Messenger of Truth

  Maisie said nothing. Alex leaned back on the chesterfield and closed his eyes. He sat that way for some moments, until Maisie spoke in a soft voice. “You’ve been most helpful, Mr. Courtman.” She stood up, collected her black document case and checked her watch. “I really must be going now.”

  “Righty-o.” Courtman came to his feet. “Hope I didn’t put my foot in it, you know, spilling the beans about Georgie and Bradley. You won’t tell her…well, if you do, please don’t let on that it was me who told you.”

  “No, of course not.” Maisie held out her hand to Courtman. “I have one more question for you, if you don’t mind?”

  “Yes?”

  “Were Georgina and Nick on good terms when he died?”

  “Oh, lummy, here we go.” He sighed before answering. “They had been having some spats before the opening. Nick was upset about the affair with Bradley—the American’s married, you know, has a wife in New York who doesn’t like coming over to Europe—and said as much to Georgie. I think there were some other things going on in the family as well. Harry played them off against each other a bit, to tell you the truth. Then on the day we left to go set up the scaffolding, I was in the guest room with Duncan and I heard Georgie and Nick at loggerheads. Yelling at each other—you this and you that, back and forth.” He shrugged. “I feel sorry for Georgie, actually. Must feel awful, now that Nick has gone. In fact, it’s a wonder she came to you, really, isn’t it?”

  “Why?” Maisie had reached the door, and Courtman leaned past her to grasp the handle.

  “Well, if I were a detective, I’d wonder about that temper of Georgie’s.”

  Maisie smiled. “That’s the interesting thing about detection, Mr. Courtman. Things are rarely as they seem, and when they are, we tend to overlook them. I will keep our conversation in confidence and trust that you will do the same.”

  “Absolutely! No problem there, Miss Dobbs. Let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help.”

  “Oh, before I forget”—she turned back—“will Duncan and Quentin be here later?”

  Courtman shook his head. “No, they both went back down to Dungeness, actually. I think Duncan has a buyer for his carriage, probably another forlorn artist, eh? And Quentin is still packing up. They said they both had a lot to do down there, so off they went.”

  Maisie thanked Courtman again, waved, and was soon on her way. Now there were even more threads for her to gather up and spin onto bobbins. It was as if she were herself an artisan, standing before a giant loom with her skeins of wool, each one held ready to form part of the finished scene, the picture that would reveal the circumstances of Nick Bassington-Hope’s death. All she had to do was create the warp and then the weft, her shuttle flying in and out, up and down through the threads, laying her hands across the panel, her fingertips testing for tautness and give, the comb pushing the weft down to ensure close weaving without the hint of a space.

  The thing that intrigued her, as she walked down the street, was that if Alex Courtman was as tethered to the roots of the case as she thought he was, why had he been so forthcoming during their meeting? Even more interesting was the fact that the two other friends had returned to Dungeness, a move that underlined the need for her to keep to her plan to drive down the following day—and to ensure that she was doubly careful.

  Twelve

  Maisie passed the parked Austin Swallow upon her return to the flat that evening. Oh dear, she thought, as she maneuvered the MG into its customary place. She locked the motor car, then turned to face Andrew Dene, who was walking toward her, his overcoat flapping and his hair swept up by a sudden whip of cold wind. To smile was his way, and he did so as Maisie greeted him, though she could see tension revealed in his hunched shoulders. He placed a hand on her arm and kissed her on the cheek. An onlooker might have thought them cousins or friends and would never have guessed at the intimacies shared in the now-floundering courtship.

  “This is a surprise, Andrew.” Maisie searched for her keys, her hands shaking in anticipation of the looming confrontation, then walked to the main entrance of the block of flats. “Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Andrew Dene followed her into the foyer, then to her flat, where she selected a second key to enter. “I thought it was about time we sorted things out,” he said, as she pressed the key into the lock.

  Opening the door, Maisie turned and nodded, then automatically reached to feel the radiator before placing her hat and gloves on a small table. She took off her mackintosh. “Yes, of course, you’re right. Here, let me take your coat. Go and make yourself comfortable.” She waited as Dene removed his overcoat and scarf, then placed both coats over a chair in the box room.

  “Shall I make a pot of tea?”

  Dene, already seated in one of the two armchairs, shook his head. “No, thank you. I doubt I shall be staying long, Maisie.”

  Maisie nodded as she made herself comfortable on the second armchair. At first, she thought better of removing her shoes, then, silently reminding herself that she could do as she pleased in her own home, she kicked off the shoes and tucked her legs up, rubbing her ever-cold feet as she did so.

  “I thought we ought to talk about us, Maisie.”

  She said nothing, allowing him to speak uninterrupted. She had learned early, from Maurice, that it was always best to allow a person who had something important to say—perhaps a declaration, or a complaint—the courtesy of an uninterrupted statement. To interject might only inspire the person to begin again, thus repeating themselves. And as she had already observed signs that Dene was unsettled, she would not give reason for the conversation to become inflammatory, for she wanted him to think well of her, if that were possible.

  “I had hoped, when we first began seeing each other, that you might one day become my wife.” Dene swallowed deeply, causing Maisie to think that he would have done well to accept refreshment before embarking upon the conversation. “Despite appearances to the contrary, Maisie, I have not been lucky in love and am not the Lothario that some have thought me to be. I’ve just been waiting for the right girl, someone who would have an understanding of my background, what it takes to move up, so to speak, from one’s given station in life. And I thought that girl might be you.” His voice wavered briefly as he pushed back the hair that had fallen forward, and went on. “I know your work is so very important to you, but I trusted that it might, in time, take a second place to our courtship. Now, I don’t know.” Dene turned to her, his eyes glistening. “I have to say, Maisie, that I was flummoxed by your manner when we last spoke on the telephone. But even before that, buying this flat”—he swept his hand around, indicating the room—“it sort of put me in my place, even though I held out hope.”

  Still Maisie said nothing, instead keeping her attention focused on the man in front of her. She was not without emotion, cradling in her heart a melancholy that it had come to this. But she knew well that another sensation lingered inside her: the bittersweet ache of relief. And she was sadder for knowing it.

  “So, before I say anything else, I want to know, Maisie, if there’s any hope for me—for us, as a couple—if I proposed?”

  She said nothing for some seconds. Even though she had practiced this conversation at night, tossing and turning, wondering how she might reveal herself and be understood, she felt incompetent with words where personal matters were concerned. Her voice was soft, measured. “Andrew, you are, and have been, a wonderful companion. I enjoy your company, so how could I ever fail to be charmed by your presence?” She paused. “But the truth of the matter is that…oh, this is so hard to explain.” Dene opened his mouth to speak, but Maisie shook her head. “No, please let me try, Andrew—I must try to say what I mean, so that you understand.” She closed her eyes as she searched for words. “After my…my breakdown last year—for that is what it was, I know that now—I have struggled to see the path ahead. I know both you and Maurice said I should rest longer, but it’s not my habit; I feel that I hav
e some…some sort of mastery over circumstance when I am working. That command—oh, that’s not the right word.” She bit her lip. “That order makes me feel safe, gives me battlements and a moat. And the truth is, Andrew, my business takes all the stamina I have at the moment—and you deserve more.” She cleared her throat. “I have found myself fearing that as time goes on there would be pressures upon us to conform to the accepted role of a doctor and his wife, and that would mean I would have to choose. So, I have chosen now, Andrew. Now, instead of later.” Maisie paused. “I have seen how the joys of our courtship have been compromised by my responsibilities to the people who come to me for help, and my choice has often been the source of great angst for us both. Even though you have been in London every fortnight, and I have journeyed to Hastings in between…it hasn’t been conducive to a happy courtship, has it?”

  Dene inspected the palms of his fine hands, the long fingers stretched out before him. “Don’t mind me saying so, Maisie, it’s all very well you saying that, but you could have been more honest from the start. You must have known all this, and that I wasn’t prepared to sort of drift along—in fact, I came here to end our…our…courtship. At least I’m the one with the courage to face the—”

  With tears blurring her vision, Maisie interrupted Dene, having not expected the angry response. “I believe I have been responsible toward you, and respectful, I—”

  “You haven’t been honest with yourself—until now, I suppose. I’m sure you never intended to prolong the courtship, and in the meantime, I might have met someone else, been able to get on with my life. In fact, I have met someone, only I wanted to find out where we stand.”

  “Well, Andrew, you should do as you please. I believe I have been sincere in my dealings with you, and—”

  “Dealings? Sincere? Maisie, you surprise me, really you do. I have been a handy diversion for you, a weekend here, a dinner there, walks when you want them and the ball in your court.”

  Maisie stood up, shaken. “Andrew, I think it’s time for you to go. I wish we could part on better terms, but in light of this conversation, I fear that isn’t going to happen.”

  Andrew Dene, now on his feet, responded in a tone laced with sarcasm. “So be it, Miss Dobbs, psychologist and investigator.” He sighed, adding, “I’m sorry, that wasn’t called for.”

  Maisie nodded, and without saying more she led the way to the box room, gathered Dene’s coat and opened it for him. “Drive carefully, Andrew. It’s an icy night out there.”

  “I’m in hospital digs tonight, I’ll be all right.”

  “Good luck, Andrew.”

  “You, too, Maisie.” Dene turned, and walked away.

  MAISIE WENT DIRECTLY to her bedroom, switched on the light and opened the wardrobe. At this point she did not want to think about Dene or consider the consequences of the end of their courtship. Having pulled out several items of clothing, she slumped on the edge of the bed, clutching her blue cashmere cardigan and stole. She pressed the soft fabric to her cheek and wept. In spite of the sense of relief, she already felt the cool breeze of loneliness cross her heart. Knowing Andrew had been a barrier between herself and an isolation that seemed to so readily envelop her, but to use him as a buffer between herself and the ache for close companionship was not fair. He was a lively suitor who had clearly adored her, but she did not have confidence enough to relinquish her work. And, she reminded herself, it would have come to that.

  Turning back the bedclothes, Maisie curled up and pulled the eiderdown around her body, yearning for a few moments of comfort before she had to face the evening ahead. She shivered, though it was not cold in the room. As her tears gradually abated, she confessed to herself that there was something else, a truth she may never have considered had she not met the Bassington-Hopes—and it had given her a clue to that quality she was seeking in life that she could not define, the illusive unknown that she knew she would never find with Andrew Dene as her partner. She realized that she had come to love color, both in the landscape of character and quite literally—on fabric, canvas, clay or a room. Andrew was fun, buoyant, but the world she had entered by dint of working for Georgina was bursting with something fresh: There was a potency, a fire that made her feel as if she were cracking open her cocoon and waiting, waiting for her wings to dry before taking flight. And how could her wounded spirit be born aloft if she tethered herself now? That was at the heart of her discontent. There was something in those words…. She clambered from the bed and searched for the book again, to the place she had marked. “He would create proudly out of the freedom and power of his soul….” Could she do that with her life? And if she could, would she come tumbling down to earth like Icarus? What was it Priscilla had said to her last year? “You’ve always kept to the safe places!” Now she was among people for whom such a conservative approach was anathema. Maisie felt her head spin with thoughts that plunged her from excitement to despair as she castigated herself for such self-absorption, when the troubles faced by the Beale family and thousands like them were so desperate. And the very thought of Priscilla brought sadness anew, for she missed the honesty and depth of their friendship. Visiting her in France last year had brought a realization that she ached for the proximity of a close friendship.

  After her breakdown, she had felt a return to the aloneness that had shrouded her when her mother died. Being with Andrew had helped her throw a line out into the future, an anchor she would use to pull herself away from the war, away from the loss of Simon, the terrible images that haunted her—and into the present so that life could go on. But now she was tentatively lifting the anchor, ready to cast off toward the light emanating from Georgina, her family and friends. She shivered again, cold to the core, remembering the doubt and Lady Rowan’s warning. Could she be more like Georgina than she thought, if she took energy, took life, from those who lived in a world of color, of words, of artistry? Might she become the sort of person that Lady Rowan described, someone who used people?

  Maisie leaned back, exhausted. Maurice had instructed her to not take on anything too taxing, given the fragility of her recovery. Though he was in favor of a move to a flat of her own, he had suggested that it might not be the right time, that she should avail herself of the opportunity to live at the Comptons’ Belgravia mansion for at least another three or four months. But she had forged ahead, wanting to take advantage of a well-priced property, and—she knew this—she harbored a desire to underline her singularity, her ability to continue as she had begun, standing firmly on her own two feet. Even though those same two feet had crumpled under her not so long ago.

  Realizing that she was stepping into a spiral of self-recrimination, she galvanized herself, drying her eyes and taking a deep breath. “It was for the best,” she said aloud, thinking of Dene. Then she smiled, as Priscilla came to mind once more. She knew exactly what her friend would recommend, ash dropping from her cigarette as she waved a hand to emphasize advice delivered in a clipped tone: “If I were you, Maisie, I would wallow until I couldn’t squeeze out one more drop of salt water, then I’d buck up, powder my nose, put on my very best clothes and hit the town—and I do mean hit.”

  Rubbing a hand across her eyes, she stepped in front of the mirror, wrapping the stylish blue stole around her. Yes, together with the black dress, it would do quite well for a woman out alone in the evening—even if she was working.

  MAISIE LEFT THE flat at ten o’clock, yawning as she did so. It wasn’t completely unusual for a woman to go out alone anymore. In fact, it had become quite acceptable, especially as there weren’t enough men to accompany them. Based upon her experience since the end of the war, she thought many bachelors were quite caddish anyway, making the most of the surfeit of women with an easy-come, easy-go flippancy. Certainly, Nick Bassington-Hope appeared not to have been above such behavior.

  Clutching her list of clubs, Maisie planned to simply pop her head around the door of each, act as if she were there to see her friend Harry Bassington-H
ope and then leave as quickly as possible if she couldn’t immediately confirm his presence at the establishment. Fortunately, now that Joyston-Hicks was no longer the home secretary, she had little fear of being on the premises of a club when it was raided, a game of cat and mouse played by so many of those referred to as “bright young things” before Jix was relieved of his position.

  Chelsea for two of the clubs, Soho for another two, and one in Mayfair were on her list. By the time she arrived at Stanislav’s, an establishment in Soho, Maisie thought she was becoming more accomplished in the act of nonchalantly walking into a club, sweet-talking the man or woman at the door, and then leaving when the reply was to the effect that Harry was expected later, or on another evening. Clearly he had several engagements each night, and worked at different places, though she certainly had no intention of lingering unless he was without doubt expected shortly at a club.

  She had finally put the black dress aside, settling instead on a pair of black trousers and a long sleeveless blouse with a boat neckline and a matching sash at the hip. The outfit had been a castoff from Priscilla, who had bundled it up and sent it along with several other items in a brown paper parcel. It had arrived just before Christmas, with a message that read, “Having children has ruined, simply ruined my waistline. These are a bit old-fashioned but am sure you can use them.” The trousers had barely been worn, and seeing as women who donned trousers were still in the minority, they were not as old-fashioned as Priscilla had suggested. Maisie thought the blouse was made with room to spare, though she would concede that, had Priscilla not sent the clothes to her, they would probably have languished at the back of her wardrobe. Now she was grateful for the ensemble, which she thought did not suit her at all well, though it was perfect for the evening’s subterfuge.