying more she led the way to the box room, gathered Dene’s coat and opened it for him. “Drive carefully, Andrew. It’s an icy night out there.”

“I’m in hospital digs tonight, I’ll be all right.”

“Good luck, Andrew.”

“You, too, Maisie.” Dene turned, and walked away.

MAISIE WENT DIRECTLY to her bedroom, switched on the light and opened the wardrobe. At this point she did not want to think about Dene or consider the consequences of the end of their courtship. Having pulled out several items of clothing, she slumped on the edge of the bed, clutching her blue cashmere cardigan and stole. She pressed the soft fabric to her cheek and wept. In spite of the sense of relief, she already felt the cool breeze of loneliness cross her heart. Knowing Andrew had been a barrier between herself and an isolation that seemed to so readily envelop her, but to use him as a buffer between herself and the ache for close companionship was not fair. He was a lively suitor who had clearly adored her, but she did not have confidence enough to relinquish her work. And, she reminded herself, it would have come to that.

Turning back the bedclothes, Maisie curled up and pulled the eiderdown around her body, yearning for a few moments of comfort before she had to face the evening ahead. She shivered, though it was not cold in the room. As her tears gradually abated, she confessed to herself that there was something else, a truth she may never have considered had she not met the Bassington-Hopes—and it had given her a clue to that quality she was seeking in life that she could not define, the illusive unknown that she knew she would never find with Andrew Dene as her partner. She realized that she had come to love color, both in the landscape of character and quite literally—on fabric, canvas, clay or a room. Andrew was fun, buoyant, but the world she had entered by dint of working for Georgina was bursting with something fresh: There was a potency, a fire that made her feel as if she were cracking open her cocoon and waiting, waiting for her wings to dry before taking flight. And how could her wounded spirit be born aloft if she tethered herself now? That was at the heart of her discontent. There was something in those words…. She clambered from the bed and searched for the book again, to the place she had marked. “He would create proudly out of the freedom and power of his soul….” Could she do that with her life? And if she could, would she come tumbling down to earth like Icarus? What was it Priscilla had said to her last year? “You’ve always kept to the safe places!” Now she was among people for whom such a conservative approach was anathema. Maisie felt her head spin with thoughts that plunged her from excitement to despair as she castigated herself for such self-absorption, when the troubles faced by the Beale family and thousands like them were so desperate. And the very thought of Priscilla brought sadness anew, for she missed the honesty and depth of their friendship. Visiting her in France last year had brought a realization that she ached for the proximity of a close friendship.

After her breakdown, she had felt a return to the aloneness that had shrouded her when her mother died. Being with Andrew had helped her throw a line out into the future, an anchor she would use to pull herself away from the war, away from the loss of Simon, the terrible images that haunted her—and into the present so that life could go on. But now she was tentatively lifting the anchor, ready to cast off toward the light emanating from Georgina, her family and friends. She shivered again, cold to the core, remembering the doubt and Lady Rowan’s warning. Could she be more like Georgina than she thought, if she took energy, took life, from those who lived in a world of color, of words, of artistry? Might she become the sort of person that Lady Rowan described, someone who used people?

Maisie leaned back, exhausted. Maurice had instructed her to not take on anything too taxing, given the fragility of her recovery. Though he was in favor of a move to a flat of her own, he had suggested that it might not be the right time, that she should avail herself of the opportunity to live at the Comptons’ Belgravia mansion for at least another three or four months. But she had forged ahead, wanting to take advantage of a well-priced property, and—she knew this—she harbored a desire to underline her singularity, her ability to continue as she had begun, standing firmly on her own two feet. Even though those same two feet had crumpled under her not so long ago.

Realizing that she was stepping into a spiral of self-recrimination, she galvanized herself, drying her eyes and taking a deep breath. “It was for the best,” she said aloud, thinking of Dene. Then she smiled, as Priscilla came to mind once more. She knew exactly what her friend would recommend, ash dropping from her cigarette as she waved a hand to emphasize advice delivered in a clipped tone: “If I were you, Maisie, I would wallow until I couldn’t squeeze out one more drop of salt water, then I’d buck up, powder my nose, put on my very best clothes and hit the town—and I do mean hit.”

Rubbing a hand across her eyes, she stepped in front of the mirror, wrapping the stylish blue stole around her. Yes, together with the black dress, it would do quite well for a woman out alone in the evening—even if she was working.

MAISIE LEFT THE flat at ten o’clock, yawning as she did so. It wasn’t completely unusual for a woman to go out alone anymore. In fact, it had become quite acceptable, especially as there weren’t enough men to accompany them. Based upon her experience since the end of the war, she thought many bachelors were quite caddish anyway, making the most of the surfeit of women with an easy-come, easy-go flippancy. Certainly, Nick Bassington-Hope appeared not to have been above such behavior.

Clutching her list of clubs, Maisie planned to simply pop her head around the door of each, act as if she were there to see her friend Harry Bassington-Hope and then leave as quickly as possible if she couldn’t immediately confirm his presence at the establishment. Fortunately, now that Joyston-Hicks was no longer the home secretary, she had little fear of being on the premises of a club when it was raided, a game of cat and mouse played by so many of those referred to as “bright young things” before Jix was relieved of his position.

Chelsea for two of the clubs, Soho for another two, and one in Mayfair were on her list. By the time she arrived at Stanislav’s, an establishment in Soho, Maisie thought she was becoming more accomplished in the act of nonchalantly walking into a club, sweet-talking the man or woman at the door, and then leaving when the reply was to the effect that Harry was expected later, or on another evening. Clearly he had several engagements each night, and worked at different places, though she certainly had no intention of lingering unless he was without doubt expected shortly at a club.

She had finally put the black dress aside, settling instead on a pair of black trousers and a long sleeveless blouse with a boat neckline and a matching sash at the hip. The outfit had been a castoff from Priscilla, who had bundled it up and sent it along with several other items in a brown paper parcel. It had arrived just before Christmas, with a message that read, “Having children has ruined, simply ruined my waistline. These are a bit old-fashioned but am sure you can use them.” The trousers had barely been worn, and seeing as women who donned trousers were still in the minority, they were not as old-fashioned as Priscilla had suggested. Maisie thought the blouse was made with room to spare, though she would concede that, had Priscilla not sent the clothes to her, they would probably have languished at the back of her wardrobe. Now she was grateful for the ensemble, which she thought did not suit her at all well, though it was perfect for the evening’s subterfuge.

She took a deep breath and pushed against the door of Stanislav’s, whereupon a well-built man stepped forward to hold it open. A young woman smiled from behind a black and silver counter framed by a series of square silver lampshades, the lights providing the only illumination in the foyer. Maisie blinked, then smiled in return at the young woman, who was wearing a long black velvet dress with sequins along the hem, hipline, collar and cuffs. Her blond hair was tied back into a small chignon, and her eyes were accentuated by kohl, her lips blood-red.

The woman greeted her cordially. “Are you a member?”

“Oh, no—but I am a guest of Harry Bassington-Hope. Is he here yet?”

The woman inclined her head. “I’ll find out. Just a moment, please.”

The woman opened a door behind her, poked her head into a room that Maisie couldn’t see, and said, “Oi, is ’arry ’ere yet?” There was a delay of several seconds before she closed the door and addressed Maisie again, the cut-glass accent restored. “He should be here at any moment, madam. Please follow me. We have a small table where you can wait.”

Maisie was relieved to see that the table was situated in the corner of the room, close to the back wall, a perfect position from which to observe the comings and goings of people in the club. A waiter came to the table, and Maisie ordered a ginger beer with lime cordial. Someone had once told her that it was a popular drink in American cities, where prohibition required one to banish all evidence of alcohol from the breath, so Maisie ordered it, not because she intended to drink, but because it might give the impression that she was a seasoned club goer who would order something stronger later. The harmless cocktail was delivered and Maisie settled back to observe the room.

A series of tables of varying sizes, seating from two to eight people, were placed several tables deep around three sides of a small parquet dance floor. On the fourth and farthest side, a quartet had just started to play and already a few couples were dancing. Maisie tapped her foot and sipped her drink. Though she was tired when she first set out, she had since picked up and decided that it would be quite fun to come with friends to such a place. If one had a clutch of friends to come with, that is.

Her eyes scanned the room, looking for any faces she recognized. It wasn’t long before she noticed Randolph Bradley and Stig Svenson at a table close to the bar, the Swede leaning forward, intent upon the conversation, while the American relaxed against the back of his chair, his gray silk suit with even darker gray tie and kerchief punctuating his wealth. Maisie wondered if Georgina would appear and moved her chair farther back into the shadows. She watched as the American raised an index finger to the waiter, who came to his table in haste. Bradley stood up, pressed a note into the man’s hand, slapped him on the back. He shook hands with Svenson and left. Stig Svenson stared into his cocktail for a few moments, then raised the glass and finished the drink in one mouthful, leaning his head back as he did so. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief pulled from his trouser pocket, then he, too, left the club.

As she scanned the room a second time, Maisie noticed another man, a man she had never seen before, watching Svenson leave the club. She closed her eyes and, in her mind, replayed the scene when she had first glanced around the room. She knew he had been there when she came in and that he had been carefully watching Svenson and Bradley. Who was he? She squinted into the dark as the man stood up, pulled a note from his trouser pocket and checked it against a wall light before placing it on the bar. He took his hat from the seat next to him and left the club.

“Care to dance, Miss Dobbs?”

“Oh, my goodness, you made me jump!”

Alex Courtman pulled back a chair and sat down at the table. “Now, I can’t for a moment believe that you are here for anything but business. I must say, you look ravishing, by the way.”

Maisie raised an eyebrow. “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Courtman. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m waiting for a friend.”

“Oh, a friend? Then I am sure your friend won’t mind if I steal you away for a dance, will he?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Courtman. I’d rather not.”

“Come on! You don’t go to a club unless you are up for a dance or two.” Courtman reached over, took Maisie’s hand and led her, blushing and protesting, to the dance floor. The popular tune had drawn many more couples from their tables, so there was hardly room to move, but that didn’t stop Courtman from swinging his arms from side to side with the beat and, embracing the music, and occasionally Maisie, with gusto. Maisie, too, began to swing her arms, following her partner’s lead. Seeing her enthusiasm, Courtman took her by the waist and swirled her around. As the music reached a crescendo, a trumpet joined the rag, wheeling in with a high-pitched long note, to the accompaniment of piano, bass, drums and trombone. The dancers roared, applauding as they continued to move around the floor. Harry Bassington-Hope had arrived.

Courtman claimed Maisie for two more dances before, breathless, she held up her hands in mock surrender, and returned to the table, her partner following her.

“I say, you can dance when you like, can’t you?”

Maisie shook her head. “To tell you the truth, apart from Georgina’s party last week, I don’t think I’ve danced since…since…well, since before the war, actually.”

Courtman raised his hand to summon a waiter, then turned back. “Don’t tell me, you danced with the love of your life and he never came home from France.”

The smile left Maisie’s face. “It’s none of your business, Mr. Courtman.”

He touched her hand. “Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just one of those wartime stories, isn’t it?”

Maisie nodded to acknowledge the apology, withdrawing her hand. She changed the subject. “So, are you a regular here?”

“I come occasionally. But especially when I’m owed money.”

“Harry?”

Courtman nodded. “He’s Nick’s brother, after all. He tapped me for a few pounds on Sunday. Said he’d repay it in just two days, so it’s time for me to receive my due from him.”

“Was it just a few pounds?”

He shook his head. “No, a bit more than that—twenty, to tell you the truth. But I’m not exactly flush, so I wanted it back today. And I’ll get it too.”

Maisie looked toward the dance floor, which was still packed, and then at Harry Bassington-Hope, his legs splayed, his bow tie pulled loose, as he leaned back again, his trumpet held high, teasing another impossibly high note from the shining instrument.

“If he looked after his money like he looks after that trumpet, he’d be a rich man.” Courtman reached for the cocktail the waiter had just set before him.

“It’s gleaming,” said Maisie. She turned to Courtman. “When does he stop, or take a break?”

“In about another fifteen minutes. You can leave a message with the waiter—along with the appropriate monetary accompaniment—and he’ll pass it on to Harry, telling him to join you.”

Maisie followed his instruction, slipping a couple of coins into the waiter’s palm as she gave him the folded piece of paper.

“Shall I wait until he comes?” Courtman smiled at Maisie with such sincerity that she could almost forgive his lack of manners just a few moments ago.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Courtman. I am not really accustomed to such places, to tell you the truth.”

“I know. Mind you, I’m only staying on one condition.”

“Condition?”

“Yes. I want to claim the first dance after trumpet boy gets back up there.”

HARRY BASSINGTON-HOPE SWAGGERED off the stage and over to the bar, stopping on the way to receive backslaps, shake hands with customers and to lean over and kiss women on the cheek, receiving a few lipstick prints on his face as he did so. Maisie watched as the waiter approached him and whispered in his ear, whereupon Harry looked around to locate Maisie’s table. He nodded to the waiter, reached for the drink that had already been placed on the bar in front of him and made his way over to Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs, we meet again, though I must say, I would never have pegged you for a night owl.” He pulled out a chair, turned it around and sat down, his arm resting on the chair back as he set his glass down on the table. He saw Maisie look at the clear liquid. “Soda water. Never drink anything stronger while playing, though I try to make up for lost time when I’m off duty.” He turned to Alex Courtman. “Alex, old chap, still taking up room in my sister’s flat? I would have thought the Yankee would have kicked you out by now.”

Alex Courtman stood up. “Moving on next week, Harry, to new digs over in Chelsea.”

Harry Bassington-Hope turned back to Maisie. “What do they call an artist without a girl?”

Maisie shook her head. “I haven’t a clue.”

“Homeless!” He chuckled at the joke, while Maisie smiled and shook her head.

“The old ones are the best, aren’t they, Harry?” Courtman stood up and drained his glass. “I’ll be back to claim that dance when trumpet boy here starts playing again.”

Georgina’s younger brother watched as Courtman strode toward the bar, then brought his attention back to Maisie. “So, what can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie thought Harry Bassington-Hope did not look like a man who had lost his only brother just a month earlier. “As you know, Georgina has been unsettled regarding the police assessment of the circumstances of your brother’s death and believes be may have been the victim of foul play. She asked me to look into the matter, and—”

“And it’s usually someone close to the victim, isn’t it?”

“Not always, Mr. Bassington-Hope. Though, family and friends tend to have a transparent relationship with the victim, in which they are not always consciously aware of anything unusual going in the months and days leading up to death. In asking questions, I find that the memory is ignited, to some extent, and even a small recollection can shed light on a meaningful clue as to the truth of the incident.”

“I suppose it’s no secret, then, that my relationship with my brother—as dear as he was to me—was really rather poor.”

“Was it?” Maisie said only enough to keep Bassington-Hope speaking.

“I was still in school when he went into the army, so he was very much the big brother, and as for the girls, Georgie and Nolly, well, Georgie was off on her own adventure anyway, and Nolly barely noticed me. I was a sort of fly in the sibling ointment. Mind you, I rather liked Godfrey, Nolly’s husband. He was always up for a game of cricket, you know, much more of a big brother type than Nick, actually.”

“And what about when Nick died?”

“Stupid accident, very stupid accident, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?”

“Of course. Now if he’d just let his pals help him a bit more and hadn’t been so secretive, then it wouldn’t have happened.” He shook his head. “No, I can’t imagine anything but an accident, and it could have been avoided.”

“Hadn’t you and Nick argued over money?”

“Hmmph! I suppose that must be common knowledge.” He paused, checked his watch, then went on. “My brother and I lived different lives. Yes, I had hit a spot of trouble financially, and Nick helped me out, but you know, with Nick there always had to be a bit of a lecture. God knows why, it’s not as if his halo wasn’t a bit tarnished.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing really. He just wasn’t the blue-eyed boy that Georgina would have you believe. Didn’t think twice about who he’d upset with his work, you know, and believe me, he could upset people.”

“Who did he upset?”

He looked away, toward the stage, where the other musicians were taking their places, stood up and drained his drink before replying. “You could start with the family. Had a habit of upsetting everyone at some time or another. Father had to calm Nolly down a couple of times—to think he could upset her so much after all she’d done for him.”

“How did he upset—”

“Sorry, Miss Dobbs. I really have to go, the boys are waiting for me.” He turned and hurried around the perimeter of the room so as not to be waylaid by admirers and was up on the stage with a single leap, taking up his trumpet and coaxing another wail into the rafters, the band joining him as the note changed mid-climb for a slide down the scale. The dancers were up and moving, and as Maisie collected her bag, she felt a pressure on her elbow.

“Oh, no you don’t! You promised one more dance.” Alex Courtman had loosened his tie while sitting at the bar, waiting for Harry Bassington-Hope to depart.

“But—”

“No ‘buts’—come on.”

IT WAS ANOTHER hour before Maisie left the club to make her way through cold, smog-filled streets to her flat. She parked the MG, checked the lock and walked toward the main door of the building. It was as she opened the door that she looked around behind her. A shiver had slithered along her spine, and she closed the door behind her with haste, then hurried to her ground-floor flat. Once inside, she locked the door and, without turning on the lights, went to the window and looked out at the small front lawn and surrounding trees that separated the flats from the street. She stood there for some time, but there was no one there, though she felt, instinctively, that she had been watched.

Clearing her mind, she sat on a pillow, cross-legged in meditation before going to bed, hoping that her practice would leave a path free of conscious thought for some fresh connections to reveal themselves to her. She had not been able to question Harry Bassington-Hope as thoroughly as she had wanted, though she had not come away empty-handed. From a practical perspective, she had procured a list of the clubs where he was employed and knew broadly how and when to find him again—if she needed to continue the conversation that had been so abruptly brought to a close. She had not pressed any point that might have alerted him to her knowledge of his underworld dealings—and she knew already that one of his attackers the previous Sunday was also known to Nick.

The conversation had shed even greater light on the Bassington-Hope family, and though it was not something a well-mannered woman would do, she now planned to drop in without prior notice when she made her way back from Dungeness this week. She suspected she’d be welcomed anyway. Nick alienated members of his family from time to time, and in the weeks before his death it appeared that he had argued with both sisters and his brother—he had had little in common with the latter in any case. He had upset the man who was not only the source of a considerable amount of money, but his sister’s lover. And the dynamics of those relationships seemed as if they were about to give Stig Svenson peptic distress—he had a lot to lose when Nick Bassington-Hope refused to toe the line. Alex Courtman was an interesting case—not as close to Nick as the other two friends and bluntly honest about his ability as an artist. He was also quite forthcoming in terms of sharing information with Maisie. Was he deliberately misleading her? And why did he seem to be on the edge of the “inner circle”?

Maisie decided to push the case to the back of her mind, and instead concentrate her thoughts on Lizzie Beale. Billy might be back at work in the morning—she hoped against hope that the news of his daughter was encouraging. Having lain awake for some time worrying, it distressed her when she tried to summon an image of Lizzie and found that she couldn’t. She could see her little red coat, the lace-up leather boots on her feet, her mop of curls like those of a rag doll and her dimpled hands. But not her face.

Thirteen

As Maisie packed her suitcase for the journey down to Dungeness the following day, the earthy smell of new leather reminded her of Andrew Dene, from whom the suitcase was a gift just a few months earlier. She fingered the straps, running her hand across its smooth top as she closed it. Today would challenge her, she understood that already, and she knew it would have been heart-warming to think that, at the end of the day, she could turn to someone who loved her, someone who would say, “You’re home now, let me hold you until tomorrow comes.”

Though there was no rain, no sleet, the sky above Fitzroy Square was gunmetal gray, shedding a deep silver light across equally gray flagstones. It was as if all color had been drained from morning’s promise, as if time would be suspended until tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that. As she unlocked the front door, Maisie checked the watch pinned to her jacket pocket. Even though she was a few minutes late, she knew she would be surprised if Billy were at the office. He would not come today. She moved toward the staircase, and stopped. Why am I even going up the stairs? Then she turned, locking the door behind her again, and made her way back to the MG.

Rain had started to fall lightly, that fine mist of a shower that would continue now for the remainder of the day. Maisie did not drive to the hospital in Stockwell, for she knew there was no need. Instead she drove straight to the Beales’ small house in the East End.

She saw that the curtains were drawn as she parked her motor car on the street outside the house, and as she stepped from the driver’s seat, she was aware that the thin, worn fabric at the windows of other houses on the street had flicked back and forth, as neighbors watched the comings and goings. Maisie knocked at the door. There was no answer, so she knocked again, hearing footsteps become louder until the door opened. It was Doreen’s sister. Maisie realized that she had never been introduced to the woman, so did not know her name or how to address her.

“I came…I hope…”

The woman nodded and stepped aside, her eyes red-rimmed, the bulk of her pregnancy weighing upon her, causing her to clutch her back as she made room for Maisie to enter the narrow passageway.

“They’ve been talking about you, miss. They’d want to see you.”

Maisie touched the woman on the shoulder, and walked to the kitchen door, where she closed her eyes and petitioned herself to say and do the right thing. She knocked twice and opened the door.

Billy and Doreen Beale sat at the kitchen table, both with untouched cups of cold tea in front of them. Maisie entered and said nothing but, standing behind them, rested a hand gently on each of their shoulders.

“I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

Doreen Beale choked, pulled her pinafore up to her swollen eyes and wept, pushing her chair back as she slumped over. She clutched her arms around her middle, as if trying to stop the pain that came from the very place where she had carried Lizzie before she was born. Billy bit into his lower lip and stood up, allowing Maisie to take the seat he vacated.

“I knew you’d know, Miss. I knew you’d know she was gone.” He could barely form words, his voice cracking as he spoke. “It’s all wrong, all bleedin’ wrong, when something as beautiful as our little Lizzie can be taken. It’s all wrong.”

“Yes, Billy, you’re right, it’s all wrong.” She closed her eyes, silently continuing the plea that she be given words that might soothe, words that would begin the healing of bereaved parents. She had seen, when she entered the kitchen, the chasm of sorrow that divided man and wife already, each deep in their own wretched suffering, neither knowing what to say to the other. She knew that to begin to talk about what had happened was a key to acknowledging their loss, and that such acceptance would in turn be a means to enduring the days and months ahead. Oh, how she wished she could speak to Maurice, seek his counsel.

“When did it happen?”

Billy swallowed as Doreen sat up, wiped her eyes with her pinafore again and reached for the teapot. “We’re not minding our manners, Miss Dobbs. I’m sorry. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“I’ll do that, Dory.” Doreen’s sister stepped forward.

“No, you sit down, Ada, you need to take the weight off.”

Doreen Beale busied herself at the stove, stoking the fire. She was about to pick up the coal scuttle when Billy stepped forward.

“No you don’t. I’ll do that.”

“Billy, I can do it! Now then”—she snatched back the coal scuttle—“you talk to Miss Dobbs. It’s very kind of her to call.”

Maisie remembered the days that followed her mother’s death, days when father and daughter could barely speak to each other. They kept busy, both of them going about their daily round without talking about their loss, avoiding contact because neither could bear to see despair feasting upon the other. And it had taken years to heal the wounds of the soul that mourning had visited upon them.

“We went back to the ’ospital yesterday evening, early-ish. Turns out she’d taken a turn for the worse, so we went in to see the poor little mite—there was nothing of ’er, Miss. Poor little scrap.” Billy paused and reached for the cold tea, just as Doreen turned to pick up his cup. She nodded for him to continue talking as she took the cup and washed it in the sink. The air in the kitchen was smoke-filled and stale, steam from a kettle adding to the damp discomfort. “The doctor was there, and the nurses, and they tried to make us leave, but we wouldn’t go. ’ow can they expect you to leave when it’s your own flesh and blood lying there?”

Maisie whispered thanks to Doreen as cups of fresh tea were set on the table, and she patted the chair so that Billy’s wife would sit down again. Ada remained seated next to the fire, silently rubbing her swollen belly.

Billy continued. “Seemed to go on for ’ours, the waiting, but it was—can’t remember the time now, to tell you the truth—”

“Eleven. It was eleven o’clock. I remember looking up at the clock,” Doreen interjected as she stirred her tea, and then continued stirring without stopping to drink.

“Anyway, at eleven o’clock, the nurse comes to get us, and when we got to the ward, the doctor told us she was on ’er last. That there was nothing more that could be done.” He choked, putting his hand to his mouth and closing his eyes.

They remained in silence for some moments, then Doreen sat up straight. “We just stayed there, Miss Dobbs. They let me hold her until she was gone. I reckon I won’t forget that, you know, that they let us in to hold her, so that she didn’t go alone.” She paused, then looked at Maisie. “They said she never would’ve known anything, at the end. They said she wasn’t in pain. Do you think she knew, Miss Dobbs? You were a nurse, do you think she knew we’d come, that we were there?”

Maisie reached for Doreen’s hands, looked at Billy, then his wife. “Yes, she knew. I know she knew.” She paused, searching for the words that would say something of what she had come to feel, to know, when in the presence of death. “I used to believe, in the war, that when someone dies, it’s as if they’ve shed a thick woolen coat that has become too heavy. The weight those men released was a result of wounds caused by guns, by shells, by terrible things the dying had seen. Lizzie’s weight was a disease that was stronger than her body, and even though the doctors did everything they could to help her overcome the attack, the fight was too much for her.” Maisie’s voice cracked. “So, you see, I believe she knew you were there, that you’d come to hold her as she took off that heavy coat. Yes, she knew you’d come. And then her little spirit was free of the struggle and she slipped away.”

Doreen turned to her husband, who knelt down beside her. They clutched each other, weeping together, as Maisie quietly stood up, signaled to Ada that she was leaving and stepped lightly along the corridor to the front door. She turned to Ada as she opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement.

“Tell Billy not to come to work until he’s ready.”

“All right, Miss Dobbs.”

“Has your husband found a job yet?”

She shook her head. “No, though he thinks he might get some work down on the docks at the end of the week. Mind you, what with the unions…”

Maisie nodded. “When will Lizzie be laid to rest?”

“Not for a few days yet, might even be over a week, what with one thing and another.”

“Please send word to me. And if you need anything…” Maisie handed her a calling card.

“Right you are, miss. You’ve been good to Billy and our Doreen. They’re lucky he’s in work.”

Maisie smiled, then said good-bye. She left the East End with her hands firmly on the steering wheel, her attention on the road, her eyes smarting. But instead of going directly to Fitzroy Square, she was compelled to make her way toward the Embankment, where she parked the MG and walked down to the water. She leaned on the wall and watched the Thames, an even deeper gray today as it reflected clouds overhead. The damp smog had barely lifted and Maisie pulled up the collar of her mackintosh and rewrapped the scarf around her neck. She closed her eyes and remembered Lizzie Beale, felt her head in the crook of her neck when she had taken her in her arms on the day that Doreen had come to the office last year, her worries, then, about Billy. Maisie folded her arms around her body, felt herself fighting the tears that she knew would come, as she pushed back from the abyss that might draw her in all too quickly if she succumbed once again.

She stood watching over the water for some moments longer, then turned to walk back to her motor car. That Billy and Doreen had reached out to each other gave succor to her aching heart, and she found herself wondering about Emma and Piers Bassington-Hope. Had Nick’s mother and father turned to each other upon hearing of his death? The character of an artist suggested an ability to demonstrate emotion and that both were artists supported an assumption that they had readily shared the joy and heartache that comes with bringing up a family. But in terms of the heart, what if they were mired in the behavior of their parents before them and given to sheltering their innermost feelings from each other? Was that why Emma had broken down in Maisie’s company, searching for the arms of a complete stranger to comfort her? If that were true, and the Bassington-Hopes had created a wall of silence between them regarding the loss of their son, then the weight of their bereavement must be intolerable, especially given that their daughter had cast suspicion on the circumstances of his death.

SLUMPING DOWN IN her office armchair, Maisie looked at the cold, damp weather outside and felt a wave of fatigue wash over her. Yes, it was still early days. If Maurice were with her, she knew she would be admonished for pressing on so soon following her recovery. She leaned over to ignite the gas fire, then reached into her old black document case for her diary. Flicking through the pages, she reconsidered her week. Georgina Bassington-Hope was paying her handsomely to compile a report in which she would list evidence that either supported the fact that her brother was killed in an accident of his own causing or that he died as a result of a deliberate act by another. Knowing that few outcomes were a case of black-and-white, a case of guilty or not guilty, Maisie allowed that the artist’s death might well have been an accident, with the actions of another being the cause. And it was possible that fear of the consequences kept that person from coming forward. There again, Nick Bassington-Hope’s death might well have been premeditated murder, which begged the question as to whether such an intention was connected with the seedy element that Harry—always on the edge, Harry—had taken up with. Or, if it was murder, what if it had nothing to do with Harry’s activities and everything to do with Nick’s connections or his work?