Messenger of Truth (22 page)

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.”