Messenger of Truth jw-2

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “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.

  “Y
es. 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.”