Messenger of Truth (7 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mornin’, Miss. All right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Won’t she use the old dog ’n’ bone?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Miss Dobbs,

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

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

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

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

“Gosh…” Maisie shook her head.

“What’s up, Miss?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Billy nodded, and they set to work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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