Messenger of Truth jw-2

by Jacqueline Winspear

“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 plung
ed 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 be
fore 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.