Messenger of Truth

She sat in front of the fire for a moment or two longer, then, sighing, she moved to her desk, reached for the telephone receiver and placed a call to Duncan at Georgina’s flat. As luck would have it, he was there alone and agreed to see her in an hour. She was sure that Duncan and Quentin would recount their respective conversations with her to each other, so she took the liberty of inquiring as to where she might find Quentin and was directed to the Chelsea Arts Club, where he would most likely be playing snooker all afternoon.

As Maisie replaced the receiver, she wondered if Alex had confided details of their meeting to his friends. She was still uneasy upon recalling their conversation and the leisurely way he shared confidences. Was she being manipulated? She reconsidered the conversation at the party, the manner of Haywood and Trayner in particular, keeping quiet as Alex Courtman regaled her with tales of the past. It occurred to her that he was perhaps too keen to deflect her attention back to earlier times.

Turning the knob at the side of the gas fire, Maisie shut off the jets and looked around the office. Everything was tidy, all notes and files were neat and not one single item was out of place. She stood for some time, thinking of Billy and Doreen Beale, the rush to admit Lizzie to the hospital, the raging fever that was a portent for what was to come and the anguish of losing their child. How was it, then, for them to return home, for them to touch her clothes and, given the circumstances of her death, to burn everything that was hers?

Closing the door, she secured the room, turning keys in two locks and checking the handle once to ensure that it was safe. As she stepped out into the square, the cold caught her cheeks and she slammed the door behind her, again taking care to check the lock—she might not come back to the office until tomorrow morning when, she hoped, Billy would return to work. Thoughts of work brought her firmly back to the case of Nick Bassington-Hope, whereupon she looked at her watch and set off toward the MG, which she’d parked around the corner in Warren Street. Had she waited just one more moment, Maisie would have seen two men walk across the square to the building she had just left and open the door with ease. One of those men she would have recognized, though she did not know his identity.

DUNCAN HAYWOOD OPENED the door before Maisie had a chance to knock. As at their first meeting, Maisie thought he resembled a small creature that scurried back and forth, squirreling away supplies for a long winter. His clothing was precise: a well-tailored but well-worn tweed suit, a clean shirt and tie and polished shoes. Had he made the effort to ensure a good impression during her visit? Would he usually be more relaxed, perhaps like Courtman, or Nick Bassington-Hope? Though the thought had not occurred to her in such a way before, Maisie concluded that Nick had been very much the leader of the group.

“Miss Dobbs, lovely to see you again.” He reached forward to take her hand. “May I take your coat?”

“Thank you for agreeing to a meeting—and no, don’t worry about my coat, I’m still a bit cold.” Maisie smiled, shook hands and entered the flat, taking up the same seat as before, with Duncan settling onto the chesterfield in the same place that Alex had previously chosen.

“I take it that Alex and Georgina are both out today?” She slipped her gloves off, laid them in her lap and unwound her scarf.

“Yes, Alex is looking at a studio-cum-bed-sitting-room to rent, and Georgina is probably with Lord Bradley.”

“Lord Bradley?”

Duncan smirked. “A joke, Miss Dobbs. It’s a nickname we have for him, Quentin, Alex and I, and of course, Nick, when he was alive.” He paused, as if to gauge her sense of humor. “After all, the man is trying to be British to the core, what with his suits for the City, tweeds for shooting and you should see him on a horse! Tailored jodhpurs, hacking jacket, the lot, and he rides to hounds with the West Kent, and occasionally with the Old Surrey, you know. Then, of course, he opens his mouth.”

Maisie thought the man’s manner snobbish and felt like saying as much, but instead put a question to him. “Duncan, I wonder if you can tell me more about your relationship with Nick, and about your life down in Dungeness—even though you live in Hythe now, and are newly married.” She smiled. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thank you.” He smiled in return, hesitating in a manner that suggested he was measuring his response to the question. “I’ve known Nick since before the war, as you know—so I won’t repeat old news.”

She inclined her head, acknowledging his subtle reference to her information gathering and her understanding that there were few secrets between the friends. But few did not eliminate the possibility that there might be one or two important facts not shared, and Maisie suspected that Alex might not have revealed all the details of the meeting to Duncan.

“I was as close as one could be to Nick, to tell you the truth. Georgina was his closest confidant, though a chap can’t tell his sister everything, can he?” The question was rhetorical; there was no pause for a reply. “We were all in the same boat, frankly. A bit broke, wanting some peace and quiet, and the coast provided exactly the environment we were looking for, plus there was the added attraction of railway carriages being sold off on the cheap and a community of artists coming together in Dungeness. Most have gone now, not everyone can hack that weather and the coast can be bleak. Of course, Nick was really coming back and forth a lot to London, as he began to enjoy a level of success that we three could only dream of, to tell you the truth. Mind you, ‘success’ is a loose term to an artist, Miss Dobbs. Success is when you can afford food on the table, your canvasses and oils and to put a new shirt on your back. But Nick was just making it, just getting to that point where the money was coming through in larger quantities.”

“But I thought Bradley had been purchasing his work for years.”

“He had, but not only does Lord Bradley drive a hard bargain—I think it’s in the blood—Svenson also takes a cut, then there’s all sorts of others to pay when you have an exhibition. And you obviously know that Nick was more or less bankrolling the activities of his brother.”

“I knew he helped him out.”

He smirked again. “Oh, to have that kind of helping out!” Standing, Duncan moved to lean against the mantelpiece, but instead kneeled down to light the paper, kindling and coals already set in the grate. The fire did not catch immediately, so for a few seconds longer Duncan’s attention was drawn to the kindling. Maisie looked on, noticing that an old packing crate had been put to good use, the black lettering still visible across one or two shards of splintered wood. Almost mindlessly, Maisie read the word: Stein. As Duncan struck yet another match, Maisie looked around the room, drawn, as she was nowadays, to the paintings. A new landscape had been added to the wall above the cocktail cabinet, a rather modern work not to her taste. She wondered, once again, what it would be like to have sufficient funds to part with money for something that wasn’t actually useful.

The wood began to catch now, and reaching for the bellows, Duncan turned to Maisie, then went on with his response to her question. “Living out there in Dungeness was an adventure, but I’d had my eye on Hythe for some time, and it seemed quite logical to move there permanently when the right house came up.”

“You must have eventually become fairly successful then.” Maisie knew the comment may have gone too far, prying into the man’s financial situation. In any case, he seemed not to notice.

“I cheat, you know. Teaching art at two schools, and in the evenings at the church hall. It helps enormously. And my wife’s family helped with the house.”

“How very fortunate for you.” Maisie went on with barely a pause. “You were with Nick and Alex on the night of Nick’s death, weren’t you?”

“Yes—look, Miss Dobbs, you know all this already, so why are you asking me? Do you think I had something to do with Nick’s death? If you do, then let’s get it out on the table and do away with all the fancy footwork. I have nothing to hide and will not be peppered with questions in this way.” His outburst was sudden and, Maisie admitted to herself, warranted. It had been her intention to push him.

“Do you think he was murdered?”

“Put it this way, he was not generally a careless person, and he had planned the exhibition down to the last nail in the wall. That, however, does not give an answer either way. He was tired, he had been working feverishly hard, and he wanted this to be the best, the most talked-about art opening in London.”

“Would it have been?”

“I saw all but the main piece, and I thought it was brilliant. Bradley’s got the bulk of the exhibit now, though. And as we all know, he would kill to get his hands on that triptych, or whatever it is.”

“You don’t know what it is?”

“No.”

“Did Nick work on it in Dungeness?”

“If he did, I never saw it. Hasn’t anyone told you how secretive he could be?”

“Did Nick ever receive visitors at his carriage?”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “I wasn’t his keeper, you know. Despite the fact that we all lived in the same place, I think I can count the times on one hand when we were there together in the past year, so, no, I cannot give you any information about his social life, I’m afraid.”

“Did Harry visit, as far as you know? Even if you didn’t see him, did Nick mention it?”

“He came down a few times.”

“When was the first time?”

He shook his head. “Can’t remember.”

“Did Harry’s London friends ever come to the coast?”

“Now why would they do that? Far too uncomfortable for the club crowd, you know. Strange people, they spend their evenings in sooty, sordid clubs, then go back to their palatial surroundings.”

Maisie did not take her eyes off him, but kept up the pace of her questioning. “Do you know the Old Town, in Hastings?”

“Been there. All jellied eels, whelks, Londoners on their days off and slums down on Bourne Street.”

“Have you ever spoken to the fishermen?”

“What?”

“The Draper brothers, perhaps?” Maisie pressed, before he had time to conceal the shock his widened eyes revealed.

“I—I, well I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Maisie checked her momentum. “Tell me what you know about the mural in Nick’s carriage.”

He shrugged again. “Dr. Syn. He loved the myths and legends of the Marshes, loved the stories of smuggling gangs, of devil riders, and of course he’d met Thorndike, the author.”

“What about the Draper boys?”

“What about them?”

“In the mural.”

Another shrug. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

Maisie paused before speaking. “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind explaining something else to me.” She leaned forward. “At Georgina’s party, when Oswald Mosley came into the room, he was almost immediately surrounded by admirers, yet you, Alex and Quentin all but turned your backs. Now, I am no follower, but I’m curious to know what you think of him.”

Haywood lost no time in replying. “God, that man makes me sick. Look at the way he postures, the rhetoric—and the fools can’t see through him, any more than people can see through that tyrant in Germany—Herr Hitler. If you ask me, they are cut of the same cloth—and we should all keep an eye on them. I cannot believe Georgina invited him or even thinks he can do half of what he says—the man’s power hungry.”

“I see. That’s a strong opinion.”

“I have friends in Heidelberg, Munich and Dresden, and to a man they have the same opinions about their leader—we must watch his type, Miss Dobbs.”

She smiled. “Mr. Haywood, thank you so much for your time, you have been most accommodating.”

“But—”

“But?”

“I thought you would have some more questions, that’s all.”

She shook her head. “Not at all. I only ask questions when I am still seeking the answers—and you’ve been an invaluable help to me. Thank you.”

Maisie wound the scarf around her neck once again and stood to warm her hands by the fire for a moment before plunging them into her gloves. “Now, I had best be off. I’m hoping to catch Quentin at the Chelsea Arts Club.”

Duncan had risen to his feet as Maisie stood in front of the fire. “Yes, quite.” Without adding further comment, he led her to the front door and bid her farewell. As the MG’s engine rumbled to life, Maisie watched his silhouette move with haste to the telephone table.

For her part, Maisie was in no hurry. Of course, she would go to the club, just in case, though she knew the purpose for her visit would have departed before her arrival. In fact, she knew that, even as she drove toward Chelsea, Quentin would be apologizing to his companions for deserting such a cracking game of snooker. He would rush into the cloakroom, take his coat and, upon leaving, hail a taxi-cab to take him to the home of his mistress. And in a curt manner, he would probably instruct the driver not to dawdle.

AS SHE TURNED the corner into Fitzroy Square, she was surprised to see Sandra, one of the maids at the Belgravia mansion of Lord and Lady Compton, waiting on the doorstep.

“Sandra, whatever are you doing here?” Maisie had always straddled a fine line when it came to addressing the staff at Ebury Place. None of the skeleton staff now retained there had worked at the house when she herself was in service as a girl before the war, but they knew of her early days. Through trial and error she had forged a relationship blending respect with amiability, with Sandra being the one who was the most forthcoming, always ready to engage in a “chat” with Maisie. But now, with Sandra’s ready smile gone, it seemed that something was amiss. “Is everything all right?”

“I wondered if I could have a word with you, miss.” She was twisting her fingers around the handle of the shopping bag she carried. “I thought you might be able to help me.”

Maisie understood that it must have taken more than a spoonful of courage for the young woman to come to her. She turned to press her key into the lock, but was surprised when the door simply opened at a light touch. “That’s strange….” She looked back at Sandra. “Come up and tell me what’s troubling you.” Distracted, Maisie shook her head. “One of the other tenants must have forgotten to lock the door.”

Sandra looked around. “Probably those two men I saw leaving as I crossed from Charlotte Street.”

Maisie shrugged. “I suppose they must have been visiting the professor who has an office above ours.”

“Didn’t look like professor types to me.”

“Oh, it’s probably nothing.” Maisie shook her head again and smiled at Sandra. “Now, come along, let’s get into the office and you can tell me everything.” She led the way up the stairs. “This is the first time you’ve seen our office, isn’t it? Of course, my assistant—you remember Billy—isn’t here at the moment. It’s very sad, but—oh, my God!”

There was no need for Maisie to turn her key in the lock, no need for her to twist the handle, lean on the door and then enter her office. The door was already wide open, the lock forced for someone to gain entry. Someone who had no thought for the faithfully maintained system of index cards or the detailed files kept in a cabinet alongside Maisie’s desk. The room was strewn with paper, with letters and cards. Drawers were pulled open, a chair was on its side, even a china cup had been broken as those who had gained unlawful entry had gone through in search of—what?

“Crikey, miss.” Sandra stepped forward and reached down, unbuttoning her coat as she did so. “This won’t take—”

“Don’t touch a thing!” Maisie surveyed the scene. “No, leave everything as it is.”

“Shouldn’t you call the police?”

Maisie had already considered that the two men might well have been police themselves, given Stratton’s strange behavior recently and the fact that he was working with the other man, Vance. No, she would deal with this herself. She shook her head. “I don’t think I will.” She sighed, appraising the task ahead of her, wondering how she might bring order to the chaos. “Sandra, do you know anyone who could fit a new lock, someone handy?”

The young woman nodded. “Yes. I do. Sort of why I came to you.”

“I’m sorry, Sandra. Look, let me deal with this first, then—”

“You stay right here, miss. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Where are you going?”

“Well, Eric don’t work at Ebury Place anymore. He’s working for Reg Martin, at the garage, now. He can turn his hand to anything, can Eric, so I’ll get him up here. He’ll put in a new lock for you.” Sandra pulled on her gloves and stood with her hand on the door frame. “And if I were you, miss, I’d close this door and shove that desk in front of it until I get back. Won’t be long.”

Maisie heard the door slam as Sandra left the building. Negotiating papers strewn across the floor, she stepped over to the table where she had worked on the case map with Billy. Usually the map was locked away each time they left the office, but this time…this time, she had slipped up, leaving the diagram of their progress on the Bassington-Hope case laid out ready to resume work when Billy returned tomorrow. Now the map was gone.

Fourteen

Maisie was exhausted by the time she arrived home. Once inside the empty flat, she collapsed into a chair without taking off her coat. The death of Lizzie Beale had taken its toll and now the burglary at her office added to her fatigue. She reached to ignite the gas fire, then leaned back into the chair again. The child’s passing had touched her deeply, and she knew it was not only because the death of one so young is always particularly wrenching—certainly she was not the only one to wonder what picture it painted of a country, of a government, when the life of a child was allowed to slip away, when a parent could not summon medical help for want of the money—but she remembered the first time she held Lizzie. The way in which the child buried her face into the crook of her neck, her dimpled hand holding on to a single button on her blouse, had left Maisie feeling bereft when she was taken from her. It was the child’s warmth and closeness as she clung to Maisie that had caused her to realize she was lonely, that there was a longing for a deeper connection in her life.

Slipping to the floor, Maisie rested against the seat of the chair and held her hands out toward the fire. She felt vulnerable, invaded. The image of the broken lock flashed through her mind; the memories of shredded wood where the door had been forced and the paper and cards strewn across the floor conspired to unsettle her even further. Who has stolen our case map? Could it have been those men she had seen with Harry Bassington-Hope? Surely they would not have taken the case map. Was it a consolation prize snatched by intruders who didn’t know what they wanted but were simply led by instinct? Could they have been hired by Bradley, perhaps expecting to find a clue to the whereabouts of the triptych? Might it have been Duncan and Quentin whom she had so recently unsettled? They’ve something to hide.

Or could it have been Nick Bassington-Hope’s killer? Sandra said she had seen two men. Could two men have killed the artist? She asked herself again if Harry’s gangland associates could have taken the life of his brother. Maisie rubbed her eyes and slipped the coat from her shoulders, reaching behind her to drape it over the seat of the chair. Sandra. She’d never discovered why Sandra had come to her; instead, distracted by the vandalism of her property, the young woman’s offer of help had been accepted with little more said.

By the time Sandra returned with Eric, who carried a bag of tools and a new lock, Maisie had cleared the office and begun to file papers and cards. The door was soon repaired. With every bone aching for rest, Maisie returned home. It was only when she sat gazing at the gas jets that she realized she hadn’t discovered the reason for Sandra’s visit, although she remembered, as the couple made their way toward the Warren Street underground station, her former maid’s arm was linked through that of the young man at her side.

Despite checking and double-checking the integrity of locks on the front and back doors and the windows, Maisie could not settle and slept fitfully. Though she had loved the idea of a ground-floor flat, with a back door that led out onto the postage stamp of a lawn, she now wondered if her choice of home were not somewhat precarious for a woman in her line of work. Not that she expected to have much to do with those who would cause her harm, though perhaps the fact that she had no such expectation demonstrated a naïveté on her part.

MAISIE WAS ON her hands and knees in the office the following morning when she heard the front door thump closed against the wind and Billy Beale’s distinctive footfall on the stairs. She clambered to her feet as her assistant entered the office.

“Bloody ’ell…”

Maisie smiled. “I’ve broken the back of the job, but we’ve got our work cut out for us today.” She smiled and came toward him, touching him lightly on the sleeve. “Do you feel up to it, Billy?”

With the semblance of a man in his sixties, not his thirties, Billy nodded. “Got to earn my keep, Miss.” He paused, taking off his coat and hanging it on the hook at the back of the door, along with his flat cap and scarf. A black cloth band stiched around the upper arm of his jacket signaled his state of mourning. “And to tell you the truth, what with one thing and another, it’s best for me, is this. Doreen’s sister started with the baby this morning, so there’s no room for me—or for Jim, ’e’s out looking for work again. So, it’s best if I’m out of it. Give something for Doreen to think about. They’ve got to get ready for the other nippers bein’ allowed ’ome soon as well. Anyway, the woman from up the road, the one who’s there for all the babies ’round our way, was just coming in the door when I was leaving, so I’m in no ’urry to go back there.”

“Is Doreen coping?”

“I should say she’s keepin’ ’er ’ead above the water, Miss. Just. It’s all a bit strange, to tell you the truth. There we are, you know, just lost our little girl, and there’s a baby about to come into the world. And what to? What sort of life is it? I tell you, Miss, I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’, but me and Doreen’ve been talkin’ and we’ve laid it out for ourselves, for our boys.”

“Laid out what?”

“Plans, Miss.” Billy shook his head and leaned back against his desk. “There ain’t nothin’ ’ere for us, is there? Look at the place, look at it. I’ve got a trade, Miss, I’ve got this work with you, doin’ inquiries, under me belt, and look at me, I can’t keep me nippers safe. No, Miss, we’ve decided. We’re savin’ up, you know. To emigrate.”

“Emigrate?”

“Well, Miss, mate of mine in the war, ’e went over to Canada afterward. It was them Canadian boys tellin’ ’im all about it, you know. Took ’im until ’21 to afford passage.” Billy shook his head, recalling his friend. “Me mate wasn’t one to write, not the sort, but I got the odd postcard, you know, with ‘Hands Across the Miles’ on the front, and ’e says there’s a good life for men like me, men what ain’t afraid of a bit of ’ard graft, men what’ll work to make a better life for their families. I reckon we can put a bit by, me and Doreen—it’ll be easier when we ain’t got the extra mouths to feed—and we’ll go over there. Fred’s doin’ well, you know, got work, nice place to live, not all cramped up like we are in the East End, with all that river filth.”

Maisie was about to say something about acting in haste, about waiting for the weight of their loss to lift before leaving home behind them, but instead she smiled. “You’re a good father, Billy. You’ll do what’s best. Now then, unless you’re planning to sail to Canada this afternoon, we’d better get on. I have to leave for Dungeness later, but I want to ensure this is all put away and clear again before I go.” She turned to the desk. “Oh, and you’ll need these—keys for the new lock.”

Billy caught the set of keys Maisie threw to him. “Did we lose anything important, Miss?”

Maisie nodded. “The case map.”

SOME TWO HOURS later, Maisie and Billy had brought order to the chaos and were now sitting at the oak table in front of a length of pristine white lining paper of the type usually used by decorators, which they proceeded to pin to the wood.

“There, clean slate, Billy. We might see some links, some clues that have evaded us thus far.”

“I ’ope so, Miss. Bloomin’ lot of ’ard work down the drain if we don’t.”

Maisie took a red pen and began to draw a circle with Nick Bassington-Hope’s name in the center. “I want to see Arthur Levitt this morning, Billy, and I also want you to talk to your Fleet Street friend this afternoon, if you can.”

“Right you are, Miss.”

“All right then, let’s get on…”

They worked on the map until ten o’clock, whereupon the length of paper was rolled up and secured with a piece of string. Both Billy and Maisie looked around the room.

“Like I’ve said before, Miss, my old mum always said to ’ide somethin’ in plain view.”

“Well, in my haste I already did that, and look where it got me! No, we need a very safe place—and I don’t want to take it home.”

“I’ve got an idea, Miss.” Billy walked over to the fireplace, carefully edged out the gas fire that had been fitted to stand in front of an original grate designed for logs and coal. “Long as we don’t weaken the old gas line by pulling the fire back and forth, this should work for us, the old ‘up the chimney’ trick.”

“Seems a bit obvious to me, Billy, but until we think of something better, it will have to do. Here you are.”

Billy pushed the case map behind the gas fire, moved the fire back into position and checked to ensure the fuel line was not compromised by the exercise.

Scrutinizing the door several times to check the integrity of the lock, the pair were finally satisfied that the office was secure.

“Of course, you know the irony of all this checking and double-checking, don’t you?”

“What’s that, Miss?” Billy pulled up his collar against the wind.

“The men who broke into the office may well have what they want. And if they don’t, they’re going to try somewhere else.”

“Reckon you should get that Eric bloke ’round to do the lock on your flat.”

“I will. As soon as I get back from Dungeness.”

Slamming the passenger door of the MG behind him in a way that always made Maisie cringe, Billy added a final two-penn’orth of advice. “Of course, you know what you need, a woman alone in your position, don’t you, Miss?”

“What’s that?” Maisie might usually have reminded Billy that she was quite capable, thank you very much, but she was mindful of his fragile state and allowed him to continue.

“A bloomin’ great dog. That’s what you need. A big ’airy thing to mind you from these ’ere criminal types.”

She laughed as she drove toward Albemarle Street.

SEEING BILLY’S ARMBAND, Arthur Levitt removed his flat cap. “Everything all right, son?”

Billy pressed his lips together and Maisie could see him struggling. She knew that every time he uttered the truth of the family’s bereavement, the anguish wrenched his heart as if for the first time. He shook his head. “We lost our youngest, Mr. Levitt.”

“I’m sorry, son.”

“We’re not the first, and we won’t be the last. My old mum lost four babies, all of ’em under two. You’d think all that’d be in the past, wouldn’t you? Anyway, just got to get on. There’s the boys to look after, and my wife’s sister is about to ’ave another one, so she’s got plenty to take ’er mind off it.” He changed the subject quickly. “Arthur, this is Miss Dobbs, my employer.”

Maisie stepped forward, extending her hand. Levitt raised an eyebrow but was courteous.

“What can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”

“Mr. Levitt, I am conducting an informal inquiry on behalf of Miss Georgina Bassington-Hope into the death of her brother at this gallery. Miss Bassington-Hope feels that there are a few places where information regarding the events leading up to his death is rather thin, hence my interest in speaking to you—in confidence.”

“Well, Miss Dobbs, I don’t know.” He looked around. “Mr. Svenson isn’t here, and he won’t like it, I’m sure.”

“I’ve already spoken to Mr. Svenson.” It was true enough, though Maisie was quite aware that her words suggested that he had given her leave to speak to his caretaker. “And I know you’ve given a statement to the police regarding the discovery of Mr. Bassington-Hope’s body, but I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

Levitt looked back and forth between Billy and Maisie, then sighed. “Right you are. Probably no harm in it, and if it helps Miss Bassington-Hope, then it’s all to the good.”

“You liked Mr. Bassington-Hope?”

He nodded. “Very nice man. Always thoughtful, always respectful. Not like some of them, the airy-fairy types who flap back and forth like a finch in a thunderstorm. No, Mr. Bassington-Hope was more of your feet-on-the-ground type. Not afraid to do the heavy lifting—mind you, he preferred to do it, was very protective of his work, you know.”

“Yes, so I understand.” Maisie glanced at Billy, who was busy taking notes. She saw that his hands were shaking, and wondered when he had last taken food. Turning her attention to Levitt again, she continued. “Mr. Levitt, perhaps you could tell me what you remember about the day Mr. Bassington-Hope died.”

He was silent for a moment, squinting as he looked out the high window of the storeroom at the back of the gallery.

“He was here early. Came in a van.”

“Was that unusual?”

Levitt nodded. “He came on his motorbike, as a rule, kept it spick-and-span, he did. It was a Scott Flying Squirrel. He and Mr. Courtman—I’m sure you know who he is—would be in here joshing with each other about who had the best motorbike—his Scott, or Mr. Courtman’s Brough.”

Billy looked up. “Very nice, I’m sure,” he muttered.

Levitt noticed the sarcasm, but continued. “He didn’t use the bike that day because he had too much to carry, his tools and so on, so he came in an old van he’d borrowed.”

“I see. Go on,” Maisie encouraged the caretaker.

“I was here before seven, so I reckon he came at about eight. There was a lot of unloading. He’d picked up Mr. Haywood on the way, from his sister’s, so I understand, and Mr. Courtman followed on the Brough.”

“I thought Mr. Bassington-Hope had been at his sister’s flat the night before.” Maisie looked down, directing her words to the ground, rather than to Billy or Levitt.

“Yes, miss, that’s right, but apparently he’d left early to go to his lock-up, where he loaded up, then came here. He reckoned he’d go back again later to pick up the final piece, what everyone’s been calling a triptych.”

“How did he spend the day?”

“First of all they all got stuck in and put up the main part of the exhibition, which was easy, to a point. I reckon it would’ve been a very good show, but there was nothing there for anyone to purchase, on account of Mr. Bradley buying up the lot.”

“So I understand. Tell me about the scaffolding and what happened next.”

“Well, as soon as they had put up the works that had been brought over in the van, Mr. Bassington-Hope went back to his lock-up to collect more paintings, and the other two went out for a bit of something to eat. Mr. Courtman did ask if he needed help, but he said that he didn’t. There was more preparation, and then the wood and so on for the scaffolding was delivered, and they all worked for the rest of the day on that.”

“Were there visitors?”

“Well, yes. There was family dropping in throughout the day, and, of course, Mr. Svenson was flapping a bit, giving everyone directions. Mind you, he always drew his neck in a bit with Mr. Bassington-Hope. Could be sparky, he could—you know, get touchy if he was told to do something he didn’t want to do, and he wasn’t shy when it came to telling Mr. Svenson off. Saw him do it in company once, which was a bit strong. Between us, it embarrassed Mr. Svenson—made him fume, to tell you the truth. I thought to myself at the time that one day he would push Mr. Svenson too far. No, Mr. Bassington-Hope never pulled back from anything. He was a bit like his brother in that regard. And those two sisters of his, come to that.”

“You knew his brother?”

“I’ve been here years, miss. Seen all the family paintings one way or another. The mother is very talented, of course. I think it’s only that older sister who can’t wield a brush to save her life.” He scratched his head, remembering the question of Harry. “As far as the brother goes, I’d seen him come and go a couple of times when Mr. Bassington-Hope was here for an opening or when his work was exhibited.” He pressed his lips together, as if weighing how much to reveal. “What you’ve got to remember, Miss Dobbs, is that Mr. Svenson holds the purse strings, so if that younger one wanted some money from his brother, he’d be more likely to get it if he was standing in his bank, if you know what I mean.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, I do. So, tell us about the scaffolding, about what they did next.”

“Meticulous, I would say. Mr. Bassington-Hope was very careful, measuring, testing the strength of the trestle. He knew that, once it was up, he’d be here on his own working on placing and securing the pieces. He said to me, ‘Last thing I want is to break my painting arm, Arthur.’ Mind you”—he looked at Maisie to ensure she was listening carefully—“mind you, he also knew the scaffolding was temporary, that it would probably only be used again to dismantle the exhibit, so it’s not as if it were made like you were building a house underneath. You couldn’t go jumping all over it with a hod of bricks or anything. But it was sturdy enough for the job, and with a barrier along the back, so he could lean—lightly, mind—and check the placing of the anchors and, of course, the paintings.”

“When did everyone leave?”

“Well, there was that dust-up in the afternoon, and I’m sure you’ve heard all about that, what with Mr. Bradley doing his nut because Mr. Bassington-Hope wouldn’t sell that main piece. Then they left, and the men worked on until, oh, must’ve been eight o’clock.”

“And do you know when Mr. Bassington-Hope intended to collect the main pieces?”

“Now, I leave at nine, as a rule, only I stayed a bit, but Mr. Bassington-Hope said he’d lock up and I should get home, because the next day would be a long one. I asked if he was sure, what with having to lug the pieces up the stairs on his own, and what have you—”

“Lug the pieces up the stairs?”

“You see these here staircases?” He pointed to a staircase at either side of the storage room, in the center of which was a tunnel-like corridor that snaked through to the main gallery. “They lead out onto the balconied landings in the gallery. There’s a door at either side. He would have had to carry the pieces up these stairs, then lift them over the balcony to the scaffolding. Then he’d either hop on over or climb up from below, but this would definitely have been the easiest way to do the job. And he wanted the downstairs door to the gallery locked, didn’t want anyone coming in to disturb him.”

“What time did Haywood and Courtman leave again?”

“Reckon about eight. Courtman wanted to get going, had a ladyfriend waiting somewhere, and so Haywood asked for a lift on his motorbike.”

“And no one else came to visit between eight and the time you left?”

“Mr. Svenson came in again, but eventually he left before me. He was very anxious, but he’s also very good with his clients, you know. He works with their temperaments, I think you would say. And he trusted Mr. Bassington-Hope.”

“Could anyone have entered the gallery?”

“The downstairs door was locked, definitely, but the upstairs door was unlocked—but you’d’ve expected that, what with him having to go back and forth.”

“Did he pull the van in?”

“The van was on the street. And of course he hadn’t collected the main pieces. I can only think he was running behind a bit, though he would have wanted to bring them in late, I would have thought, on account of him wanting to keep them a secret.”

Maisie paced back and forth. “Mr. Levitt, tell me about the morning when you found Mr. Bassington-Hope.”

“It was long before seven, and I expected him to be here to make sure that no one could eyeball the exhibition before the opening. The van was parked on the street here and the outside door was unlocked, so that’s when I thought he was already in. I put the kettle on”—he pointed to a small gas stove—“and I went down the corridor here, where the door was still locked, with the key in it on the other side. I banged on the door to let him know it was me, only there was no answer. So I went upstairs, hoping he’d left that door unlocked, and he had. But when I opened it and went out onto the balcony, that’s when I saw him. The scaffolding had broken where the poor man had lost his balance and fallen back.” Levitt choked. Maisie and Billy were silent, waiting for him to settle into the story again. “I ran downstairs as quick as I could to get to him. He was stone cold. I could see straightaway that it was a broken neck. I opened the door to the back—keys in the lock as I thought—and I ran into Mr. Svenson’s office, it’s off the corridor there, I have a spare key—and telephoned the police. That’s when Detective Inspector Stratton came to the gallery.”

Maisie cleared her throat. “Do you know what happened to the van?”

“The chap he borrowed it from found out what had happened and claimed it from the police. They released it after a day or two. Nothing in it but a few tools, though.”

“And what about a key or set of keys? Mr. Bassington-Hope must have had a key to his lock-up.”

Levitt shook his head. “You’d probably be best to ask Miss Bassington-Hope. But to tell you the truth, I don’t know if there was anything.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, I was standing there, talking to Detective Inspector Stratton while two other policemen were going through Mr. Bassington-Hope’s belongings, you know, patting down his body. And there was no key there or I would have heard them. You see, I was listening for that. I’m a caretaker, Miss Dobbs. You’d sometimes think I’m the chief jailer, with a key for this and a key for that. And, apart from a key to the van, which he’d put on that shelf over there, there was no other key found that morning, or since then.”

“Does that strike you as strange?”

The man sighed. “To tell you the truth, Miss Dobbs—and I haven’t said as much to anyone else—I thought the whole thing was strange, something about it just didn’t sit right with me. But there again, if you were there, you’d’ve probably thought it was an accident too.”

Maisie inclined her head. “Would I, Mr. Levitt?”

MAISIE AND BILLY took a brief sojourn in a pie and mash shop, where a hearty helping of eel pie, mashed potato and parsley “likker” brought some color back to Billy’s hollow cheeks. As they stood on the street ready to part company, he declared himself “well up” for the afternoon ahead.

As soon as she was back in the office, Maisie set about catching up with her work. There were some bills to prepare, and planning for the following week to complete. The post had to be dealt with, and she was pleased to see two letters of interest with regard to her services.

With about another half hour before she needed to leave for Dungeness, she moved to the table but did not remove the case map from its hiding place. She took a seat and doodled with a pen on a blank index card. She thought there might be something going on in Dungeness—based more upon her understanding of Nick’s mural, than anything else—that suggested knowledge on his part of some underhanded dealing. But how deep was his personal involvement? She felt that Haywood and Trayner had something to hide, but Courtman seemed on the periphery of the group, probably not part of an inner circle.

Harry Bassington-Hope? Her mind drifted back to the dilettante musician, and the words came into her mind: He knew what was going on. But Maisie considered Harry to be someone caught in a web of his own making. She knew his type, had seen it before. Harry’s actions had led him to the slippery slope, and she knew he would not draw back from dragging someone else down with him—be it a friend, a brother or sister. His addiction was to the highs and lows of the gamble, that intoxicating thrill of risk blended with chance—and those who had something to gain from his weakness had lost no time in using him to their advantage. But how did they do it? Maisie shook her head and ran her hands through her hair. No, they weren’t after just family money alone. She scraped back her chair and wandered to the window. What did Harry get from his brother that someone else wanted? She ran her finger across the condensation on the window pane, then watched a rivulet of water drizzle down to the wooden frame. And did Nick die as a result of it?

Maisie turned, ready to collect her belongings, to prepare herself to leave. She had always spoken with Maurice at times such as this, when she was about to move ahead into the darkness. She depended upon his counsel at that point in the case where she, too, was playing with risk, leaving so much to chance. Am I as much of an addict to the thrill my work sometimes brings? Was it the thought of possibly giving up that edge, that contributed to dissatisfaction in her courtship with Andrew Dene? Maisie put her hand to her mouth. She had always told herself that she did this job because she wanted to help others; after all, hadn’t Maurice told her once that the most important question any individual could ask was, “How might I serve?” If her response to that question had been pure, surely she would have continued with the calling to be a nurse—and perhaps help children such as Lizzie Beale in the bargain. But that role hadn’t been quite enough for her. She would have missed the excitement, the thrill—and it was a thrill—when she embarked on the work of collecting clues to support a case.

Hadn’t she felt that fountain of expectation rise within her at the nightclub, while waiting, ever watchful, for Harry Bassington-Hope? There was the prickle across her skin when she saw the man at the bar leave, perhaps to follow Svenson and Bradley. Then at the gallery, that familiar excitement building as she questioned Arthur Levitt. Or outside Georgina’s flat, when she arrived for the party, there was that compulsion to wait, to watch, to remain alert, to uncover a truth that had hitherto been hidden. Of course, Georgina was the same, though in her case, the urge to seek adventure played out in capturing the fabric of truth she would fashion for her stories. And she was involved with a married man. There’s a gamble. And Nick too—didn’t he sail close to the winds of disapproval with his work? Didn’t he risk losing his supporters?

Truth. Wasn’t that why she took on the case? That bolt of recognition when Georgina placed her hand over her heart and said, “A feeling, here,” even though she did not know the woman well, had not established an acquaintance; she was drawn by her declaration. She had stepped forward, laid her hand on the woman’s shoulder, the voice in her head saying, Yes, this I understand. That was the thrill, and that was the quest for which she took her risks. The search for truth. But what if she were wrong? What if all the supposed clues were simply unimportant connections: the wayward brother, the wealthy sponsor, friends who appeared to have something to hide. Heavens, didn’t everyone have something to hide? Maisie sighed, knowing her thoughts had taken her along a less than welcome path, the way of doubt. She had never been blind to the reality of her obsession with her work, but she had certainly been less than honest with those who deserved more from her—Andrew Dene for one.

Almost instinctively, she reached for the telephone receiver, then drew back. No, she would not place a call to Maurice. She had forged her independence from him. The business was her own now, there was no need to seek his counsel, his voice, his opinion of her reasoning, before setting off.

Checking that she had everything she needed, Maisie put on her coat, hat and gloves, and took up the black document case, along with her shoulder bag. She reached the door, and as she held out her hand to grasp the brass handle, the telephone began to ring. She was determined to ignore the ring, but it occurred to her that it might be Billy trying to contact her before she departed for Dungeness, so she reconsidered and lifted the receiver.

“Fitzroy—”

“Maisie.”

“Maurice.” She closed her eyes, and sighed. “I thought it might be you.”

“Were you about to leave your office?”

“Yes. I’m off to Dungeness.”

There was a pause. “I sense you’ve reached that point in a case where you must take a risk or two. Am I correct?”

Maisie closed her eyes and sighed. “Yes, as always, Maurice.”

“Ah, I hear just a hint of impatience, Maisie.”

“No, not at all. I was just leaving, my hands are full.”

Another pause. “I see. Then I will not detain you. Take care, remember all you have learned.”

She nodded. “Of course. I will be in touch soon, Maurice.”

The click as the receiver met the cradle seemed to echo against the walls, the short finality of the conversation reverberating across the silent room. Maisie stood by the desk for just a few seconds, nursing a regret that she had not been kinder. Then she left the office, double-checked the lock and made her way to the MG.

It was as she was about to slip into the driver’s seat that Maisie saw Billy running along Warren Street toward her.

“Miss! Miss! Wait a minute!”

Maisie smiled. “You’ve built up a head of steam there, Billy. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing wrong, Miss, but there’s something come up, you know, that sort of—what is it you always say? Oh, yes—sort of piqued my interest.”

“Yes?”

Billy caught his breath and held his hand to his chest. “Gaw, I thought I’d miss you there. ’old on a minute.” He coughed, wheezing and looking around him as he did so. “Right then. This is what my mate down Fleet Street ’ad to say today. There ain’t nothing on our ’arry B-H to report, nothing on Nick, or the sisters. So, generally, it’s all clean, nothing to report. So, I says to ’im, ‘So, what else ’as been comin’ down the blower this week, mate?’ and ’e says that the only thing ’e’s got a lead on, though it ain’t much, is that these ’ere villains that ’arry’s been in cahoots with, ’ave been suspected of getting into the minin’ business.”

“Mining? What on earth do you mean?”

“Manner of talking, Miss.” Billy grinned. “Now, what do you think minin’ means?”

“Coal?”

“Close. Very close. Turns out that my mate is following a lead that they’re into diamonds, as in the moving around of the same.”

“But aren’t these criminals always into whatever can be stolen?”

“No, not stolen as in a ‘rotten little tea-leaf ’aving it away with ’er Ladyship’s tiara.’ No, we’re talking raw diamonds, brought in from somewhere else and fenced over ’ere.”

Maisie was silent for a moment or two. “Yes, yes, that’s very interesting, Billy. I’m not sure how that might have anything to do with Harry and this case, but…”

“What, Miss?”

“Just a thought. Anything else?”

Billy shook his head. “Nah, nothing much. My mate says ’e’s been keeping an eye on what’s going on over there on the Continent, says that it’s a bit more interestin’ at the moment, so there ain’t much that can affect the B-Hs.”

Maisie settled into the MG, winding down the window as the engine grumbled to life. “And what has been happening in Europe, then?”

“Well, my mate says, all the usual stuff. Been a few burglaries, old money’s ’eirlooms bein’ pinched, that sort of thing.”

“Good work, Billy—I’ll consider everything you’ve said on my drive to the coast. Hold the fort until tomorrow afternoon, won’t you?”

“Right you are, Miss. You can depend on me.”

Maisie looked into Billy’s almost lifeless gray-blue eyes and smiled. “I know I can, Billy. Just you take care of yourself—and your family.”

BILLY STOOD WATCHING as Maisie drove off toward Tottenham Court Road. She hadn’t confided in him regarding her plans for the evening, and what, exactly, she wanted to accomplish in Dungeness. He knew she hadn’t wanted to worry him, which worried him even more. In fact, he knew her well enough by now to know that she had—as near as damn it—worked out what had happened to Nick Bassington-Hope on the night of his death even if she might not know who else was involved. She probably had two or three possible suspects lined up, and if he was right about it, she was just waiting for someone, somewhere, to put a foot wrong.

Fifteen

Maisie made a snap decision that there was no need to begin her journey to Dungeness for another hour or two—she certainly didn’t want to arrive too early. Much of the planning was based on supposition anyway. She had no firm evidence that this evening, under cover of darkness, she would find out if her suspicions concerning the activities of a few residents in the small coastal community were well-founded; all she had to go on, truly, was a tale of derring-do, a colorful mural on a former railway carriage and the history of a desolate place—the case was all loose ends and no skein of yarn. But she could confirm one or two facts, and those facts might indicate that the time was indeed right for her to go to Dungeness today, especially as it would be a clear, moonless night.

Maisie parked alongside the entrance to Georgina’s flat and checked her appearance before making her way to the front door. She rang the bell and the housekeeper came within seconds, smiling when she recognized Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs. I’ll tell Miss Bassington-Hope that you’re here.” She showed Maisie into the drawing room as she spoke.

“Thank you.” Maisie removed her gloves and scarf and waited without taking a seat.

“Maisie, what a surprise. Have you news?” Georgina entered the room several minutes later. Her hair was drawn back in a loose chignon, which exposed her pale skin, the almost juvenile freckles on her nose and gray circles under her eyes.

“No, but I wanted to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind. I’d like to clarify my understanding of certain events leading up to the death of your brother.”

“Of course.” As she held out her hand toward the chesterfield, Maisie noticed a circular ink stain against the upper joint of the middle finger of her right hand.

“I see you’ve been writing, Georgina. Have I disturbed you at an inopportune moment?”

The journalist shook her head. “I wish I could say that you had. In fact, I welcome any disturbance, to tell you the truth—it saves me sweating over a blank page for the rest of the day.”

“Blank page?”

Georgina sighed, shaking her head. “The call to write hasn’t been answered by words yet. I usually compose with my typewriting machine these days, but I thought that if I took up the fountain pen again, it might ignite inspiration’s touchpaper.”

“Is there something specific you want to write?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been assigned to write something about Oswald Mosley for an American journal, but I can’t seem to get going.”

“Perhaps it’s your subject, rather than your ability.”

“Hardly. The man elicits excitement wherever he goes. I can’t think why I cannot get the words on the page. I can’t seem to describe the honesty, the integrity of his mission.”

Maisie smiled. “Could that be because, in truth, such qualities are not truly present?”

“What do you mean?” Georgina sat up. Her spine, previously curved under the weight of a burdensome task, was now erect with indignation. “He is—”

“It was simply a question to consider. Have you experienced such an issue with your work before?”

“No.” She curled a stray wisp of hair behind her ear before leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. “Sorry, that’s a lie. To tell you the truth, even though I’ve done quite well—especially with the bound collection of my wartime reports—I haven’t been really inspired since the peace conference in 1919.” Georgina shook her head, slapped her hands on her knees and stood up, folding her arms and walking to the fireplace, where she reached down, took up a poker and plunged it into the fire, moving the hot coals around to stoke the flames. “I think I need a war to write about, to tell you the truth. I should really just leave the country and look for one.”

Maisie smiled, though it was not a smile of mirth but one that she knew was rooted in an emotion akin to that expressed by Billy when he first met the Bassington-Hope woman. Her resentment was growing, but she was mindful that even though she knew the woman a little better now, she was still a client.

“As I said, Georgina, I’d like to ask a few questions. First of all, are Nick’s friends still with you?”

“No, Duncan left this morning. As far as I know, he and Quentin have gone down to Dungeness, as planned. They both have loose ends to deal with.” She paused, looking at Maisie. “I thought you were going again this week.”

“Yes, that’s right.” She did not elucidate with more information. “They’ve been here for a week or so, haven’t they?”

Georgina poked the fire once more, then replaced the cast-iron tool in the holder next to the coal scuttle. “Yes, I think they were down for just a day around about the time you visited. I remember thinking that it was a shame you hadn’t met then. You must have just missed them.”

“Of course.” Maisie was thoughtful. I am right. Today is the day. “Georgina, may I ask some personal questions?”

The woman was cautious, her chin held a little higher, betraying a reticence she would likely not have wanted to reveal. “Personal questions?”

“First of all, why did you not tell me of the encounter between Mr. Bradley and Nick at the gallery on the afternoon before he died?”

“I—I—I forgot. It wasn’t terribly nice, so I wanted to forget, to tell you the truth.”

Maisie pushed harder. “Might it have anything to do with your relationship with Mr. Bradley?”

Georgina cleared her throat and Maisie, once again, watched as she pushed down the cuticles of each finger, moving from her left hand to her right as she answered. “There was no relationship, as you put it, at that time.”

“There was an attraction.”

“Of—of course…. I mean, I had always got on with Randolph—I mean, Mr. Bradley. But we weren’t close at the time of Nick’s death.”

“And what about you and Nick? I have asked you this question before, however, I understand that you went back to the gallery after the row in the afternoon—of course, it was a row during which you took Nick’s part. I realize you supported his refusal to sell the triptych.”

“Yes, I supported his decision. We always supported each other.”

“And why did you go back?”

“How did you—” Georgina sighed, now cupping her hands, one inside the other, on her lap. “I shouldn’t ask, should I? After all, I’m paying you to ask questions.” She swallowed, coughed, then went on. “I went back to talk to Nick. We’d left under a cloud and I couldn’t leave it on such terms. I wanted to explain.”

“What?”

“Nick knew that Randolph and I were attracted and he didn’t like it. Randolph was his greatest admirer, and Nick didn’t want complications. He also heartily disapproved of our interest in each other—which, I have to say was a bit rich, when you consider his peccadilloes.”

Maisie said nothing.

“He’d had an affair with Duncan’s wife-to-be,” continued Georgina, “and he’d had a bit of a fling with a married woman years ago, so he wasn’t so pure as the driven snow as Emsy would have you believe. Of course, my father knew what Nick was like, truly, and had upbraided him on more than one occasion.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But that was ages ago.” She waved her hand as if to dismiss a triviality. “I went to Nick to make up, to let him know that I supported him, and I wanted him to accept me too.”

“And he didn’t?”

“Not with Randolph, no. We’d argued about it before.” She paused, looking straight at Maisie. “My brother could be pretty bloody-minded when he liked, Maisie. On the one hand you had the easy-going brother, and on the other, a man with the morals of a vicar and actions that fell shy of the sort of behavior that Harry is capable of.”

“I see.”

“And he never forgot—and sometimes the things he saved in his mind turned up in his work—so you can imagine how I felt. I imagined a mural of star-crossed lovers with my face depicted alongside Randolph’s. So we had words both on the morning and on the evening of his death, and I left without saying good-bye, or sorry, or…anything, really.” Georgina began to weep.

Maisie said nothing, allowing the tears to fall and then subside before continuing.

“And you do not think that the argument might have rendered Nick so unsettled as to make an error of judgment with his step?”

“Absolutely not! Nick was too single-minded to allow such a thing. In fact, he was probably so hardened in his response to my appeal because he had only one thing on his mind—exhibiting the triptych.”

Maisie reached for her scarf, beside her on the chesterfield. “Yes, I understand.” She stood up, collected her gloves and bag and turned as if to leave, though she faced Georgina. “And you didn’t see anyone else after you left the gallery that evening?”

“Well, Stig came back. I saw him turn into Albemarle Street as I left the gallery. Frankly, I didn’t really want to see him and fortunately a taxi-cab came along at just that moment.”

“About what time was this? Had Mr. Levitt gone for the day?”

“Yes, Levitt had left.” She closed her eyes, as if to recall the events. “In fact, I know he’d left because I had to bang on the front door for Nick to open it. The back door was locked.”

“And did you leave by the front door?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if Nick locked it behind you again?”

“Um, no, I don’t.” She bit her lip. “You see, he told me to just leave him alone, that he just wanted to get on with his work. I could barely speak to him, it was just so unlike us to be at odds with each other.”

Maisie sighed, allowing a pause in the questioning. “Georgina, why did you not tell me about the affair with Bradley sooner? You must have known how important such information could be.”

Georgina shrugged. “Having an affair with a married man is not something I’m proud of, to be perfectly honest with you.”

Maisie nodded thoughtfully and walked to the painting above the cocktail cabinet. “This is new, isn’t it?”

Georgina looked up, distracted. “Um, yes, it is.”

“From Svenson?”

“No, I’m looking after it, for a friend.”

“Lovely to have it for a while.”

She nodded. “Yes. I hope it won’t be too long though.”

Maisie noticed a wistfulness about her client, a blend of regret and sadness that possession of the piece seemed to have brought with it. She continued to look at the painting, and as she did so, a fragment of the jigsaw puzzle that was Nick Bassington-Hope’s life fell into place—and she hoped it was exactly the right place.

Maisie did not question Georgina Bassington-Hope further, satisfied—for the moment, in any case—with her responses. She was dismayed, however, that she had not learned of the unlocked front entrance to the gallery before.

As the women stood on the threshold, Georgina having waved her housekeeper away, saying she would see Miss Dobbs out, Maisie decided to throw a grain of possibility to the once-renowned journalist.

“Georgina, you mentioned that you needed a war to ignite your work.” Maisie made the statement without inflection in her voice.

“Yes, but—”

“Then you need look no farther than the boundaries of the city in which you live, though you will have to risk traveling beyond your chosen milieu.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Beale and his wife have lost their youngest child to diphtheria. In a house that barely contains one family, they have taken in a family of four—almost five, a new baby will be born before the end of the day—because his brother-in-law has lost his job. And the Beales are among those who consider themselves better off. Your friend, Oswald Mosley, has lost no time in using such circumstances for political gain; however, I am unaware of any real understanding among those who have of the plight of those who have not. The war is being waged, Georgina, only the war is here and now, and it is a war against poverty, against disease and against injustice. Didn’t Lloyd George promise something better to the men who fought for their country? You would do well to consider igniting your pen with that for a story! I’m sure your American publisher would be happy with the unexpected view you put forward.”

“I—I hadn’t thought—”

“I’ll be in touch soon, Georgina. Expect to hear from me within two days.”

Georgina nodded and was about to close the door when Maisie turned to her one last time. “Oh, by the way, are you acquainted with a Mr. Stein?”

Georgina frowned and shook her head rather too fiercely as she replied, “No. The only Stein I know is Gertrude.”

MAISIE WONDERED IF she had gone too far with Georgina. What do I know about journalism, to be advising her? Then she reconsidered. The woman was clearly grief-stricken over her brother’s death, but wasn’t it also true that her actions since that time reflected a need to have some of her old power back? Bullying the police had led her, in frustration and anguish, to Dame Constance, who had in turn led her to Maisie. And now, of course, she was fueling her emotions with an adulterous affair. Georgina had been known as a maverick in the war, a young woman who went too far, who pushed as hard as she could—indeed, she had been something of a cause célèbre among the alumnae of Girton College. Her bravery had inspired a notoriety that even her detractors could not fail to admire. But now, with no cause to champion, no passionate call to arms to draw out her skill with words, no treacherous game of risk to excite her, her language had become flabby, her interest in her assignments minimal. It did not take an expert in journalism to understand what had happened.

Maisie continued to consider Georgina as she drove south toward the Romney Marshes. She had succumbed to the same failing that she had warned Billy against, having become resentful of those with greater means, their ability to indulge themselves when so many were vainly clutching at any semblance of hope. As she watched the new suburbs give way to the frost-laden apple orchards of Kent, she recalled the nightclub, the dancing and the home that she returned to each night, and Maisie flushed. Am I not becoming such a person? And she wondered, again, whether her chosen service truly amounted to a contribution of some account.

DUSK WAS ON the verge of night as Maisie drove from Lydd along the road to Dungeness. Though the land was barren, with few houses and a cold wind blowing up from the beach, she managed to park the car on the side of the road, where it was shielded by an overhanging tree. She wrapped her scarf around her neck, pulled her cloche down as far as she could and took her knapsack from the passenger seat, then set off in the direction of the beach. She had taken a small torch from her knapsack but did not use it, preferring to stabilize the night vision she would rather depend upon, along with her memory of the route to Nick Bassington-Hope’s railway carriage home. She walked as quickly as possible, but took care to be as light of step as she could.

Reluctantly, she flicked on the torch every fifty or so yards to get her bearings. Finally, with salt-filled sea air whipping across her face, she came up to the front door of the cottage, having taken care to move into the shadows as the lighthouse beam swung around onto the beach. Her gloved fingertips were numb as she removed the key from her coat pocket. She sniffed against the chill air and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and squinted. Turning against the side of the carriage so that the glow of her torch could not be detected, she flashed the light to illuminate the lock, pressed the key home and gained entrance, extinguishing the torch as she stepped into the carriage. Closing the door behind her, she moved with speed to pull down the black blinds, though she would not use the lamps. Even a sliver of light might give her away.

With the torch, she inspected the cottage to see whether there were any signs that others had been there since her previous visit. The stove was as she had left it, the counterpane seemed untouched. She moved into the studio, directing the beam to the walls, to the chair, the paints, the easel. The greatcoat was still in the closet and as she touched the thick woolen fabric once again, Maisie shivered. She returned to the main living room, this time using her torch to inspect the mural once again. Yes, Nick Bassington-Hope was a talented artist, though she wondered what others had thought when they looked at the mural. Did they note what she had seen, ask themselves the same questions? And what of Amos White—had Nick ever invited him in? Could he have seen the mural? If so, he must have felt threatened. Nick Bassington-Hope told stories with his work, transposing images of those he knew onto his depiction of the myths and legends that inspired him. She touched the faces and thought of the triptych. But what if the story were true, and the faces known to others as well as to Nick? That, most definitely, would constitute a risk.

Maisie pushed one of the armchairs close to the window, then pulled the counterpane from the bed. She would have loved to light the fire but could not risk even a wisp of smoke being seen from the beach, so she settled into the chair, wrapping the counterpane around her body as she did so. She reached into the knapsack and took out cheese and pickle sandwiches and a bottle of R. White’s Dandelion and Burdock. The set of the blind allowed the barest snip of a view out to the beach. It was all that she needed, for now. She tucked into her food, stopping to listen between each mouthful. Then she waited.

Fearing the magnetic pull of sleep, Maisie went through the entire case in her mind, from the moment of that first encounter with Georgina Bassington-Hope. Admittedly, she was intrigued by the group of friends—she had never engaged with such people before—though at the same time she felt ill at ease with the company her client kept, and it was not simply a matter of money, upbringing or class. No, these people did not live by the same rules; their behavior both fascinated and intimidated her. The house in Tenterden came to mind. There was none of the familiarity that inspires a sense of security. Everything she touched seemed to challenge the accepted way of living, with color and texture assaulting the senses in a way that she had never before experienced. Had she not felt seduced by the audacity of the family, by the fact that they dared to be different? She sighed. This case resembled Stig Svenson’s Gallery, the exhibition hall designed so that only one piece was truly visible at a time, so the attention of the viewer was not distracted by the next piece or the next. She seemed able to consider only one clue, one item of evidence at any one time.

Feeling the gritty sensation of fatigue in her eyes, Maisie squirmed in the chair, pulling the counterpane around her again to fight the cold. It was then that she heard the crunch of boots on the pathway that led down to the shingle bank and then the beach. Moving to the gap between window and blind, Maisie squinted to see better. The shadowed figures tramped toward the bank, drawn by an ever-brighter light that beamed up from the beach. She heard raised voices, then the heavy rumble of a lorry. It was time for her to make her move.

Replacing the counterpane and chair took barely a minute. She checked both rooms once with her torch, and then left by the back door. Though it seemed as if each footfall reverberated into the night air with an increasingly loud echo, she knew that the men would hear nothing, the sound caught up and carried away by the cold wind. Maisie stepped forward with care, using old barrels, the sides of other cottages and any fixture available to disguise her approach toward the activity, which was now illuminated by lanterns.

Maisie took her chance, leaning around the corner of an old shed to ensure her way was clear. Then, stooping, she ran to cover alongside the remains of an old fishing boat, its clinker-built sides having given way to rot as it languished, spent and broken, until someone deemed it ready for the fire. She caught her breath, the bitterly cold air razor sharp in her throat and chest, then closed her eyes for a second, before she took a chance to look out from her hiding place.

A large fishing boat had made landfall and been winched up the beach. On the boat, the Draper brothers from Hastings, together with Amos White, moved back and forth, easing large wooden containers from the deck onto the shingle, where Duncan and Quentin took the contraband and carried it to the waiting lorry. Barely a word passed between the men, though when a voice was raised, it was invariably that of the fourth man on the boat—the man who had instigated the beating of Harry Bassington-Hope, the man whose face was depicted in the mural on the dead man’s carriage wall. Maisie remained in place for another moment, observing, working out who was who, which man wielded power. Clearly the fishermen were mere puppets, doing what many had done for centuries to augment the meager income of the fisherfolk. The artists seemed confident, knowing exactly what they were doing, and the other man, the man who came from the underworld of London—what was his role? Maisie watched closely. He isn’t a lackey, and he isn’t the boss either—but he does have power. It was time to leave, to move on, to be ready for what she anticipated would come next. And as she moved, she knew the dice had just rolled from her cupped hand across the table

Maisie made her way back toward the path that led out onto the Lydd Road. Then she ran to the MG, unlocked the door and took her place in the driver’s seat, her teeth chattering against the bitter cold. She sat in silence for a moment, to ensure she hadn’t been seen or followed, then she rubbed her gloved hands together and started the motor car, setting her course toward the road the lorry had taken when she had observed it before. Only this time, she planned to reach the destination first.

She’d had no time to conduct an initial reconnaissance, depending instead upon her supposition that the route taken by the lorry would lead to a barn, or some other building where goods could be stored until later, when—as the saying goes—the coast was clear. Or perhaps the barn took the role of a clearinghouse, where booty was divided between the man from London and the artists. Again she chose a spot where the MG would be hidden by one of the leaning trees common to the Marshes, and made off on foot. Unlike the beach, this road was muddy underfoot, and even as she walked, Maisie could feel the cold wet earth squelch through her brown leather walking shoes. Her toes were beginning to tingle and, after a brief respite, her fingertips were once more becoming numb. She lifted her hands to her mouth and blew warm air through her gloves. A dog barked in the distance, and she slowed her pace, listening to the quiet of the night as she made her way along the farm road.

Though the night was pitch-black, she could ascertain the outline of a barn set among the fields. She ran the last few yards to the side of the barn and waited for a minute. The upper walls seemed as if they had been constructed of old ships’ timbers centuries before, though Maisie guessed that, once inside, the bones of the building would reveal a medieval beamed structure, wherein each piece of wood would be identifiable with roman numerals scratched into the grain by the original artisans. Panting now, and rubbing her arms for warmth, Maisie knew she had some time before the lorry rumbled along the road. She must find a hiding place.

Though double doors had been added at each end of the barn, Maisie suspected there would be a smaller doorway, designed for a man to enter if he were coming in alone, with no bales on his cart or livestock to herd. Locating such a door, she listened, then pulled it open. Without waiting to survey the surroundings, she closed the door and, flashing the torch once, she saw that an old delivery van was already hidden inside the barn. She stepped quickly toward the rough ladderlike staircase leading into the loft and rafters. Climbing up, she found a cubbyhole space under the eaves, alongside bales of hay from summer’s harvest. From her vantage point she would be able to see any activity at the far end of the barn where she expected the men to enter. The van was clearly parked in such a way as to be ready to have crates transferred from another vehicle. Yes, it’s all going according to plan. She breathed a sigh of relief—she had gambled upon there not being anyone waiting for the containers to arrive and was glad to discover that she had been correct. Now she would wait, again.

Silence. Was it a half an hour that passed? An hour? Maisie waited, her heartbeat slowing to a pace that was almost normal. Then, in the distance, the sound of an engine revving, a bump, a rumble, the lorry coming closer along the rutted road. The occasional roar as the driver accelerated to clear a mudhole suggested that the vehicle was being maneuvered in reverse gear. Soon she would have another piece of the puzzle. Soon she would know what Nick had known.

With a shudder the lorry stopped, then after some manipulation of forward and reverse gears, was brought into position, finally scrunching to a halt beyond the doors at the far end of the barn. Men’s voices were raised for a moment, then the double doors were pushed open. The canvas flap at the back of the lorry was drawn back, and Duncan and Quentin jumped out. Though she didn’t recognize the driver when he joined the men, Maisie thought that it might have been one of those she had seen with Harry’s assailant.

The wooden containers were unloaded. As expected, each container resembled those she’d seen at the back of Svenson’s Gallery, where Arthur Levitt unpacked and shipped artwork.

“Right then, you two, we’ll take what’s ours and we’ll be on our way. You know which one our stuff’s in, so get a move on,” instructed the driver.

Quentin pointed to two of the containers, and as he did so, Maisie noticed that the top of each was numbered in black paint and also bore a name. She managed to read only three names: D. ROSENBERG, H. KATZ, and another marked STEIN. Quentin took the crowbar that Duncan held out to him and ripped the slats of wood apart. She craned her neck as he reached inside and pulled out what was clearly a painting, but wrapped in a light linen cloth, and then a layer of sacking. Duncan helped Quentin to unwrap the work. They both hesitated for a moment as they caught a first glimpse of the painting.

The gang leader prodded Quentin. “Get a bleedin’ move on, for gawd’s sake! You can admire the fancy bits later.”

The artists exchanged glances and together laid first sackcloth, then linen, on the floor to protect the painting, which they placed on top of the cloth, facedown. Maisie leaned forward, trying to see what was happening yet without making a sound.

Duncan took a knife from his pocket and handed it to Quentin. “Be careful, old chap.”

Quentin smiled. “Of course.” Then he leaned down, with his knife piercing the heavy paper at the back of the painting. He laid a hand against the frame to steady the blade, then proceeded to remove the backing. Ah, it’s false. Maisie chewed her bottom lip as she watched the scene unfold before her. From the place between the original cover at the back of the painting and the false cover, Quentin pulled out a small pouch. He threw the pouch to the gang leader and then repeated the exercise with the second selected piece.

“There, you can tell your boss that that’s the last one, Williams. There will be no more deliveries for a while, if at all. We’ve done all that we can, for now.”

The man shook his head. “Nah, you don’t expect me to believe that, do you, my little artsy-fartsy darlings? Mr. Smith don’t like to be lied to. Anyway, that German fella ain’t finished yet, no, not by a long chalk, so I reckon them heirlooms will keep on coming. Only just started, he has, so there’ll be a lot more where that came from, wanting to be tucked away safely.”

Quentin shook his head. “The point is, Williams, that we aren’t doing this anymore. It was more or less straightforward until you came along, and now it isn’t. Makes it tricky for everyone—especially our friends in Germany and France.”

“Well, I ain’t got the time to chin-wag about this with you boys. But I’ll be in touch. Oh, and here’s another little something, just for your trouble.” Williams took a roll of banknotes from his pocket and threw it to Duncan. “Thanking you.” He smiled, nodded to his driver, and turned as if to go. Then he looked back. “And if I was you, I wouldn’t leave it long before you move this little lot. Never know who might be watching you, you don’t.”

The two men left in the lorry, which rumbled away along the road. Duncan and Quentin remained in the barn a moment longer.

Quentin became agitated. “Damn that stupid Harry. And damn Nick for telling him about what we were doing. He had no right—”

“All right!” Duncan held up a hand. “The fact is that he did talk, and Harry got us into this. Now we have to get out of it. Bloody shame that we can’t help out Martin and Etienne and their people any longer though.” He sighed. “Anyway, let’s pack up, and get out of here.”

Maisie watched as they repacked the opened crates and made a mental note of the black numerals used for some sort of identification. Once the loading up was completed, the men were quick to depart. The van was secured and Duncan stood by the doors while Quentin reversed out of the barn. The doors were locked again, though Maisie did not move until she was sure she could no longer hear the van’s engine.

EASING HER WAY down the wooden staircase, she brushed hay from her clothes and began to step into the area where the movement of crates and the handover of other contraband had taken place. She had managed to catch a glimpse of the work as it was uncovered by the men, and though the light was insufficient for identification, she knew that even if it was not the work of a venerable master, the piece was clearly valuable. But who owned it? And if bringing the piece into the country wasn’t completely illegal—she had no proof, but the conversation between Duncan and Quentin suggested something other than acquisition of art for financial gain—why was it being brought into the country at all?

Maisie took an index card from her knapsack and made a note of the identification markings she’d observed on the containers. Did the markings indicate ownership or possibly value? Could they be a clue to a route from the point of departure until the container reached its final destination? She considered these questions while making additional notes about the rough dimensions of each container. It was as she began to pack away her pencil and notes, that she ceased all movement, barely daring to breathe. Voices outside became louder, so she hurried toward the stairs again, but was only halfway up when the doors flew open and a long-haired Alsatian dog burst through. He made a beeline for Maisie, though the men who came behind the beast could not see his quarry. For her part, Maisie became still and silent, sitting down on the middle step and closing her eyes. She relaxed every muscle, as if to meditate, calming her mind and body so that she felt no fear. The bounding dog halted his gallop. Instead he stood before her, as if weighing instinct against training, then lay down at her feet, subdued. She used the moment to her advantage, slipping the index cards into the gap between two beams.

The panting dog was soon joined by a man. “And what have we here, Brutus?”

Another man, clearly more senior given his manner and tone of voice, was close behind. He was dressed completely in black, with a black pullover and cap, black trousers and black leather gloves. In fact, as other men came into the barn, Maisie noticed that they were all dressed for stealth at nightfall, with two men in uniform, but it was not the uniform of the police. She said nothing, though she recognized the second man immediately. He was the man who had been at the bar in the nightclub where Harry Bassington-Hope was appearing, who’d left to follow Stig Svenson and Randolph Bradley. She was beginning to understand who he was and knew that his powers far exceeded those of the police.

“If you’re mixed up with these little shenanigans, Miss Dobbs, you should be wrapping a worried look across your face.”

Maisie stood up, determined not to show any surprise that her name was known to the man. As she spoke, she reached down to rub the dog’s ear. “I am not involved in these little shenanigans, though, like you, I was curious to know what was going on here.”

“Jenkins!” The man called over his shoulder to a colleague, one of the men currently searching the barn. “Escort this young lady to HQ for questioning.” He turned back to Maisie and, as if he had forgotten something, addressed Jenkins again. “Oh, and while you’re about it, get this bloody useless specimen of a dog out of my sight and back into the training kennels. My wife’s Jack Russell’s got more gumption than this lug. Brutus, my eye!”

Maisie was silent while being escorted to a waiting motor car. It would not have done any good to complain about lack of warrants or any other required documentation. The powers of Customs and Excise officers were well known and predated the founding of the police. As Maisie knew well, they were of prime importance to the government, having been founded in times when all manner of revenue was crucial to a country saddled with outstanding war debts.

The officer ensured that she was seated securely, if not comfortably, in the van.

“Excuse me, sir, will you be able to bring me back here to collect my motor car?”

The man smiled, his grin eerie in flashes of light shed by torches and the headlamps of other vehicles. “The little red motor? No need, miss. We’ve already got an officer taking it in for you.”

“I see.” Maisie sat back in the van and closed her eyes. Even if she did not sleep, she must regain some energy for the inquisition that surely awaited her. She knew she would have to appear to be giving information, though she would, she hoped, with some subtlety be seeking facts to add to those already gathered. And she knew she would have to be very, very careful. Without a doubt these men were operating independently of Stratton and Vance, who were probably themselves being manipulated with some dexterity, so that their investigation did not interfere with that of the Customs and Excise. Maisie smiled. She had to be the one to pull the strings in the hours ahead.

Sixteen

Maisie was surprised. Instead of being led into a bleak whitewashed cell for questioning, she was shown into a comfortable sitting room where she was served tea and plain arrowroot biscuits. She was tired, which was hardly surprising, for it was now past three in the morning. Anticipating a long wait, she removed her shoes and lay down on the settee, pulling a cushion under her head for comfort.

“Nice little forty winks, miss?”

Maisie awoke with a start, as an officer touched her shoulder.

“Time to see the boss, if you don’t mind.”

She kept her silence as she leaned over to claim her shoes. Pushing her feet into the cold, mud-encrusted leather, she took time to tie her laces before standing to follow the officer, who was not wearing a uniform.

“Ah, Miss Dobbs, do come in.” The man held out his hand toward a chair, then flicked open a file from which he took several sheets of paper. “Now then, a few questions for you, then, all being well, we can let you go.”

“Where’s my motor car?”

“Safe as houses. Just needed to give it a bit of a once-over. Nice little motor car, cost a young woman like you a bob or two.”

Maisie did not rise to the bait, though she inclined her head and smiled at the man in front of her, who was clearly a senior officer. She lost no time, however, in demonstrating her knowledge of the department’s reach.

“I believe it’s not only my car that has been the subject of one of your once-overs, Mr….?”

“Tucker. The name is Tucker.” The man paused, gauging his response. “And you mean your office?”

“Yes, my office. Your men broke in and turned over my records with little consideration for my property.”

“Let’s just say that you were keeping company with persons who were subject to investigation. My officers and I decided that in the interests of the country, it was a good idea to see what you’d gathered, and we had to be quick about it. As you know, I do not have to explain myself to you.”

“You might have asked, instead of costing me a new lock.”

“And we might not.” He referred to his notes again and pulled a wad of folded paper from the file. “I think we should start with this, don’t you, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie made no sudden move toward the desk; instead she leaned back in the hard wooden chair, just enough to underscore her detachment from the outcome of the questioning. She didn’t want this man to think she was concerned.

“I was thinking, while being brought here, that I might see that particular item again today.”

“So, what is it?” The man snapped.

Maisie cleared her throat. Good, he’s just a little off balance. “It’s what my assistant and I call a ‘case map.’ Clearly you have knowledge of my profession, and why I might want to keep track of clues uncovered and items of evidence that might contribute to the conclusion of my work on a given case.” Maisie paused deliberately to exhibit an ease as she answered the questions put to her. “We draw up a chart where we ensure that every single aspect of our investigation is available to us in this graphic form. Pictures and shapes, even if constructed with words, can tell us more than just talking back and forth, though I think a blend of such conjecture always works very well—don’t you, Mr. Tucker?”

The man was silent for a moment or two. “And what does this map tell you—what have your little patterns led you to?”

“I haven’t finished yet,” she countered with an edge to her voice, which led to more fidgeting on the man’s part. Her interrogator clearly wasn’t used to the sense that control of a conversation was slipping from his grasp.

“Right then, what about the boys down in Dungeness?”

“What about them?”

“What do you know, Miss Dobbs, about their activities on dark and windless nights?”

“I should say you know more than I, Mr. Tucker.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I was merely interested in the two men, given their relationship with Mr. Bassington-Hope—Nicholas, not Harry, that is. You know that I was retained by his sister simply to corroborate the police findings, that his death was an accident.”

“Are you aware what was going on in Dungeness?”

“Smuggling.”

“Of course it’s smuggling—don’t be deliberately obtuse with me, Miss Dobbs.”

“Far from being obtuse, I am as in the dark as you, Mr. Tucker. If you must know, I think Duncan Haywood and Quentin Trayner are a long way from being seasoned smugglers, and embarked upon the operation with only the best of intentions. However, the underworld element clearly found a means of using the situation to their advantage.”

“You know about the diamonds, then?”

“I guessed.” Maisie leaned forward. “Now, how long have you been watching them?”

Tucker threw his pen onto the desk, splattering ink across the edge of the manila folder. “About three months—and you keep this under your hat, mind. I’ve looked into who you are, and I know which side you’re on, though I wish you’d keep your nose out of it. I’m not interested in these little bits and pieces of art coming across. For crying out loud, they might as well have sent them via any aboveboard carterage firm, though I am sure the French and German authorities would have their noses put well out of joint if they knew.” He gave a cynical half laugh. “No, we’re after what you call the ‘underworld element,’ though we’re waiting to catch the blighters red-handed. But we’ve been too slow about it.” He closed the file.

“So, what do you know about the paintings?”

Tucker smiled. “Now it’s my turn, Miss Dobbs—you know very well what the importation of the paintings is all about. You don’t need me to tell you.”

Now calmer, he explained that his interest was not in the artists, but in those who had taken advantage of the wayward Harry and his brother. For her part, Maisie explained that Nick would have done anything to keep Harry safe—even if it meant submitting to the demands of criminals. Tucker agreed, nodding as she spoke, whereupon Maisie shared her knowledge of the diamond smuggling operation. When it was clear that there was nothing more to be gained by detaining her, she was allowed to leave.

Collecting her motor car, she returned to Dungeness. It was all falling into place. Soon every single clue would be set on the case map she carried in her head, the one that no one could steal. She often thought it was like a child’s game in a coloring book, where tracing a line between dots on a page would reveal a picture to be filled in with crayons or paint. But one had to be careful to ensure that each dot was connected in the correct sequence, or the completed image might bring to mind something else altogether.

MAISIE HAD NO fear of lighting the fire and warming water on the stove in Nick’s cottage. If she were seen, it was of little import now. The former railway carriage was soon warm, and as the kettle came to the boil, Maisie used a fork to toast her remaining sandwiches in front of the open stove. Once she had eaten, soothed by food and hot tea, fatigue enveloped her again, and she knew that, before she embarked upon the several tasks she wanted to complete prior to leaving the cottage for the last time, she must sleep. The blinds had remained closed against a winter sun just beginning its climb into the now clear coastal sky, so all Maisie had to do was draw back the counterpane and curl into Nick Bassington-Hope’s bed.

It was past ten when she awoke, rested and ready to set out on her quest to discover the location of the lock-up, for she was convinced that she would find the information she wanted here, in the artist’s home. Using the china jug from Nick’s dressing room, she brought water from the barrel outside the back door, shivering as she splashed her face and washed her body. The change of clothes in her leather case was welcome and would be more appropriate than her current attire for the return visit to Bassington Place. Refreshed, she was ready for her search, and stepped back into the studio.

The image that had presented itself to her on the previous visit, a slip of paper hidden somewhere in the recesses of the chair, had nagged at Maisie. From her earliest lessons with Maurice she had been taught to trust her intuition. She was blessed—and sometimes, she thought, cursed—with a keenness of insight. Trust and skill had enhanced her ability to see where others were blind, and confidence in herself and others had led her time and time again to that which she was seeking.

Removing cushions from the chair, she pushed her hands deep into the edges of the upholstered seat. Her fingers scraped against the wooden frame and, though she felt her knuckles grow raw, still she searched with her fingers. Another coin, some crumbs, a pen and a cork. Blast! Her fingers would only stretch so far. Frustrated, Maisie heaved the chair over with a thud. Linen had been stretched across the bottom of the chair to cover the frame and finish the piece. Though old and stained, and with a couple of small tears, the square of fabric had remained in good condition, so nothing that had fallen down into the chair could have been lost. Slipping her finger into one of the tears, she ripped the fabric back to reveal even more lost trinkets. There was a collection of dusty coins, a paintbrush—she marveled at how it must have worked its way into the base of the chair—and another pen. She pulled the linen off completely and cast the torch’s beam deep inside the skeleton of the chair. There was nothing there. She began to lower the chair, but her hands were moist with perspiration from the effort of holding up its weight. The chair began to slip, and with a sudden thud, landed on the wooden floorboards and bounced up again.

“Damn!” said Maisie, in anger as well as shock, for the last thing she wanted to do was to damage the carriage and the weight of the chair had caused a floorboard to push up. “Oh, that’s all I need!” She knelt to inspect the splintered floorboard, but as she leaned closer, she realized that the piece of wood had become dislodged because it wasn’t a full-length floorboard but a shorter fragment that was already loose. She hadn’t noticed it before, because it was covered by the chair. Taking hold of the torch, she shone the light into the dark narrow recess below. When she reached in, her fingers brushed against a piece of paper. She extended her hand farther, and, between finger and thumb, pulled out an envelope of some weight.

Sitting back, Maisie turned the envelope and drew the torch across to reveal the words FOR GEORGINA. She bit her lip, considering the question of integrity, then shook her head and opened the envelope. A key wrapped in a piece of paper fell out, with an address in southeast London. She allowed her hands to drop and breathed out a deep sigh. Intuition was all very well, but luck held the trump card!

After completing a quick repair of the floorboard and setting the chair on top so that the damage was not immediately visible, Maisie packed up her belongings. For the last time, she checked the cottage to ensure that she had left it as she had found it. It was just as she was about to leave, her hand on the doorknob, that she set down her bags and returned to the wardrobe in the artist’s dressing room. There was no logical explanation for her actions, and she preferred not to question what it was that inspired her to do such a thing, but she opened the wardrobe and pulled out the army greatcoat. With the sound of waves crashing onto the beach outside, and gulls whooping overhead, Maisie buried her head in the folds of rough wool, breathing in the musty smell that took her back to another time and place.

There was much she understood about Nick Bassington-Hope, even though they had never met. Having lived through death, he had discovered life again, but with war’s horror still so present, he had searched for peace of mind, finding hope amid grand landscapes, and in the rhythm of life unfolding in nature. She had seen the heavy hand of anger in his work immediately following the war. But later, when he had achieved the equilibrium he’d traveled so far to find, he had surely been able to return with a new dexterity, a lighter touch, a broader view. Maisie understood that Nick had seen his message clearly, that maturity had provided him not only with skill but with insight, and that he had been able to touch the canvas with his most potent images but held his message close until the work was complete. And though she had never met Nick Bassington-Hope, she knew that this case, like so many before, contained a gift, a lesson that she would draw to her as surely as the coat she now held to her heart.

Carefully replacing the garment in the wardrobe, Maisie smiled. She patted the material one last time, acknowledging an essence caught in each thread, as if the fibers had absorbed every feeling, every sensation experienced by the owner in a time of war.

NOLLY BASSINGTON-HOPE WAS surprised but nevertheless extended a warm welcome to Maisie when she arrived at the house unannounced. She explained that her mother and father were out walking, sketchbooks in hand, making the most of a bright day, even though the cold snap continued.

“They may be getting on a bit, but it’s their habit, and the walk does them good. They’ll be back soon.” She showed Maisie into the drawing room, then excused herself for a moment to speak to the staff.

Maisie wandered around the room, grateful for time alone, time that allowed her to stop and look more closely at a painting or inspect a cushion embroidered in shades of orange, lime green, violet, red and yellow, invariably with a design that was outlandish in comparison to anything she had seen at Chelstone. She reflected upon how the house must have been before the war, with colorful, buoyant gatherings of artists and intellectuals drawn like moths to the bright light of possibility encouraged by Piers and Emma. She imagined gregarious friends of Nick’s and Georgina’s voicing opinions at the dinner table, encouraged, she thought, by the free-thinking elders. There would always be swimming in the river, picnics alongside the mill, impromptu plays composed on the spot, perhaps with the boy Harry and his trumpet entertaining the group—when he wasn’t being teased by his siblings. And Noelle? What about Noelle? Georgina had described her sister as an outsider, though Maisie had come to understand that she was, perhaps, simply just different, and loved all the same by Piers and Emma. The conversation with Noelle during her previous visit had been, she thought, too brief, and she was left with an incomplete picture of the eldest sibling. Now she must add color to her outline.

A sideboard bore a collection of family photographs in frames of silver, wood and tortoiseshell. Maisie was drawn to the photographs, for there was much to learn from facial expressions, even in a formal picture posed in a studio. Her attention darted from one frame to another, for she knew Noelle would return shortly. There was one photograph, at the back, of a young couple on their wedding day that drew her attention. Indeed, she was surprised it was still there and wondered if the image of the younger Noelle and her fresh-faced new husband gave solace, reminding Georgina’s sister of happier, more carefree times. Maisie picked up the photograph, holding a finger to cover the lower faces of both man and wife. Looking into their eyes, she saw joy and hope. She saw love, happiness. The photograph mirrored so many cherished photographs still dusted every day by women in their middle years, women widowed or who had lost a sweetheart in the war. Maisie replaced the photograph just in time.

“I bet you wish you hadn’t taken on this assignment from my sister, don’t you?” Dressed in a woolen walking skirt, silk blouse and hand-knitted cardigan, this time Noelle wore a red scarf at her neck, a color that seemed to highlight hair that was not as coppery as Georgina’s but now seemed less mousy and equally striking.

“On the contrary, it’s led me into some interesting places.”

Noelle held out her hand to a Labrador, who heaved himself up from a place beside the fire and came to his mistress. “Ah, you must have been out in search of Harry again. That would have taken you to some interesting places.”

Maisie laughed. “Oh, they’re certainly entertaining, those places where your Harry performs.”

Noelle softened and laughed along with Maisie. “He’s actually quite good, isn’t he?”

“You’ve been to see him?”

“Curiosity, you know.” She paused. “And more than a touch of big-sister surveillance.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Yes, so did I. And I knew there and then that there was nothing I could do for Harry, though I do still try to get him away.”

“I don’t think he’s going to audition for the philharmonic.”

“No, not Harry.” Noelle sighed. “Is he in trouble again? Is that why you came?”

“I came because I’ve been to Nick’s cottage a second time, and I have some questions, if you don’t mind.”

They were interrupted by the housekeeper, who brought tea, biscuits and cake. Noelle continued after pouring a cup for Maisie.

“And how can I help?”

“I understand that three people went to the cottage after Nick died. I assumed the visitors were you, Georgina and your father.”

Noelle nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Frankly, it was so upsetting that we only stayed for a short time. We thought we’d go back again in a few weeks. The cottage will be sold, obviously, but frankly, Emma just wants everything left as it was, for now—and I must respect her wishes.” She leaned forward to set her cup on the tray. “To tell you the truth, if it were completely up to me, I would have everything sold immediately, no hanging on, get it over with and get on with life. Now that is what Nick would have wanted.”

Maisie nodded, acknowledging the practicality of Noelle’s approach. “So, nothing much was taken?”

“Well, Georgie was in no fit condition to see the cottage, let alone think of what should be removed. I couldn’t just crumble like that, but Georgina fell to pieces.” She looked at Maisie directly. “Not what one would expect from the valiant reporter, is it?”

“The cottage was left as you found it, then?”

“For the most part. Piers looked around more than I, to tell you the truth. Nick was actually quite a tidy person, liked a certain order. Of course, the army does that for you. Godfrey was the same, though I only saw him on one leave before he was killed, but I noticed it, that order, so to speak.”

Maisie saw that when she spoke of her husband, Noelle’s jaw tightened. She placed her cup on the tray and waited for Noelle to continue.

“Piers began to go through some of the sketchbooks, but found it too hard, though he did take a couple or three with him.”

“Your father took Nick’s sketchbooks?”

The woman nodded. “Yes, though I couldn’t tell you where he’s put them, probably in the studio.” She paused. “Is it important?”

Maisie shrugged, an air of nonchalance belying her instinct. “No, I doubt it, though it would be interesting to see them. I have leafed through the remaining sketchbooks, so I would be curious to see the work that your father considered worthy of keeping. Your brother’s art is compelling, to say the least.”

Noelle gave a half laugh. “As you know, I’m not an artist, though one cannot live under the Bassington-Hope roof and be completely untouched. Yes, as you’ve seen, my brother touched a fuse every time he lifted his brush or wielded a charcoal. If you saw his work, you saw what he was thinking, how he saw the world. He wasn’t afraid.”

“I know. But were there others who were afraid?”

“Good question, Miss Dobbs. Yes, others were afraid.” She paused again, taking a biscuit from the tray and breaking it in pieces, which she fed to the Labrador one by one before turning back to Maisie. “Look, I know Georgina has told you that I’m a tweedy old widow before my time, but I am not without eyes. I have seen people come to shows where Nick’s work was exhibited, only to reveal absolute relief not to see their own faces somewhere on a canvas. As I said before, I thought he took chances, really he did. You never knew when someone might get bloody-minded about it. On the other hand, look at those landscapes, the mural work. I admired him enormously—and make no mistake, Miss Dobbs, I admire my sister as well. Georgina is terribly brave, though we don’t always agree. But she should never have come to you, there is nothing suspicious about Nick’s death and this dredging up of the past can only prevent us from coming to terms with the fact that he’s gone.”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Oh, look, here’s Piers.” Noelle went quickly to the doors that led into the garden and opened them for her father to enter. Maisie realized that when she had seen Piers and Noelle on her previous visit, Georgina and Emma were there. She had not seen the patriarch alone with his eldest daughter before, and was immediately struck by the concern and affection demonstrated between them. In the moments that followed, as the dog barked a greeting, and Noelle took her father’s coat and handed him a much-worn cardigan that had been draped across the corner of a chair, she understood the place that each held in the other’s world. Maisie remembered, years ago, a book. Why had she read that book? Perhaps it was given to her by Maurice, or had she taken it up herself, drawn, perhaps by the author’s reputation? What was it? The Rainbow, yes, that was it, the novel by D. H. Lawrence. There was one image that remained with her, had caused her to think about her own life and wonder, How might it have been if…yes, it was The Rainbow. Hadn’t the father, Will Brangwen, taken the eldest child, Ursula, as his own when more children were born? And hadn’t the girl sought out Will to be both mother and father to her? Was that what she saw now, in Piers and Noelle? When the twins were born, Emma Bassington-Hope had perhaps immersed herself in the new babies, leaving Noelle to turn to her father for comfort. Piers loved all his children, of that there was no doubt, but it was Noelle, sensible Noelle, whom he had taken under his wing.

Was it her father who comforted her when she learned of her widowhood? Maisie imagined his suffering as he held the grief-stricken young bride, the daughter whose hand he had placed in the hand of the kindly Godfrey Grant, the words “Who giveth this woman?” echoing in his ears. Had Piers stepped forward as her protector, even as she pushed despair to one side to care for the injured Nick when he came home from France? And now Noelle had taken on the responsibility for her aging parents, knowing that there would never be another marriage, there would never be children and that if she was to be of account in her own eyes, she must make something of herself in her community.

“Lovely to see you again, Maisie, my dear. Emma has stopped in the studio, a pressing need to immerse herself in her work.” Piers turned to Noelle as she passed a cup of tea to him with one hand, while shooing a warmth-seeking Labrador away to the corner with the other. “Thank you, Nolly.”

“I hope you don’t mind me dropping in to see you, I was passing through town,” Maisie explained.

Piers leaned back. “Remember, our children’s friends are always welcome, Maisie, though I do wish Georgie hadn’t got you involved in questioning Nick’s accident.”

“That’s what I said.” Noelle offered cake to Piers, who raised an eyebrow as if taking forbidden fruit and helped himself to a slice. She placed a plate on his knee, along with a table-napkin. “Though I am sure Maisie has come to the same conclusion as the police, that Nick’s death was an accident. But if Georgie’s got more money than sense…”

Maisie turned to Piers. “I understand that you have some sketchbooks that belonged to Nick. Noelle said you took two or three from his cottage. I’m fascinated by his work, I’d love to see them.”

“I—I—good heavens, I have no idea where I put them.” Having finished his cake, Piers reached forward to set his plate on the tray, his hand shaking. “That’s the trouble with age, one forgets.” He smiled at Maisie, but the restful ambiance of the drawing room had altered. Piers became unsettled and Noelle sat forward, the language of her body indicating concern for her father.

Maisie softened her tone. “Well, I would love to see them, when you find them. I have come to hold your son’s work in some regard—that’s one advantage of my profession, I am able to learn so much about subjects I have never before encountered. I confess, before meeting Georgina again, my knowledge of the art world was limited, to say the least.”

Noelle stood up, so Maisie reached for her shoulder bag. “I really must be on my way. My father is expecting me this evening, and I’m sure he has cooked me a wonderful supper.”

“You know, you must forgive me for not inquiring before, but is your father alone, Maisie?” Leaning on the arm of the settee, Piers rose to his feet.

“Yes. My mother died when I was a girl, so there’s only the two of us.”

“I’m sorry.” He smiled, reaching for her hand. “That’s the trouble with us Bassington-Hopes, we’re so involved with ourselves, we forget to ask about our guests.”

Maisie smiled, returning the affectionate squeezing of her hand. “It was a long time ago, though we still miss her very much.”

She bid farewell to Piers and Noelle, asking to be remembered to Emma as she left the house. The MG spluttered to life, and as she drove away, she glanced in the mirror to see father and daughter standing together for one final wave. Then Noelle put her arm around her father’s shoulders, smiled up at him and they turned into the house.

Though the conversation had been benign—an unexpected, but nevertheless welcome guest, afternoon tea by the fire—another piece of the puzzle had slipped into place. With or without the sketchbooks taken from Nick’s cottage, she believed she knew something of what they contained and why Piers Bassington-Hope might have wanted them out of harm’s way.

Seventeen

The time with her father proved to hold news that was surprising, though it explained Sandra’s visit to her office. The Comptons had decided to close the Belgravia house completely until their son, James, returned to London from Canada at a future date. Though it was inevitable—the costs incurred in retaining a London home were not insignificant—the move indicated to Maisie that her former employer and ever-supportive patron, Lady Rowan Compton, was finally relinquishing her position as one of London’s premier hostesses. During the early morning journey back into London, Maisie felt both uneasiness and excitement. On the one hand, the door to part of her past was closing and with that came a sadness. The house she had been sent to as a motherless girl was now empty, not to be opened, perhaps, until the property’s heir returned with a wife and family. On the other hand, it was as if, finally, a tentacle that gripped her to what had gone before was being drained of strength. Slipping into a lower gear to push the motor car up the notorious River Hill, Maisie felt as if the past were losing its claim on her, that even though her father lived in a tied cottage on the Chelstone estate, it was his cottage, his work, that benefited him. The house in Belgravia was all but gone for her now, and it was as if she were being set free.

According to Frankie, events had progressed with speed following Maisie’s move and conjecture by the staff of what might happen next had been “bang on the money.” The Belgravia household staff had been offered new positions at Chelstone, though only two accepted. Eric had found a job with Reg Martin, who, despite the economic depression, was doing well with his garage business. Eric and Sandra had become engaged, so Sandra had declined the job in Kent to stay in London, though no one knew what she was going to do for board or living until the wedding, when she, too, would live in the one-room flat above the garage. Now Maisie understood that Sandra had likely come to her for advice, and wondered how she could possibly help.

Drawing into Fitzroy Street, Maisie parked the MG, and as she looked up at the office window, she saw the light, indicating that Billy was at the office already.

“Mornin’, Miss. Well, I ’ope?” Billy stood up from his desk and came to Maisie to take her coat as she entered.

“Yes, thank you, Billy. I’ve a lot to tell you. Everything all right here?”

“Right as rain, Miss. Shouldn’t say that, should I? Looks like it’s fit to pour down out there.” He turned from an inspection of the sky outside the window back to Maisie. “Need a cuppa, Miss?”

“No, not at the moment. Let’s get down to work. Fish the case map out of the chimney—though I have to tell you, here’s the old one!” Maisie held up the crumbled wad of paper returned by the Customs and Excise.

Billy grinned. “Where’d you get that, Miss?”

“I’ll explain everything. Come on, let’s get set up over at the table.”

Five minutes later, Maisie and her assistant were seated in front of both the old and new case maps, pencils in hand.

“All right, so you say that Nick B-H and ’is mates were all in this smugglin’ lark?”

“It appears that Alex Courtman was probably not involved, though I don’t know why. Could be because he met them later at the Slade, that he was a bit younger and therefore wasn’t part of that earlier camaraderie. Let’s keep an open mind about that one, though.”

Billy nodded. “So, what was it all about?”

Maisie opened her mouth to reply when a continuous ring of the doorbell suggested an insistent caller.

“Go and see who that is, Billy.”

Billy hurried to the door. She hadn’t inquired after Doreen, or the other children, knowing that there would be time for them to speak of the family. Asking the question as soon as she walked into the office would pressure Billy in a certain way; Maisie had decided it was better to wait until he had warmed to the day, making it easier for him to respond to inquiries about his wife and children. The cold light of dawn must always bring with it a sharp reminder that his daughter was gone.

Maisie looked toward the door as Billy returned to the office with visitors.

“Inspector Stratton.” Maisie stood up and stepped forward, though she stopped by the fireplace when she saw the man who accompanied him.

“I don’t believe you’ve formally met my colleague, Inspector Vance.” Stratton introduced the other man, who was his equal in height, if less solid in stature.

With his choice of clothing, Stratton could have been taken for a moderately successful businessman and, to the casual observer, there was nothing to distinguish him from the man in the street. Vance, on the other hand, seemed rather more flamboyant, a brighter tie than one would expect with a blue serge suit, and he wore cufflinks that caught the light in a way that revealed them to be made of something less valuable than a genuine precious metal. She was neither impressed with Vance nor in awe of him, and she thought he probably wanted those around him to have a sense of the latter.

“Inspector Vance, it’s a pleasure.” Maisie extended her hand, then turned to Stratton. “And to what do I owe the pleasure, at such an early hour?”

“We’ve got a few questions for you, and we want answers.” Vance interrupted, his voice pitched at the level he doubtless employed when interrogating those he suspected of gangland associations.

Stratton glared at Vance, then turned to Maisie, who was intrigued to see the men jockeying for position to establish seniority. “Miss Dobbs, as you know, we have been conducting investigations into the activities of Harry Bassington-Hope and, moreover, those he is connected with. We believe you have knowledge that may be of interest to us in our inquiries. I would advise you to share any and all information that you’ve uncovered, even if you consider that it may not be pertinent—we must judge such details ourselves against intelligence we already hold.” Stratton completed his explanation with a look that suggested to Maisie that he would not have called on her in such a way if he were working alone. She nodded once in return to acknowledge the hint.

“Inspectors, I am afraid I have some news for you that will be most unwelcome, for you have not only been pipped to the post, but you are effectively working in the dark with others sniffing along the same trail.”

“What do you mean?” Vance made no attempt to conceal his irritation.

“Look, do take a seat.” Maisie glanced at Billy, who brought chairs from behind the desks. He understood that she wanted to remain standing and he followed suit. “What I mean, gentlemen, is that the Customs and Excise have cast their eyes in the same direction, and though the nature of their investigation is not exactly the same, it overlaps your own, and they are digging the same plot of land, so to speak.” She paused, gauging the effect of her words before she went on. “I am surprised you didn’t know, for I’m sure it would make more sense if you all worked together.” Her eyes met Stratton’s and he shook his head. Maisie’s observation was the equivalent of a jab in the ribs with the tip of her sword. She had let him know she was aware of his difficult relationship with Vance, and he knew there was more to come.

“How the hell—” Vance stood up as if to move toward Maisie, who was standing with her back to the gas fire. The second he began to step forward, Billy edged closer to him.

“Please, Mr. Vance, I am about to tell you all that I know, though it is precious little, I’m afraid.” She had deliberately undermined him, addressing him by the common “Mister,” but to correct her would make him seem churlish.

“Continue, Miss Dobbs, we are anxious to hear what you have to say.” Stratton remained calm.

“Let’s take them down to the station, that’s what I say.” Vance flashed a look at Maisie, then Billy. Then he sat down again.

Maisie ignored the comment and continued, directing her explanation at Stratton. “The Excise are interested in the same people, though perhaps for different reasons. I know only that they are keeping Harry Bassington-Hope in their sights, along with those who would use such a naive person for their own ends. His gambling debts have left him—and his family, without their knowledge—vulnerable. I would imagine—”

Vance leapt to his feet. “Come on, Stratton, we haven’t got all bloody day to listen to her. We’ll find out more on our own, now that we know the Excise boys are on to them.”

“I’ll be there in a moment, keep the engine running.” Stratton turned toward Maisie as Vance left, waiting until the footsteps receded and the front door banged shut before speaking, his tone subdued. “What has all this to do with Nick Bassington-Hope’s death? You must reveal anything you’ve discovered. I realize my reputation may be compromised, but if his death was a result of his brother’s fraternization with these hard nuts…”

Maisie shook her head. “I do not believe there was a direct link.”

“Thank God. At least his sister will rest when she hears that you’ve come to the conclusion that it was an accident after all.”

“That’s not what I said, Inspector.” She paused. “You’d better be off, it sounds like Vance is rather impatient, with that insistent motor horn. I will be in touch.”

Stratton was about to speak again, then seemed to think better of it. He left with a nod to Maisie and Billy.

“BLIMEY, MISS, I was amazed, the way you ’andled them two coppers.” Billy shook his head. “Mind you, you don’t reckon you let the cat out of the bag a bit soon, you know, showed your hand premature?”

“Billy, I barely told them a thing. They can fight it out between themselves, and then with the Customs and Excise. Revealing something of what I know gets them off my back for now—no, let them all come off their high horses and put their cards on the table, then they might achieve something instead of treading on one another’s shoes or being afraid that one department will bag the laurels first.”

“So, what’s been going on—and what do we do next?”

Maisie returned to the table by the window and looked down at their original case map. She picked up a pencil and struck a line through words and scribbled ideas that pertained to the smuggling operation, then she circled the notes remaining, looping them together with a red pencil. Billy joined her and ran his finger along the new lines that charted the progress of her thinking.

“I would never ’ave guessed that, Miss.”

Maisie frowned, her eyes clear, her voice low as she responded. “No, neither would I, Billy. Not at first, anyway. Come on, we’ve got work to do. I won’t be able to prove this without more legwork on our part.” She walked to the door and reached for her mackintosh. “Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I? I know where the lock-up is. We’re going there now, then we’ll go to see Svenson again.”

Billy helped her into her mackintosh, took his coat and hat from the hook, and opened the door. “Why do we need to see ’im again?”

“Corroboration, Billy. And, if I’m right, to organize a very special exhibition.”

THE LOCK-UP WAS in what Maisie would have called an “in-between” area. It was neither a slum nor was it considered a desirable neighborhood, but it was instead a series of streets with houses that, one might think, could have gone either way. Built a century before in a convenient location on the south side of the river by a wealthy merchant class, the houses had been grand in their day, but in more recent years many had been divided into flats and bed-sitting-rooms. Once-tended gardens were gone, though there were some patches of green from an abandoned lawn here or a rose turned to briar there. Pubs and corner shops were still well frequented, and people on the street did not seem as down-at-heel and wanting as those in the neighborhood where Billy lived. Another year of economic strife, though, and life could change for the locals.

They saw only one other motor car, a sure sign that they had left the West End. A coster went by atop his horse-drawn barrow, calling out the contents of his load as he passed. He waved to other drivers—of carriages, not motor cars—as the horse lumbered down the street.

Slowing the MG to a crawl, Maisie squinted to read the street names on the right, while Billy, clutching a piece of paper with the address they were seeking, looked out on the left.

“It should be along here, Billy.”

“ ’old up, what’s this?”

They had just passed a corner pub, and on a strip of land before the next house, a one-story brick building with double doors at the front was partially hidden behind an overgrowth of grass and brambles. A broken path led to the doors and a number had been painted on the wall.

“Yes, this is it.” Maisie drew the MG to a halt and looked around. “I would rather no one knew we were here.”

“Let’s park the old jam jar back there, nearer where we made that first turn. There was a bit more traffic there. Little red motor like this stands out a bit round ’ere.”

Maisie drove to the spot suggested by Billy and they walked back to the lock-up.

“Who do you reckon owns this place?”

“Probably the publican, or the brewery. I would imagine Nick walked around looking for a place like this, and the rent would have been welcomed by the owners if it was sitting here unused.”

They stepped carefully along the path, where Maisie knelt down and opened her black document case. She removed the envelope found under the carriage floorboard and took out the key. She leaned closer to the lock, pressed the key home and felt the tumblers click.

“Got it, Miss?”

She nodded. “Got it!”

Together they pulled back the doors, entered the lock-up and closed the doors behind them again.

“I imagined it would be darker in here.”

Maisie shook her head. “I didn’t. The man needed light, he was an artist. And I doubt if those skylights were there when he rented the place—look, they seem quite new, and raising them up like that would have cost a penny or two. He intended to use this for a long time.”

They spent a moment inspecting the skylight, which ran the full length of the lock-up—a not insignificant thirty-odd feet—and both commented on the way it had been raised first, then constructed into a pointed roofline. Maisie looked around the room, for it certainly seemed more like a room than a glorified shed.

“In fact, I would say he put quite a bit of money into this place.” She pointed to indicate her observations. “Look over there, the way the crates are stacked and held back. And the shelving for canvases and paints. There’s a stove and cupboards, an old chaise, the carpet. This was not only a place where he worked on the larger pieces, but this was his workshop—that’s a drafting table, look, with plans for exhibits. If Dungeness was his coastal retreat, then this was his factory. This is where it was all put together.”

“And everything’s in its place.” Billy’s eyes followed Maisie’s hand. “I tell you, Miss, I bet there’s more room ’ere than in our little ’ouse. In fact, I wonder why ’e didn’t make a bit of a garden out there? Doesn’t seem like ’im to let it stay wild like that.”

She shook her head. “A garden would have attracted attention. I suspect he wanted to come in, go to work, leave again…and all on his own time.” Maisie took off her gloves and surveyed the room again. “Right, I want to search every nook and cranny, and I want to ensure we’re not disturbed. We’ve good light, thanks to those”—she pointed to the skylights—“and I’ve brought my small torch with me. Now then, I’m anxious to see if my suspicions are right about those crates over there.”

They walked over to a series of crates of differing sizes, though each was approximately eight inches wide.

“Let’s see how many there are first.” Maisie nodded to Billy, who already had his notebook in hand. “And keep your ears open for voices. We have to be as quiet as we can.”

“Right you are.” Billy nodded in agreement, then shrugged as he touched a number on the top of a crate. “What d’you reckon these are for?”

Maisie scrutinized the numbers, which were marked 1/6, 2/6 and so on until the final crate, which was marked 6/6. “All right, this looks fairly straightforward, though we won’t know until we get inside. This has to be the main piece for the exhibit and the numerals suggest that it comprises six pieces.”

“So, it’s not a triptych then?”

“We’ll soon find out.”

“Are we going to open all of them?”

“Perhaps. Then we must search this place for anything pertaining to the placement. Nick gave Alex and Duncan a guide to positioning anchors and other fixtures that would secure the works, though he didn’t reveal how many pieces, or in what order they should be put in place. There must be a master plan here somewhere, something he worked on…and there has to be a cache of sketchbooks that contain the preliminary drawings and roughs that he used to create the work.”

“What about all those books you saw down in Dungeness?” Billy asked Maisie while studying a tool rack. “Gawd, even ’is tools’re kept neat and tidy.”

“The sketchbooks were revealing in that I could see his progress, the images that moved him, right from his early days as an artist. But even though they contained his reflections upon the war, I think there are books, somewhere, that definitely pertain to this collection.”

“Crowbar, Miss?”

“That’ll do, but take care.”

“Which one shall I start with?”

Maisie touched the first crate. “This one. It’s one of the largest, and it’s on the outside, so let’s be logical and open it first.”

Billy shimmied the crowbar between two slats of wood, pulling them apart. With each crack as a nail came free, both Maisie and her assistant stopped all movement and listened to ensure they had not drawn unwanted company. Finally, the crate was opened, and Maisie reached to pull out a painting that had been packed in a similar manner to those she had seen unloaded by the smugglers. Billy helped her stand the work against another crate before removing a hopsack covering, followed by a clean linen cloth, which, when pulled back, revealed the painting.

In a plain wooden frame, the piece appeared to be a horizontal panel measuring approximately eight feet by three feet.

“Blimey.”

Maisie said nothing, feeling the breath catch in her throat.

Billy reached to touch the piece, and though she thought it would be better to stop him, Maisie found that she couldn’t, for she understood the action as a reflex of memory.

“It’s got me right ’ere, Miss.” He touched his chest with fingertips that had lingered on the painting.

“Me too, Billy.”

The panoramic scene depicted two armies marching toward each other, with every last detail so clearly visible that Maisie felt that she could focus on the face of a soldier and see into his soul. Across and through the barbed wire they ran forward to meet the enemy, then, to both left and right, men began falling, with wounds to head, to leg, arm and heart taking them down. In the mural, so full of movement that it appeared animated, the two armies were not shown in combat, for instead the foot soldiers had become stretcher-bearers, running to their wounded, caring for the dying, burying their dead. Ants in khaki going about the business of war, the toil expected of them. The work suggested no victor and no vanquished, no right side and no wrong side, just two battalions moving toward each other with the terrible consequence of death. Blending skill with passion, Nick Bassington-Hope had revealed the landscape of war in all its darkness and terror—the sky lit by shellfire, mud dragging down those who remained unfelled and the stretcher-bearers, those brave souls who hurried across no-man’s-land in the service of life.

“If that’s just one of ’em, I’m not sure I can look at the rest.”

Maisie nodded and whispered, as if to speak aloud would dishonor the dead. “I just need to see one or two others, then we’ll pack them all up again.”

“All right, Miss.” He lifted the crowbar and began to open the next crate.

THE TASK COMPLETED, Maisie and Billy leaned against shelving to rest for a moment.

“Does anyone know what Mr. B-H wanted to call this ’ere masterpiece?”

“Not as far as I know. People don’t even know what to call it, and because he was so interested in the triptych form while in Belgium before the war, they all assumed that’s what it was.”

“I don’t reckon I ever want to ’ear the word triptych again, not after this.”

“I don’t think I do, either. Now then, if you search through those shelves over there, I’ll attack this chest of drawers.”

Both began work in silence, as a bladelike shaft of sunlight piercing through the clouds came to their aid with a shimmering beam onto the glass above. Taking up a series of papers and rough sketches, Maisie looked over at her assistant, who was pulling out a collection of completed but unwrapped canvases. “Will your boys be home soon, Billy?”

“Reckon by the weekend. The ’ospital talked about convalescence somewhere on the coast—you know, fresh air to clear the lungs. Of course, if Doreen’s brother-in-law ’adn’t decided to throw in ’is lot to come up to London, we could probably ’ave done it, but not now. Costs money, does that. But the boys will be all right, you’ll see.” He hesitated, just for a second. “Of course, they know about their sister now, that we’ve lost Lizzie.”

“I see,” Maisie said as she pulled a collection of thick sketchbooks from a drawer. Of quarto dimension, they were each numbered in the same manner as the crates in which Nick had identified his masterwork. “Oh, look…one, two, three, four…” She leafed through each one in turn. “These are the sketchbooks where Nick did his preparatory work for the pieces, but—”

“What is it, Miss?”

“Two are missing.”

“P’raps Mr. B-H put them somewhere else, took them down to ’is cottage in Dungeness.”

“Yes, of course, they must be down there.”

“Do you remember seeing them?”

“No, but—”

Billy was silent, then, for his thoughts had kept pace with Maisie’s. She set the sketchbooks to one side.

“Those are coming with us. I think we can go now.”

“Don’t we need to find the diagram thing that shows how all the bits of art are put together on the wall?”

Maisie shook her head. “No. From the pieces I inspected, each segment has a certain shape and will only fit logically in one place, just like a puzzle. It shouldn’t be difficult to work out.”

They ensured that everything in the lock-up was left as they had found it, then secured the doors and walked to the MG. Billy glanced sideways at Maisie and cleared his throat, ready to ask a question.

She responded before he uttered a word, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m all right, Billy. It’s just those paintings…”

Eighteen

It was midafternoon before Maisie and Billy arrived at Svenson’s Gallery, opening the main door to a flurry of activity as the Guthrie collection was in the midst of being taken down and packed for shipping to new owners. Svenson was ever dapper in another well-cut suit set off by a rich-blue cravat and bright-white silk shirt. He called across to Arthur Levitt, instructing him to oversee the movement of one particular piece, and as the visitors stood to one side waiting for him to notice them, he reprimanded a young man for having “fingers like sausages and a grip like a wet fish,” adding that the painting in his hands was worth more than his granny’s portrait over the mantelpiece at home.

“Excuse me, Mr. Svenson!” Maisie raised her hand to attract the gallery owner as he moved on.

“Ah, Miss…er, Miss…” He turned and smiled, giving additional orders as he approached.

“It’s Miss Dobbs, and this is my colleague, Mr. Beale.”

“Charmed to see you again, and to make your acquaintance, Mr. Beale.” He inclined his head toward Billy and brought his attention back to Maisie. “How may I be of service to you, Miss Dobbs? I trust that all is well with our friend Georgina.”

Maisie nodded. “Quite well, though it’s still early days, isn’t it?”

“Yes, poor Nicholas’s death hit Georgie particularly hard.” He paused, then remembering that there was clearly a reason for her visit, spoke again. “Forgive me, Miss Dobbs, but is there something I can assist you with?”

“May we speak in private?”

“Of course.” Svenson held out his hand in the direction of his office, then called to Levitt. “Make sure those gorillas are careful with that portrait!”

The office was, like the gallery, a bright room with white walls and furniture constructed of dark oak and shiny chrome. There was a cocktail cabinet in one corner, a system of filing cabinets in another, and in the center, a large desk with two trays of documents, one on either side of a leather blotting pad. A set of two crystal inkwells was positioned at the top of the pad, along with a matching container with a clutch of fountain pens, each one of a different design. A black telephone was within easy reach. Though there were two chairs in front of the desk, Svenson directed his guests to the right of the door, where a coffee table was surrounded by a matching settee and two chairs in black leather.

“So, what can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”

“First of all, I have to make a confession. My first visit to your gallery was not in the context of my friendship with Georgina. We were, indeed, both at Girton, though her purpose for being in touch with me was in connection with my profession. I am a private inquiry agent, Mr. Svenson, an investigator—”

“But—” The color rose in Svenson’s cheeks as he began to stand.

Maisie smiled. “Let me finish, Mr. Svenson, there is no cause for alarm.” She waited for a second or two, then, satisfied he would not interrupt again, she went on. “Georgina came to me several weeks after Nick’s death, essentially because she felt, in her heart, that his passing was not the result of a simple, unfortunate accident. Given my work, and my reputation, she wanted me to make some inquiries, and to see whether there might be any reason for doubt—she understood that her emotional state might render her unable to see the facts with clarity.” Maisie chose her words with care, so that Svenson felt no undue pressure from the weight they carried—after all, the man in question had died on his premises.

Svenson nodded. “I wish she had confided in me; I could have helped her, poor girl.”

Billy stole a glance at Maisie and raised his eyebrows. Maisie nodded in reply, then continued speaking to Svenson.

“Please, do not take this as an indication of my suspicions or findings, but I do have some questions for you. I understand that you came back to the gallery later in the day that Nick died, to speak to him—is that so?”

Svenson sighed. “Yes, I did. I came back.”

“But you did not tell the police?”

He shrugged, waved his hand to one side as if brushing away a troublesome fly and shook his head. “To tell you the truth, no one asked me. When Mr. Levitt found the body…” He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “I still cannot believe our beloved Nick is gone. I expect to see him walk in that door at any moment, full of some new idea, a piece finished, a complaint about the manner in which another piece is exhibited.” He paused. “Levitt summoned the police first, then placed a telephone call to my home. I reached the gallery shortly after the detective, Inspector Stratton, who seemed rather annoyed that he had been called to a clear-cut accident. The pathologist made an initial examination and away they all went, taking Nick with them. The silence after they had left was extraordinary. So much activity, then nothing.” He held out his arms. “A man dead and his legacy all around us—it was unbearably strange, such a vacuum.”

“So, you weren’t asked when you last saw Nick, that sort of thing?” Maisie was quick to bring the conversation back to her original question.

“Not specifically. To tell you the truth, I can barely remember. It was such a blur. There was much to do, the family had to be informed, the newspapers contacted, an obituary to compose—I was Nick’s agent, after all.”

“But you saw Nick on the evening of his death, didn’t you?”

Svenson sighed again. “Yes, I did. There was something of a contretemps between Mr. Bradley—who as you know was Nick’s most fervent supporter—and Nick, here in the gallery, earlier in the day. It was in connection with the triptych, a piece that Nick’s secrecy suggested would become a work of significant value and import. Nick, as you have no doubt gathered if you’ve been making inquiries, had announced that the piece would not be put up for sale, would not be offered to Bradley first, as it should have been, by rights. No, out of the blue, Nick declared that the piece would be given to the war museum in Lambeth, and if they weren’t interested, then the Tate or some other such national institution. His decision presented something of an anathema to Bradley, and their words were fierce and heated.”

He had been rubbing his hands together as he spoke, but now he looked up at Maisie, then Billy. “I returned with the express purpose of cooling the eruption, so to speak. It was crucial that the two men remained able to do business, that there was respect on both sides, each for the other. If Nick wanted to make a gift of the piece, all well and good, but I was intent that we should take the appropriate steps toward reconciliation, perhaps by allowing Bradley to purchase the piece, then place it with the museum for permanent exhibition, a bequest in his name. I have brokered such arrangements in the past.”

“And Nick didn’t accept your proposal?”

“Dismissed it immediately. Of course, the budding liaison between Georgie and Bradley did not help matters. Nick was furious with her.”

“Did you enter by the front or back door?”

“I entered by the front.”

“Did you lock the door upon leaving?”

“I…I…” Svenson frowned and fell silent.

“Mr. Svenson, do you remember locking the door?”

He shook his head. “That I do not recall turning the key in the lock does not indicate that I didn’t actually secure the door. It is something I do all the time, it is a habit.” A hint of his Scandinavian accent was revealed as he spoke, indicating to Maisie that he was less than sure of his facts.

Maisie pressed on. “Did you see anyone lingering outside, as you departed the gallery?”

Svenson closed his eyes, his words deliberate, as if trying to remember the details. “I closed the door…raised my umbrella to summon a taxi-cab that had just turned into the street. It was a fortuitous arrival and—”

“Mr. Svenson?”

“Oh, dear. Oh, no!”

“What is it?”

“I rushed to the taxi-cab! It had started to rain again. I didn’t take a second glance at the passenger alighting on the other side of the motor car. I remember thinking that I was glad he or she had stepped via the left-hand door so I could just dive in and be on my way, and—I have now recalled—oh, my dear…. I may not have locked the door. The taxi-cab’s arrival just when I needed it distracted me, made me hurry, I—”

Maisie placed a hand on Svenson’s forearm. “Don’t worry, Mr. Svenson. If someone wanted access to the gallery, they would have found it whether the door was open or not. It’s just another piece of information to help me in my work.”

“But, do you think Nick was murdered?”

Maisie and Billy exchanged glances again. As Maisie questioned Svenson, Billy had been taking notes. Now it was time to move on to the second reason for their visit.

“Mr. Svenson, I’m also here with some news, news that, for the meantime, we must keep between just we three. In addition, I have a proposal for you, and I need your help.”

Svenson shrugged. “My help? How?”

“I know where the masterwork is, and I want to exhibit here, at your gallery. I—”

“You know where the triptych is?”

“It’s not a triptych. And yes, I know where it is. Let me finish, Mr. Svenson. I want informal invitations sent to a select group of people—Nick’s friends from Dungeness, his family, Mr. Bradley, perhaps a representative from each of the museums. I am sure you will have an opportunity for an open exhibition later, perhaps to show other works found by Georgie and Nolly following Nick’s death—to my untrained eye, it would appear that even his sketchbooks would draw good money—though that would have to be with permission granted by the family and by his sisters, as executors.”

“Oh, my God, my God, we must make arrangements. I must see the work, I must!”

Maisie shook her head. “No, Mr. Svenson. I have to make a request I hope very much that you will grant, for it is crucial to my work, and to the purpose of this special exhibition.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not only do I require you to keep the arrangements confidential, only releasing information in the manner I stipulate, but I will need to have private access to the gallery. I want only men of my choosing to assist with mounting the pieces. There will be a timetable to follow, a specific period during which—to all intents and purposes—the gallery will appear to be unattended. I cannot emphasize enough that my instructions must be followed to the letter.”

“What about Georgie? Will she be told?”

“I will see her this afternoon. As my client she must be kept apprised of my progress, but she also understands that in my work I cannot be expected to account for or inform her of every decision, if I am to be successful.”

“You ask much of me, Miss Dobbs.”

“I know. But you, in turn, asked much of Nick, and though he could be fractious at times, your reputation has increased a thousandfold as a result of that relationship. I think you owe him this, don’t you?”

The man was silent for a few moments, then regarded Maisie again. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

GEORGINA BASSINGTON-HOPE WAS, fortuitously, at home when Maisie arrived. When informed by the housekeeper that Miss Dobbs was waiting in the drawing room, Georgina emerged from her study with the now-familiar ink-stained fingers.

“My apologies if I have disturbed you while working, Georgina.”

“It’s the curse of the writer, Maisie: I am both annoyed and relieved upon being interrupted. I can spend much time cleaning the keys on my typewriter or rinsing the nib and barrel of my fountain pen—in fact, anything that constitutes a writer’s work without actually stringing two words together.” She smiled, pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and rubbed the stains. “Tell me, have you news?”

“I think we should sit down.”

Georgina sat down on the armchair, continuing to clean her fingers with a handkerchief, though now her hands shook. She looked at Maisie, who had taken a seat on the chesterfield at the end closest to her. “Go on.”

“First of all, Georgina, I want to ask you about the painting above your cocktail cabinet, the one that belongs to Mr. Stein.”

“Maisie, I told you, I don’t know a—”

“Georgina! Please do not lie to me. You must have known that my work on your behalf, would lead me to unearth the truth of what has been going on down in Dungeness.”

Georgina stood up and began to pace. “I didn’t think it had anything to do with the investigation.”

“Didn’t think it had anything to do with the investigation? Have you lost all grip, Georgina?”

The woman shook her head. “I just knew Nick’s involvement had no link to—”

Maisie stood up to face her client. “That is as may be, Georgina, but I had to follow the lead I discovered and that has taken valuable time—it was a distraction that had to be explored before I was able to conclude that it was of no import regarding Nick’s death.”

“I—I’m terribly sorry. But what they’re doing is all in a good cause.”

“Yes, I know that. But you realize that Harry is in deep water, and Nick must have been at risk too.”

“And you don’t think it had anything to do with his death?”

“No, Georgina, I don’t.” Maisie sighed. “But if you wish to help Harry, as well as Duncan and Quentin, then you must locate them soonest and tell them I want to speak to them as a matter of urgency. I have advice that I think will help them, though they have taken enormous risks.”

“Of course. I—”

“And I do have some news for you.”

“About Nick’s death?”

“Not exactly. I have located the lock-up where Nick kept much of his art, including the missing work.”

Georgina reached out to touch Maisie’s arm. “You’ve found the triptych?”

“There are six pieces, actually.”

Georgina faced Maisie squarely. “Then let’s go then, I want to see it.”

Maisie shook her head. “Please sit down, Georgina. There are other plans already in motion, plans that I request you follow.”

Georgina took her seat once again, though her tone was short. “What do you mean? What gives you the right to execute ‘other plans’ without first requesting my express permission? If anyone should be making plans, it should be—”

“Georgina, please!” Maisie raised her voice, then reached out and clasped both the woman’s hands in her own. “Be calm, and listen.”

Georgina nodded, snatching back her hands and crossing her arms.

“You are absolutely right to be put out, and right to want to see your brother’s work,” continued Maisie. “However, in the interests of developments in my investigation, I had to move with some speed.”

“But I’m your bloody client! I’m the one paying your fees, and a pretty penny they are too!” Georgina leaned forward, her body tense.

“Quite right, but there are times in my work when my allegiance has to be to the dead, and this is one of them. I have thought long and hard about what to do in this case, and I must ask for your trust and your blessing.”

There was silence in the room. Georgina Bassington-Hope tapped her right foot several times, then gave a final deep sigh.

“Maisie, I don’t know why you are acting in this manner, or what has inspired your ‘plan,’ but…but, against my better judgment, I trust you. At the same time, I am extremely annoyed.” She reached out to Maisie, who held her hand once again.

“Thank you, for your trust.” Maisie smiled at Georgina. “My work does not end when a solution to a given case is found, or the grain of information sought is discovered. It ends only when those affected by my work are at peace with the outcome.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“What I mean is something that my clients can never really understand until I have achieved the aim of the investigation.”

Georgina stared into the fire for some moments, then turned to Maisie. “You’d better tell me your plans.”

MAISIE LEFT THE flat just as it was getting dark, a wintry smog swirling around outside. By the time she reached the MG, a dark sense of sadness had enveloped her, a feeling that she had anticipated and knew presaged the devastation that awaited Georgina Bassington-Hope and her family. She wondered if she had another choice, whether she could turn back the clock and lie to protect others. She had made such decisions before, but…She rested in the driver’s seat for some moments, considering her position. There it was again, the game of risk and chance, only this time her loyalty was to the dead artist, and to the truths that moved him. Would it have been different had the paintings not touched her so? She would never know now, though she understood that even from beyond the grave, it was as if Nick Bassington-Hope’s dream of his work being viewed by the widest possible audience had caught her imagination, and now she was a conspirator, a speculator with the lives of others, in the quest to make that wish come true.

HAVING STOPPED AT a telephone kiosk to leave a message at Scotland Yard for Detective Inspector Stratton, it was no surprise to see his Invicta motor car waiting upon her return, parked on the flagstones in Fitzroy Square. She tapped on the window as she passed, whereupon Stratton stepped from the motor and followed her up to her office.

“I do hope you have something I can use, Miss Dobbs.”

“I’ve some more information for you, Inspector; however, I need some assistance in return. I think you’ll find it a fair exchange.”

Stratton sighed. “I know I won’t hear a word unless I agree, so—against my better judgment, and in the hope that your request will not compromise my position—you have my word.”

“Far from compromising your position, I think you might expect some congratulatory comments later on. Now, here’s what I’ve learned about the smuggling operation in Kent.” Maisie pulled two chairs in front of the gas fire and ignited the jets. When they were both settled, she began.

“Let me start at the beginning. The artists, Nick Bassington-Hope, Duncan Haywood and Quentin Trayner, have all been involved in the smuggling operation on the coast. They were helped in their quest by three fishermen—two from Hastings, men with a boat large enough for their purposes, and one from Dungeness, an older man with, I am sure, a knowledge both deep and broad when it comes to the coves, caves and other secret places along the coast. And of course he was the linchpin, the go-between who recruited just the right locals for the job.”

“Go on.” Stratton did not take his gaze from Maisie.

“Now, the thing about this operation is that there was nothing strictly illegal, so to speak—not in the way you may think. Of course, this is conjecture on my part, gleaned from various sources and a sense of the mission—and I mean exactly that—taken on by the artists.” Maisie paused to see how her words were being received. “As you may know, the most valued art collections here in Britain and across the Continent are being plundered by a select group of American buyers, those who still have money, and who are keen to take advantage of an aristocracy weakened by war, by economic disaster and by the fact that lines of succession were effectively cut off for so many of the families that owned those collections. And investment in art is currently looking a good deal safer than stocks and shares, so a lot of valuable and beloved works of art are making their way across the Atlantic, and our museums can only afford to save so many. Then you have the artists, people like Bassington-Hope, like Trayner, like Haywood, artists who have seen an exodus of the paintings that inspired them as young men. Nick, especially, was touched by the power that the wealthy wielded in the art market. Of course, he did well from such expenditure, but was also angered by what was happening. And that’s not all.” She paused, assessing Stratton’s interest. “There are others who have good reason to fear for the future of their property. I am not sure, to tell you the truth, which group came first for the artists, but it is of no great consequence.” Maisie pressed her lips together, choosing her words with care. “As you know, politics in Germany have become increasingly influenced by the new party, the one led by Adolf Hitler. There are those who have become fearful, who have, to all intents and purposes, seen the writing on the wall. They predict that their property will be taken from them. And there are others who want to help. I have discovered that valuable works of art are being distributed throughout Europe, taken to safety until such a time as they can be returned in confidence to their owners. And the owners know it may be years, possibly decades, before that sense of safety returns once more. The artists have two contacts, one in France, one in Germany, and possibly more, who receive and prepare the items for evacuation. Once in safe hands, the valuables are then placed with sympathizers who will keep them hidden until claimed by their rightful owners when this unsettled time has passed. There is no law against that, but they obviously do not want the departure of the paintings to be observed by those who might want them, whether that person is an investor intent upon ownership against the wishes of an extended family or a political party set upon disenfranchisement of a segment of the population.”

“That’s all very well, Miss Dobbs, but the men we’re after aren’t interested in paintings.” Stratton leaned forward, holding out his hands toward the fire.

“I know, but they are interested in diamonds, aren’t they?” Maisie replied as she leaned down to turn up the jets.

Stratton was silent.

“As I said, much of what I have gleaned came from a comment here, an overheard conversation there, perhaps an observation that led to a lucky guess, but here’s what I think happened to interest the men you’re looking for.”

“Go on.” Stratton pulled his hands back, and pushed them into his coat pockets.

“Harry Bassington-Hope was in trouble—”

“For goodness sake, we know that!”

“Bear with me, Inspector,” continued Maisie. “Harry was in trouble—a not uncommon occurrence. His back against the wall, he revealed a secret that, at some point, his brother must have confided in him: that the artists were moving paintings and other artworks from the Continent across the Channel for safekeeping. Such things are of little consequence to criminals who prefer to trade in what they already know, and who deal only with that which can be handled easily via contacts who can move the goods and make money on them. One thing they know is the market in precious stones, particularly diamonds. Bringing in the gems from their own overseas contacts therefore became a much easier proposition—lean on Nick Bassington-Hope, make it clear that his brother will suffer if he doesn’t play the game and you have a leader who will see that his partners acquiesce. In short, Nick had already created the means to traffic valuables, he had the system in place, so your criminal element simply piggybacked on the scheme—and the threat to Harry Bassington-Hope’s life ensured that mouths remained shut. And once the system was proven to work, steady payments from the men pulling Harry’s strings ensured that everyone was well and truly ensnared in the net.”

“Assuming you’re right, Miss Dobbs—and that remains to be proven—how the hell did you discover all this?”

“I paid close attention, and of course, I was lucky in places—being in Dungeness at the right time, seeing the operation first-hand. And my assistant and I have spent hours at the Tate, learning about art. Ultimately, though, one has to take that leap of faith, that risk. It’s a bit like placing a bet.” Maisie paused, smiling. “And of course, I saw the diamonds being removed from the back of a painting, and handed over, so I knew what was happening. And so did the Excise, yet—as far as I know—they haven’t yet caught your criminals. But they will soon be there first with the bracelets. I should add that I was questioned in some detail by your fellow government servants, and I think I may have told them just about everything I’ve told you.”

Stratton was silent for a moment, then he turned to Maisie. “Anything else, Miss Dobbs?”

“One more thing.” She paused. “I have left word for Nick Bassington-Hope’s friends to be in touch with me. When I speak to them, I will press them to see you as soon as possible. I trust that their willingness to assist you will result in a tempered view of their activities.”

“Dealing with me is one thing. When the villains get wind of this, those men will likely need some sort of protection.”

“I’ve thought about that. They were pressured into collaboration, Harry Bassington-Hope’s life being the bartering point. With Nick dead and Harry owing money right, left and center, both Haywood and Trayner were ready to throw in the towel.”

“The gang made sure they were in it up to their necks though, by giving them money—and, as high and mighty as their intentions were, they didn’t turn it down, did they?”

“Who would, in the current circumstances?” Maisie shook her head. “I know it’s a stumbling block, but surely if they assist you with your inquiries and help you to make arrests…”

Strattton sighed. “I’ll do what I can.” He paused, shrugging his shoulders and looking down at his hands, then brought his attention back to Maisie. “Now—how do you want me to help you?’

“I think what I have in mind will help you too.” Maisie spoke quietly. “This must be handled with the utmost care, Inspector.”

SVENSON ARRANGED FOR scaffolding to be erected at the far end of the gallery on Saturday, while, for her part, Maisie gathered the men—and one woman—who would assist her on Sunday afternoon when construction had been completed. Though the original layout plans were not available, and Maisie did not want to request assistance from Duncan Haywood and Alex Courtman, Arthur Levitt acted as foreman, instructing the men to position trestles at a certain height from the ground to facilitate correct positioning of each piece. From her inspection of Nick Bassington-Hope’s masterwork, Maisie had been able to sketch a layout for her helpers to follow, though she did not share its contents with either Svenson or Levitt.

In the meantime, per her instructions, Svenson had prepared letters bearing news that the “triptych” had been discovered and that, following work on the exhibition throughout Sunday, a preliminary viewing would take place during the following week. Formal notification of the reception would be sent shortly. The letter acknowledged the unusual nature of the invitation, which, he surmised, would no doubt be understood by all who knew Nick. The decision to have a reception for a limited, select group to honor the artist was impromptu and presented an opportunity for the gallery to pay respects to a man of uncommon depth. It was also noted that, in accordance with the known wishes of Nicholas Bassington-Hope, representatives would be invited from London’s leading museums.

At her request, Maisie was handed the letters to post. They would have been received on Saturday morning by each member of the Bassington-Hope family, though there was some discussion as to the best address to use for Harry. Envelopes were also prepared for Quentin Trayner, Duncan Haywood and Alex Courtman, and it was anticipated that when Randolph Bradley’s breakfast tray was delivered to his suite on Saturday morning, the letter would be set on top of a copy of the International Herald Tribune.

Maisie and Billy spent most of Saturday assembling the people and equipment they would need to execute their part of the production. Svenson had stepped forward to cover all costs involved in setting up the exhibition on Sunday evening as well as for the exhibition itself. Billy’s brother-in-law would be working for the first time in months, and Eric had asked for and been given use of Reg Martin’s van. Sandra assisted Maisie with procurement of all manner of nails, screws, hooks and pulleys. The plans were falling into place. Sunday loomed almost too quickly.

MAISIE, BILLY, ERIC, Jim and Sandra entered the gallery as the men put final touches to the construction of wooden struts, trestles and ladders that would be used to position the pieces of Nick Bassington-Hope’s creation.

“That’s all for now, Mr. Levitt. We can manage from here.”

Levitt nodded. “You’ll need the keys.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as they heard the caretaker leave, Billy ensured the back entrance was secure and the front door was locked. Together Eric and Jim pulled screens across so that the back wall could not be seen from the street, while Maisie and Sandra covered the floor with heavy cotton dust-sheets of the type used by housepainters.

“Ready for us to unload the van, Miss?”

“Ready, Billy.”

Maisie and Sandra opened a box they had brought in with them and took out tools they would need for the next part of the plan. The men returned with six panels, which they laid on top of the dust-sheets, before returning to the van for more equipment. In the meantime, the women set to work, each taking care to don a pair of overalls and cover her hair with a top-knotted scarf before commencing.

Some three hours later, Maisie checked her watch and caught Billy’s eye.

“Time to let Stratton in, Miss?”

“Yes, it’s time. Then you go up to the landing.”

“You’ll be all right?”

“Of course.”

As Maisie took up her place behind a screen, she felt a churning in her stomach. There was always the chance that she would be wrong. She swallowed. Yes, this was her gamble.

AT HALF PAST nine, according to Maisie’s watch, illuminated for just a second with her torch, she heard the rumble of a motor car in the alley, followed by the sound of a latch at the back of the gallery being rattled. Any sense of movement was suspended as she raised her head to listen. Deliberate steps echoed, as if the person entering the gallery were carrying a heavy load. Soon there was a distinct creaking noise as the door leading into the gallery was opened, and the steps came ever closer. Then a pause. The intruder’s breath came heavy and fast. There was a whine, a mournful aching sound that came from someone clearly struggling with a burdensome weight.

There was a deep sigh and a metallic sound echoed into the air. And something else, a distinct smell. Maisie almost choked. Oil. Paraffin. Back and forth, the footsteps moved faster now, the sound of the inflammable liquid slopping across the floor beneath the pieces that Maisie and her helpers had worked so hard to install on the wall. The scaffolding would ignite in a second, though she could not make her move yet. She knew she had to wait, had to linger long enough to hear the interloper speak. There would be a declaration—at least she hoped she was correct in her sense that such destruction would be accompanied by words spoken to Nick Bassington-Hope, as if the artist were in the room himself. Finally, as the fuel’s vapor became overwhelming, a voice spoke loud and clear. Maisie pulled the kerchief from her head and held it across her nose and mouth, all the time listening.

“You disappointed me, Nick. You just didn’t know when to stop, did you? I pleaded with you, dear boy. I did all I could to prevent this, but you couldn’t draw back, eh?” The can rattled with the dregs of paraffin, and Maisie heard a second can being opened. “Couldn’t believe you wouldn’t listen. Couldn’t believe you just stood there. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Nick, didn’t mean for this…but you couldn’t be allowed to do it, couldn’t be allowed to dishonor your own flesh and blood….” The soliloquy drifted into a whisper, as the man upended the can, then fumbled with a matchbox drawn from his coat pocket.

“Damn!” The match failed to ignite, and as he tried to take out another match, the box fell to the ground, its contents scattered in the pungent liquid. “Damn you, Nick. Even dead you’re trying to save that monstrosity, even dead I cannot stop you.”

Maisie stood up and began to walk toward the man who had come to destroy the work of his beloved son.

“Piers…”

Now partially illuminated in a half shaft of light from the street-lamp outside, the man frowned, as if not quite able to comprehend what was taking place. “What the hell—?”

She could wait no longer; the risk was too great. “Billy, Stratton!”

Soon the gallery was filled with movement as Stratton’s men rushed in with sand-filled fire buckets, and Piers Bassington-Hope searched for anything that could be used to ignite the flammable liquid.

“It was his fault, you know, it was Nick. I didn’t mean it to happen, I didn’t want—”

“You can save that for the station, sir,” instructed Stratton. He nodded to a sergeant, who pulled the older man’s arms behind him, the loud click of a handcuff lock echoing in Maisie’s ears as the killer of Nick Bassington-Hope was led away.

“I—I wanted to talk to him, I—” Maisie looked around. The fire brigade had been summoned to secure the gallery.

“It’s too dangerous here and there’s no need for you to remain anyway, Miss Dobbs. You’ll have to come down to the station, of course.”

“Yes, indeed—but I’ll have to telephone Svenson first, and I want to wait until the gallery is safe before I leave. I don’t think either of us expected this sort of damage.”

Stratton looked up at the painting. “Pity he didn’t get rid of that thing, if you ask me.”

Billy, who had been talking to both the police and fire brigade, joined them at that moment.

“You talking about that valuable work of art there, Inspector?”

“I am indeed.”

Maisie rolled her eyes. “Let us just say, gentlemen, that my endeavors with paint might have saved a great work of art this evening.”

They all turned to look at the six pieces of plywood that Sandra had whitewashed earlier, and that Maisie had proceeded to use as a background for her own masterpiece.

“Thank heavens he came without a torch!”

MAISIE FELT HEAVY in body and soul as she drove slowly back to her flat in Pimlico in the early hours of the morning. Piers Bassington-Hope had trusted that one beloved child would understand the plea he’d made on behalf of another; his actions, borne of a deep disillusionment, had caused the death of his eldest son. Yet he had not considered, as Maisie had, that the child he cared for so deeply might be strong enough to endure any depiction of life or death created by her brother.

Nineteen

As if angels had conspired to clear the heavens for Lizzie Beale, a low, bright winter sun managed to sear through morning fog on the day her body was committed to earth. A service in the local church, its buttresses soiled by smoke and green lichen growing upon damp sandstone, moved all who came. It seemed that the whole neighborhood had turned out to say good-bye to the child whose smile would never be forgotten. Maisie looked on as Billy and Doreen, bearing their daughter’s weight between them, carried the small white coffin topped with a posy of snowdrops into the church.

Later, at the graveside, Billy’s quiet stoicism provided strength for Doreen as she leaned against him for fear her legs would not support her during the final farewell. And cradling her newborn child swaddled in blankets, Ada stood alongside her sister, knowing the warmth of their sisterhood would be sustenance on grief’s barren journey. A clutch of relatives gathered around the Beale family, so Maisie stood to one side, though Billy had beckoned her to come closer. She watched the coffin as it was lowered into the ground and pressed a hand to her mouth as the minister, with a gentleness that can only be borne of strength, said the words, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” and followed with another prayer for the dead child. Then Billy reached down to lift a fistful of cold brown earth. He looked at the dirt in his hand, then took the rose from his lapel and threw it into the chasm that would soon be filled. It was only when the rose sat between the pure white snowdrops that he threw down the first clod to signal his good-bye. Doreen followed, then others stepped forward. Having waited until last, respectful of those closest to the Beale family, Maisie walked slowly to the edge of the grave, remembering, once again, the softness of Lizzie’s head, of the curls that brushed against her chin, and the small dimpled hand that grasped her button. She, too, took up a handful of earth and heard the thud as it splashed across the coffin. Then she bid Godspeed to dear Lizzie Beale.

ON THE PREVIOUS day, instead of driving straight to Scotland Yard following the arrest, Maisie had gone immediately to Georgina Bassington-Hope’s flat, where she broke the news that her father had been taken into police custody in connection with the death of her brother.

“Georgina, I am sure you want to be with him. I will take you now, if you wish.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Georgina placed a hand on her brow, as if not sure what to do next.

“I’ll get your coat, Georgina.” Maisie summoned the housekeeper, who left, then returned with her employer’s coat, hat, gloves and handbag.

“Do you need to inform anyone before we leave?”

“I—I think I will…no, I’ll see him first. No good talking to anyone before I’ve seen Daddy, and Inspector Stratton. Nolly will have a fit if I don’t have every last detail at my fingertips. I think that’s what made me a journalist, you know, having Nolly for a sister!” Georgina gave a half laugh, then looked at Maisie, her eyes dark, her skin ashen. “Fine mess I’ve got the family into, eh? I should have left well enough alone.”

Maisie silently opened the door for her client, steadying her as she descended the steps to the waiting car. She said nothing to Georgina about truth, about the instinct that had inspired her to seek Maisie’s help. It was not the right moment to speak of the inner voice that instructs us to move in a given direction, even though we know—even though we know and might never admit to such intuition—that to continue on our path is to risk the happiness of those we hold dear.

GEORGINA BASSINGTON-HOPE ALL but fell into her father’s embrace upon entering the interview room at Scotland Yard, her sobs matching his own as they held each other. Having escorted her to the room, along with a woman police auxiliary, Maisie turned to leave, only to hear Georgina call to her.

“No, please, Maisie—stay!”

Maisie looked to Stratton standing behind Piers Bassington-Hope, who gave a single nod. She could remain in the room.

Sitting close enough to see Georgina’s hands shaking, Maisie was silent as they spoke, Piers repeatedly clearing his throat and running his hands back through his silver hair as he recounted the events that led to his son’s death.

“I’d gone along to Nick’s cottage, must have been early in November. We hadn’t had much time to…to talk, as father and son, alone, for ages. You know what your mother’s like, always fussing around Nick, so that I hardly had time with him when he came to the house.” He swallowed, then cleared his throat again. “Nick had gone to fill the kettle with water from the barrel, so I sat down—next to a pile of sketchbooks. I began leafing through them—as always, stunned by your brother’s work.” He paused. “I was so proud of him.”

Georgina reached out to her father, then withdrew her hands to pull a handkerchief from her pocket, with which she rubbed her eyes.

Piers continued. “Nick was taking his time, so I continued—ready to put them down when he came in, you know how secretive he could be, and I wouldn’t want him to think I was snooping. And that’s when I found them, the sketchbooks….” He held a hand tohis chest, heaving a sob, then coughed, so much so that the woman auxiliary left the room to bring a cup of water.

“I—I recognized the subject of the work immediately, no mistaking it. And I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. How could he do that, how could my son…do that? He told me that the piece was the most ambitious undertaking of his life, that he could not compromise. Georgina, I begged him to choose an unknown model, but Nick declined, saying that in his work he must honor truth, and that he had thought long and hard about his decision, and felt it only right. I tried to make him understand, tried to make him see—but he just waved me away, told me I was an old man who didn’t understand what art was all about these days, that I should stick to ivy-clad walls.” Piers clenched his teeth, trying to stem the tears. “My son thought I was spent as an artist, and my pleas were met with disdain—there’s no other word for it.” He held out his hand to Georgina. “You know how Nick could be, Georgie; you know how stubborn he could be, how intractable.” He leaned back in his chair. “I came again over the following weeks, came to ask him to reconsider, to petition him to stop, to think again, to…to be kind in his work. But he wouldn’t give an inch.”

Piers sipped from the cup of water, then began to describe the final bid to change his son’s mind. He had come to the gallery on the eve of the exhibition when everyone had left, knowing that he was the only person who had any knowledge of the paintings and knowing that success in his plea was imperative. Entering by the front door—left open by Stig Svenson—Piers saw his son was on the trestle and, wanting to face him, rather than look up at him—a desire that Maisie understood immediately, though Piers would not have been able to explain his motivation—he went to the stairs leading to the landing and was soon on a level with his son. Still agile, Piers had climbed over the railing and onto the scaffolding so that he could press home the importance of his request. Nick began to turn his back on his father, going about his work as if he were not there.

Piers Bassington-Hope sobbed as he continued. “I had seen, then, the cold refusal in Nick’s eyes. He infuriated me. After all, how could he be so indifferent, so oblivious to what he was doing? I could not help myself, I could not—”

Georgina handed her father a fresh handkerchief, which he pressed to his eyes. “I am so terribly sorry.” He shook his head, then went on. “I—I could not help myself. I raised my hand and struck him across the cheek, then again with the back of my hand. I struck my own son.” He swallowed deeply, placing a hand on his chest once more in a bid to control his emotions. “Then the trestle began to move. We both became unsteady, barely able to stand upright, then…then…Nick turned around and swore at me, and I—I lost control of my senses. It was as if I were blind. I could not see, could only feel this…this welter of anger that rose up from my feet and exploded in my head. I felt my hand connect with the side of Nick’s face, then I reached out to grab hold of the scaffolding, anything to steady myself. Then Nick was gone. It happened before I could stop it. One second he was there, a look of complete disbelief on his face.” Piers looked directly at Stratton. “I had never raised a hand to any of my children, Inspector. Never.” He was silent for a moment. “Then Nick was gone. Before I could reach out, before he could gain a foothold, he was gone, the barrier broken as he fell. And I heard a terrible, terrible thud as he hit the stone floor.” Piers Bassington-Hope leaned sideways, moaning, as if he would collapse. A police constable stepped forward to support him.

“When did you know your son was dead, Mr. Bassington-Hope?” Stratton spoke with a steady voice, neither soft nor confrontational.

Piers shook his head. “I thought he might cry out, might get up and begin to berate me for challenging him. I wanted him to shout at me, to argue, to yell—anything but that silence.”

“So, you left the gallery?”

Piers looked up, indignation evident in his eyes. “Oh, no, no. I rushed to his side and I…I knew he was dead, could see the life gone from his eyes. So I held my son in my arms until…until his body was cold.” He explained that it was only as dawn broke that he panicked, his thoughts now of his wife and daughters and the anguish they would feel upon learning that Nick was dead. The last words he spoke before Stratton brought the meeting between Georgina and her father to an end were, “He was my son, Inspector, my son. And I loved him.”

NICK BASSINGTON-HOPE’S FINAL exhibition at Svenson’s Gallery took place in early February 1931, with a select group of family and friends invited to preview an event that was also a memorial to the artist, who—as Svenson made a point of telling everyone who came—would be remembered as an interpreter of both the human and natural landscape. There were those who were surprised to see Piers Bassington-Hope escort his wife from the Invicta motor car that drew up outside the gallery, and as guests entered, Harry Bassington-Hope, at first tentatively, then with more confidence, lift his trumpet to play the heartrending lament he’d composed after first seeing the work his brother had named No Man’s Land.

Duncan and Quentin arrived together, furtively nodding an acknowledgment toward Maisie, who had helped broker their freedom with a full description of the events she had witnessed at the barn on Romney Marsh and a statement to the effect that she considered them “tea boys” in the diamond smuggling operation. Alex Courtman stepped into the gallery and joined his two friends, then looked around the room as if searching for someone. He saw Maisie, raised his hand to greet her, only to have his attention drawn to the door: Randolph Bradley had arrived, his shining American Du Pont Merrimac Town Car eliciting gasps from onlookers as it pulled alongside the entrance to the gallery. Bradley made an entrance wearing a stylish English double-breasted suit, and Maisie saw just a hint of disapproval from Nolly when he approached her sister, who gave a half smile as she raised a cheek to be kissed by her lover. Soon Harry leaned back, pressing his lips into a piercing final note and the low murmur of those gathered ceased as Stig Svenson climbed the steps onto a plinth, beside which was the cord that, when pulled, would open the thick, blood-red velvet drapes to reveal the completed No Man’s Land.

Svenson pressed a white handkerchief to his eyes as he stood behind the lectern to address the guests, who edged forward to hear him speak.

“Thank you, all of you, for coming today. As those closest to Nick, I know you would not have missed this opportunity to view No Man’s Land before the work is available to a broader audience, as it most surely will be in the future. It was no secret that Nick’s most fervent wish was for a bequest to a public institution, and I am proud to announce that Mr. Randolph Bradley has most generously purchased No Man’s Land as a gift to the Imperial War Museum, in perpetuity.” There was a round of applause during which Svenson cleared his throat, holding a hand to his mouth for a second before speaking again.

“We all knew Nick. We all knew that he journeyed to the very edge of convention in his quest to tell the truth of what he saw, of what he felt in his very soul, with his skill as an artist. You’ve seen his early work, seen the Flemish villages, abundant landscapes, the murals, works of utmost complexity, and every one marked by an acute sense of place, or perhaps an appreciation of love, of hatred, of war, of peace. He was a man of and beyond his time, a man of sensitivity almost crushed by the weight of his experience in the years 1914 to 1918. This piece is, perhaps, his most telling. It is a work of art that will leave not one of you with an opinion steeped in the gray mist of ambiguity. Be prepared to hate it, be prepared to love it, but do not expect to leave untouched by the message of Nicholas Bassington-Hope.”

It seemed as if everyone in the room held their breath at the moment when Svenson turned to the pulley and drew back the drapes concealing the masterpiece sought since the night of the artist’s death. As silence followed the collective gasp, Maisie opened her eyes, for she had closed them when Svenson reached for the cord. No one uttered a sound. She had seen the complete work in the days leading up to the opening, yet none of the impact was lost with familiarity, in fact, as the artist intended, at every viewing another scene seemed to come to the fore, giving rise to a new emotion.

The segment that had stemmed Billy’s desire to see more when they first visited the lock-up formed the base of the exhibit. Each and every face was clear and distinct, the artist achieving a level of detail reminiscent of the masters he’d studied in Brugge and Ghent. Three large pieces—the anticipated triptych—formed the next level, and were deliberately shaped to resemble the stained glass windows of a grand cathedral. The column to the left mirrored part of the scene below, the soldiers’ expressions even clearer now, filled with fear, terror and determination as they marched forward. Then the magnificent giant centerpiece that had every person in the gallery transfixed. Maisie felt as if she were part of the scene, as if her feet were caught in the mud and blood of No Man’s Land, and she were close enough to reach out and touch the ground upon which men had fallen.

The scene depicted required no explanation. A cease-fire had been called, and, as was the custom, stretcher-bearers from both sides had been sent forth to bring back the living, while others toiled with shovels to bury the dead. Soldiers brushed shoulders with those against whom they had fought, and every man knew that it was not uncommon for friend to help foe commit a countryman to the earth. There was much for the battle-weary to accomplish as the guns would be alive with shells and bullets before too long and men would be marching upon one another’s trenches with bayonets fixed, intent upon killing before death could claim them. Nick Bassington-Hope had seen that moment, had recorded the instant when two infantrymen, one British, one German, had come upon their own, the dead having fallen to the ground next to each other. With mud and blood smeared across their faces, exhaustion writ large in eyes that had looked into the furnace of hell, the soldiers had reacted with instinct and, instead of taking up arms, in that terrible moment had reached toward each other for comfort. And there they were captured in time, almost as if a camera had been used, rather than oils. The men were kneeling, locked in a raw embrace, one clutching the other, as if holding on to that other human being was to hold on to life itself. The artist had caught, in eyes, in mouths, in lines across foreheads, in white-knuckled hands, a depth of grief, a futility that came when man recognized man, not as an enemy with a gun, but as a reflection of himself. And it was clear to anyone who knew the family that the British soldier offering succor to the German was the dead war hero Godfrey Grant.

Noelle had already seen her brother’s work. Without faltering, she had stood in front of the painting, recognizing now why Piers had sought to protect her. Maisie remained with the woman, as her eyes moved from the center panel to the one on the right, the panel that spoke the truth of her husband’s death. Nick Bassington-Hope could never tell his sister that her husband was murdered, that he was tortured, then shot, by the very men with whom he had served. The gentle Godfrey, who had turned to his enemy and seen, instead, his brother, had made his way back to the British front line, to a silence in the trench that was broken only by taunting. He stood next to men who, afraid of what it meant to see the enemy as human, instead saw a foe in their fellow man. His life ended with the letters LMF scrawled in blood across his forehead. LOW MORAL FIBRE.

With his brush, Nick had told a story no words could recount. The two final pieces, triangular-shaped segments to the upper left and right of the triptych, designed so that the collection of paintings would form a rectangle when displayed together, revealed something of what he had come to sense as a pilgrim in the wild places that healed him, that before there was barbed wire and trenches there were verdant fields and thick green forests, and, after the battle, so the grass would grow again, the land belonging not to man, but to nature, to love. No matter what claim there might be on this soil or that, the artist knew it all to be no man’s land.

While some moved forward to study the pieces in detail, others, including Piers and Emma Bassington-Hope, moved back to view the work as a whole. No one spoke, there was no discussion of light or depth, of a brushstroke here, the use of a palette knife there. Maisie recalled something that Dr. Wicker, the expert who had been so helpful at the Tate, had said in response to a question: “With a true masterpiece, there are no words required. Discourse is rendered redundant. That’s why the work of a master transcends all notions of education, of class. It rises above the onlooker’s understanding of what is considered good or bad, or right and wrong in the world of art. With the artist who has achieved mastery, skill, experience and knowledge are transparent, leaving only the message for all to see.”

Maisie remained in the gallery for just a few moments longer, then left to return to her office, for she wanted to complete final notes on the written report she would hand to Georgina Bassington-Hope when the time was right, along with her bill. She bid good night to the two policemen in plain clothes who waited by the door to escort Piers Bassington-Hope back to the cell where he awaited trial on a charge of manslaughter. Though the detective sergeant held a pair of handcuffs, they would most likely not be used until the prisoner stepped from the motor car upon arrival at their destination. As Maisie emerged from the gallery into the freezing night and made her way toward the MG, she realized she was glad to be leaving.

LATER, HAVING COMPLETED her report, Maisie leaned back, put the notes in an envelope, tied the two strings together to seal the flap and placed the envelope in her drawer. Trusting time to be the most efficient editor, she would check the notes in a few days, then the closing bill would be calculated for presentation to her client when they met. In the days that followed, she would undertake the process she referred to as her “final accounting,” a period of time during which she visited the places and, where appropriate, the people she had encountered as she worked on a given case. It was a method learned in her apprenticeship with Maurice Blanche, and one that had served her well, enabling work to begin on the next investigation with renewed energy and insight.

Before leaving the office, Maisie completed an overdue task, that of writing a letter of thanks to Dame Constance Charteris at Camden Abbey. She acknowledged the referral that had brought Georgina Bassington-Hope to her door and gave a brief description of the outcome. The Bassington-Hope family had been through a tumultuous time: shock, sorrow, regret and anger—at both Piers and Nick. There had been arguments and compassion, alliances had swung back and forth, then the family had come together to support the patriarch, even though true forgiveness eluded them, for now. She described the way in which the trial had brought Noelle and Georgina together, perhaps with more understanding than before. In her letter, Maisie suggested that Dame Constance might be seeing Georgina again soon, and added that she herself would love to visit in due course.

She drove home at a low speed, taking special care in the nighttime smog. Making her way past Victoria, she turned, on a whim, toward Belgravia. She was soon parked outside 15 Ebury Place. Houses on either side of the Comptons’ mansion showed signs of life, with lights in upper windows, perhaps a door opening to reveal a butler showing a visitor out into the night. But the house that had once been her home reminded her of an old, old woman gone to bed early because even a short day was long. There were no lights, no signs that a family was in residence. Without closing her eyes, Maisie thought she could hear the voices that echoed back and forth when she was young, of Enid cursing, of James gamely stealing biscuits when he came back to England to go to war. She could hear Mrs. Crawford, Mr. Carter and, as the years sped by in her mind’s eye, she imagined the staff who were new to the house and to her when she had come back, this time to live upstairs. It occurred to her that the ritual of her final accounting was rather like closing up a house, for wasn’t she checking each room before securing the door, looking out of a window to recall the view and then moving on? And wasn’t there always a new case, a new challenge, something fresh to ignite her appetite for excitement, just as there was now the flat in Pimlico? She smiled, took one last look at the mansion, pushed the MG into gear and began to slip away, back toward her new home.