Messenger of Truth

by Jacqueline Winspear

  When she finally slipped into her cold bed, pulling the blankets around her, Maisie could not sleep at first, the events of the past week playing over and over again in her mind, with conversations repeated as if the needle were stuck on a gramophone record. To her surprise, the emotion that weighed heavy upon her was anger. She appreciated that her view of the world was blighted by the events of the evening, but even so, she found that, like Billy, she was becoming resentful of the very people who provided both her bread and butter and the roof over her head. Of course, she had been fortunate in life, for hadn’t she managed to straddle the barriers of class, of education and opportunity? But when she considered the money that passed hands, the seeming inequity of a society where people would spend thousands on a painting, while a child could die for want of a few pounds worth of medical attention, she was left with a sour taste in her mouth. At the end of the day, wasn’t it all about who had money, and who hadn’t; who could make money, and who couldn’t? And no matter how pleasant the people might be, wasn’t it just plain unfair that there were those who had the wherewithal to paint all day, when others knew only the bitterness of unemployment, the gnawing hunger of want?

  Turning over yet again, Maisie’s divergent thoughts began to blend, with her conscious mind finally giving way to fatigue. She had come to learn that there was often a theme to her work, as if in the dance with fate, cases would come to her that at first seemed unrelated, but were connected, perhaps by emotions raised in the search for truth or by a similarity of circumstance. Since the very day that Georgina Bassington-Hope had retained her services, she had been mindful of the web of connection that existed among that rarified community of people who had money and power. She considered the threads that linked those who wanted high office dearly, and those who would put them there; the relationship between those who wanted something so much that they would pay handsomely to own it, and those who would acquire that object of desire for them.

  And couldn’t it be argued that the artist wielded uncommon power? One only had to look at the propaganda created by Nick Bassington-Hope. The gift of a creative dexterity gave him the power to move a population to think in a certain way, and to direct the actions of people accordingly. In the moments before sleep finally claimed her, Maisie remembered seeing a group of students clustered around a recruitment bill on the station wall at Cambridge in the autumn of 1914. It challenged them to do their bit for King and Country. GO NOW, BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE! She was a shameless eavesdropper, listening to the to and fro of words as the young men considered a slogan that amounted to a dare. They concluded that it would be a “jolly good show” and left the station bound for the enlistment office. Now that was power, and Nick Bassington-Hope was ashamed of it. And, in truth, wasn’t she too a little ashamed? Ashamed that she had used the power available to her to attain a flat of her own, when the Beales were struggling to share their home, their food and the income of one man with another family?

  MAISIE WAS NOT in the best of moods when she arrived at the office the following morning. Having risen early, she left the house before six, planning to visit the Beales. As she drove down the narrow cobblestone street with terraced houses on each side, she saw a gray fever ambulance outside Billy and Doreen’s house. She parked behind the vehicle in time to see three children being brought out wrapped in red blankets. Already a clutch of local street urchins formed a standing audience to the scene, holding their collars and chanting:

  “Touch collar,

  Never swallow,

  Never catch the fever!

  Touch collar,

  Never swallow,

  Never catch the fever!”

  Billy came from the house to send them on their way, shaking his fist as they ran up the road, still singing. He seemed as gray as the vehicle into which his middle child had been gently placed, along with Doreen’s sister’s two children. Turning to go back into the house, he saw Maisie.

  “You didn’t ’ave to come, Miss. You did enough last night.”

  “What’s happening, Billy? Do you have news of Lizzie?”

  “I came ’ome a couple of ’ours ago; Doreen stayed. They didn’t like it, at the ’ospital, but she weren’t leaving with our Lizzie so ill. And what with the poor little scraps all lined up in cots, it’s a wonder they can keep an eye on all of ’em, though Lizzie is in a special ward, because of the operation.” He paused and rubbed his eyes. “They operated as soon as she went in there, had to do the cut ’ere.” He drew a finger across his throat. “Took out ’er tonsils. And she’s been given injections of antisomething or other.”

  Maisie nodded. “What do they say?”

  “It’s touch and go. They say they’re surprised she’s still alive, still fighting. What with ’er bein’ so young. They said they thought they’d lost ’er in the operating theater, but she started to pick up again. Shocked all of ’em, it did. Like I said, it’s touch and go though. And now they’re taking the others, all except the eldest, who’s not showing any symptoms. Inspector said that was because ’e’s older and in school. They pick up something there to protect ’em, what did the man call it?” Billy shook his head, his exhaustion plain to see.

  “He probably has an immunity, Billy. And the others aren’t as far gone as Lizzie. Do you want a lift back to the hospital?”

  Billy kicked his foot against the step. “But what about my job, Miss? Can’t afford to be out of work, can I?”

  Maisie shook her head. “Look, let’s not worry about that now. I’ll drop you at the hospital. Mind you, I daresay the matron will give you your marching orders; they don’t like family waiting. Our matron used to complain all the time about family getting in the way, and that was at visiting time. Even the doctors were terrified of her. Anyway, come back to work when you’re ready, Billy.”

  Later, as Billy was about to get out of the MG at the fever hospital in Stockwell, he turned to Maisie. “There’s many an employer would ’ave put me on the street for this little how-d’you-do. I won’t forget it, y’know.”

  “It’s not important, Billy.” She sighed. “Just keep imagining Lizzie at home, back to her old self. Don’t see the sickness. See the life in your child. It’s the best thing you can do.”

  MAISIE COULD NOT help but reflect upon her thoughts from the night before. Certainly there was plenty to inspire her, for as she made her way around London she could see men on their way to join the lines for assistance, or queues at factories where it was said a man could find work. And there were those who predicted that the situation would get even worse before it got better.

  Feeling the anger, and shame, rise again, Maisie tempted her thoughts even more as she watched the exodus out in search of a job. Many of the men limped along, others bore scars on their faces or wore the expression of those embattled to a point where any last vestige of optimism had been lost. These were men—and women—whose country had needed them but who were now without a means to support themselves. They were the forgotten heroes now waging another battle for honor.

  Slamming the door of her office, Maisie was in high dudgeon as she picked up the telephone receiver and dialed Scotland Yard. She asked to be put through to Detective Inspector Stratton.

  “Yes!” The detective sounded rushed.

  “Detective Inspector Stratton, I’d like to have a word with you this morning. Can you be at the usual caff, at around half past eleven?” She was aware of her clipped tone, but did nothing to correct her manner.

  “All right. I assume it’s something important.”

  “Important, Inspector? Well, you can tell me when we meet whether Harry Bassington-Hope is important or not.” She did not wait to hear a response before setting the black telephone receiver back in its cradle.

  Maisie looked at her watch, then the clock. Georgina Bassington-Hope would arrive in approximately half an hour. There was time to compose herself before the meeting, which she was dreading, so much so that part of her did not want to become settled at all, but want
ed to encounter her client with the fury that had been building since she arrived home last night. The telephone rang.

  “Fitzroy—”

  “Maisie.”

  “Oh, hello, Andrew.”

  “You don’t sound pleased to hear from me.”

  Maisie shook her head, even though the caller, Andrew Dene, could not see her. “No, not at all. Just a bit pressed, that’s all.”

  “You’re always pressed, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  As far as Maisie was concerned, it was the wrong comment, at the wrong time, the match that lit bone-dry tinder. “Well, Andrew, perhaps I am. Perhaps a dying child is a pressing thing, or a murdered artist. Perhaps you should go back to whatever you were doing and leave me alone to my pressing things!”

  “Maisie, that was absolutely uncalled for. You are not the only person in the world with demands upon them, or the only person who’s ever had to deal with death—come down to my neck of the woods and you’ll see that!”

  “Andrew, I—”

  “We can talk about this when we meet. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, there’s much to be laid on the table.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right.”

  “Well, I’d better go, Maisie. You’re busy—and I know from experience that this is not the time to extend our conversation. I’ll be in touch.”

  There was a click on the line. Maisie slammed the telephone down in frustration and pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. It was not how she had intended to end her courtship. She knew that she had been curt, her manner unforgivable. She had allowed her sadness regarding the sick child to become anger, which didn’t help anyone. But she had to put the exchange to the back of her mind—there was a morning of work to get through.

  Another woman might have waited by the telephone, expecting the ring that would herald the start of a conversation where contrition was expressed on both sides. Or she might have picked up the receiver, poised to utter I’m sorry. But Maisie was already considering the comment she had made. A murdered artist. Though she had wanted to keep an open mind for as long as possible, and despite the fact that she had suggested to Billy that to accept the Bassington-Hope case as a murder investigation would move their work along, she had not until this moment made a declaration of her personal feelings about the matter. And now she had. Burdened by emotion, had her intuition spoken? Andrew Dene was almost forgotten as Maisie leaned over the case map and prepared to meet Georgina Bassington-Hope, who, she thought, was not quite above suspicion herself, despite the feelings expressed, hand on heart, when they first met.

  Maisie was about to make a notation on the map when the telephone rang again. She was inclined not to answer it—she wasn’t ready to speak to Dene yet; she didn’t really know what to say—but when the caller did not give up, she relented.

  “Maisie, I am glad I’ve caught you.” Lady Rowan spoke before Maisie could give her number.

  “Lady Rowan, how good to hear from you. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Well, no, not really, that’s why I’ve taken the liberty of telephoning you at your office.”

  Maisie sat down at her desk. “It’s not a liberty, Lady Rowan. Is there something I can help you with?” She ran the telephone cord through her fingers.

  Lady Rowan continued. “Actually, I hope I am about to help you. Look, I know this is none of my business, and I did think that perhaps I ought not place the call, but—you know me—I have to speak as I find.” She paused, and when Maisie did not respond, went on. “It was seeing you with the Bassington-Hope woman, I just wanted to know—are you good friends?”

  “She’s an acquaintance. I was invited to Bassington Place for tea on Saturday, and when the weather closed in, they insisted I stay until the following day.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The woman sighed. “I’ve known the Bassington-Hopes for years, since before Piers and Emma were married. You could say it was a marriage made in heaven, two art lovers coming together. I know that sounds all very romantic, but I wanted to warn you.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh dear, this is so hard to explain without seeming terribly narrow, but I felt you should know what type of people they are—how they work, so to speak.”

  “Work?”

  “All right, I am just going to launch in—it’s my way and at least I will have said my piece.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Bassington-Hopes have always been spoiled, both before their marriage, and afterward. Their way of life is completely indulgent, and it’s rubbed off on their children. Now, I know there’s no law against all that; however, such people can be dangerous—not in an aggressive manner, you understand—but in the way they use people.” She paused. “I’ve seen it happen. They seem to collect people, people who interest them—even artists can get bored with one another, after all. It is as if they suck upon those who are chosen to entertain them, then spit them out when they are done—then they move on to someone else.”

  “Oh dear…Lady Rowan, if I may say so, that sounds rather harsh.”

  “I am not saying that there’s something terrible in the way they do things, Maisie, and one feels desperately sorry for them, losing their son in that accident—I read the obituary. Awful business, that accident.” She paused, taking a deep breath before speaking again of the reason for her telephone call. “And you know, they can be enormous fun. But when they are no longer interested, when they’ve taken what you have to give, they drop you. One can never feel safe with them.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you, Maisie? Have my comments made me sound like an old fusspot? I was worried because I feared such a thing might be happening to you. I know you are terribly clever and can see this sort of thing for yourself, but I wanted to make sure—you’re just the sort of person they would draw into their circle, someone interesting, someone with something to say. Then when you were comfortable, you’d find that their curiosity had waned, and someone you thought to be your true friend wasn’t, after all. I don’t think that makes them bad, or even that they do it consciously. As I said, you can see it in their children, except perhaps that older girl—she must be forty by now. Didn’t she lose her husband in the war? Poor dear. I remember we were invited to a party when she was sixteen or thereabouts. The house was full of all sorts of people—like puppets in a play, I felt—but there was no one there for her, none of the younger set. Instead there were all those supposedly bright lights with new ideas—politicians, writers, artists, professors—even a royal presence.”

  “I understand—and I know it isn’t like you to speak out of turn, so I appreciate your candor. Thank you for your concern, Lady Rowan, and for taking the trouble to telephone.”

  “And I haven’t poked my nose where it doesn’t belong?”

  “Of course not. I hope you always draw my attention to such things. And the conversation will remain between us.”

  “Yes, I know that, Maisie. I can trust you.”

  MAISIE SET THE telephone receiver back on the cradle and remained seated and still for some moments. Lady Rowan’s warning had illuminated a dark corner in Maisie’s understanding of the Bassington-Hope family, a blind spot where feelings of doubt and a lack of trust had been seeded. Now I know why I could not feel safe. She had been an audience to the Bassington-Hope show, a performance that went on despite the shadow of death. She thought about Nick and Georgina, and could see where the traits described by Lady Rowan had manifested in the children. Nick using real people in his paintings, despite the fact that he risked causing pain or embarrassment to another—yet, for the most part, those same people were drawn back to him. Then Georgina, throwing a party full of “interesting” people, inviting a controversial politician, drawing energy from the bright lights she gathered around her.

  To her surprise, Maisie felt a wave of tenderness for Georgina. Where Lady Rowan saw a woman who used others, Maisie
saw one who hungered for the attention and associations that would define her. Could it be that her past accomplishments meant little to her now? Maisie stood up and began to pace back and forth. She looked at her watch. Georgina would be here soon, and she wanted to consider the conversation with Lady Rowan before meeting her client. The Bassington-Hope offspring clearly had flaws—don’t we all, she thought—but how might such flaws have contributed to Nick’s death? That was her main concern, as was building respect between Georgina and herself. She remembered a discussion with Maurice, years ago, when there was an obvious disconnect between her mentor and a new client. Maurice discussed the issue of character with Maisie. “I don’t particularly like the man. However, I do respect him. I suspect his feelings toward me are the same. I’ve come to the conclusion that liking a person we are required to have dealings with is not of paramount importance, Maisie. But respect is crucial, on both sides, as is tolerance, and a depth of understanding of those influences that sculpt a character.”

  The doorbell rang. Georgina Bassington-Hope had arrived.

  Ten