Messenger of Truth

by Jacqueline Winspear

  She took a deep breath and pushed against the door of Stanislav’s, whereupon a well-built man stepped forward to hold it open. A young woman smiled from behind a black and silver counter framed by a series of square silver lampshades, the lights providing the only illumination in the foyer. Maisie blinked, then smiled in return at the young woman, who was wearing a long black velvet dress with sequins along the hem, hipline, collar and cuffs. Her blond hair was tied back into a small chignon, and her eyes were accentuated by kohl, her lips blood-red.

  The woman greeted her cordially. “Are you a member?”

  “Oh, no—but I am a guest of Harry Bassington-Hope. Is he here yet?”

  The woman inclined her head. “I’ll find out. Just a moment, please.”

  The woman opened a door behind her, poked her head into a room that Maisie couldn’t see, and said, “Oi, is ’arry ’ere yet?” There was a delay of several seconds before she closed the door and addressed Maisie again, the cut-glass accent restored. “He should be here at any moment, madam. Please follow me. We have a small table where you can wait.”

  Maisie was relieved to see that the table was situated in the corner of the room, close to the back wall, a perfect position from which to observe the comings and goings of people in the club. A waiter came to the table, and Maisie ordered a ginger beer with lime cordial. Someone had once told her that it was a popular drink in American cities, where prohibition required one to banish all evidence of alcohol from the breath, so Maisie ordered it, not because she intended to drink, but because it might give the impression that she was a seasoned club goer who would order something stronger later. The harmless cocktail was delivered and Maisie settled back to observe the room.

  A series of tables of varying sizes, seating from two to eight people, were placed several tables deep around three sides of a small parquet dance floor. On the fourth and farthest side, a quartet had just started to play and already a few couples were dancing. Maisie tapped her foot and sipped her drink. Though she was tired when she first set out, she had since picked up and decided that it would be quite fun to come with friends to such a place. If one had a clutch of friends to come with, that is.

  Her eyes scanned the room, looking for any faces she recognized. It wasn’t long before she noticed Randolph Bradley and Stig Svenson at a table close to the bar, the Swede leaning forward, intent upon the conversation, while the American relaxed against the back of his chair, his gray silk suit with even darker gray tie and kerchief punctuating his wealth. Maisie wondered if Georgina would appear and moved her chair farther back into the shadows. She watched as the American raised an index finger to the waiter, who came to his table in haste. Bradley stood up, pressed a note into the man’s hand, slapped him on the back. He shook hands with Svenson and left. Stig Svenson stared into his cocktail for a few moments, then raised the glass and finished the drink in one mouthful, leaning his head back as he did so. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief pulled from his trouser pocket, then he, too, left the club.

  As she scanned the room a second time, Maisie noticed another man, a man she had never seen before, watching Svenson leave the club. She closed her eyes and, in her mind, replayed the scene when she had first glanced around the room. She knew he had been there when she came in and that he had been carefully watching Svenson and Bradley. Who was he? She squinted into the dark as the man stood up, pulled a note from his trouser pocket and checked it against a wall light before placing it on the bar. He took his hat from the seat next to him and left the club.

  “Care to dance, Miss Dobbs?”

  “Oh, my goodness, you made me jump!”

  Alex Courtman pulled back a chair and sat down at the table. “Now, I can’t for a moment believe that you are here for anything but business. I must say, you look ravishing, by the way.”

  Maisie raised an eyebrow. “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Courtman. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m waiting for a friend.”

  “Oh, a friend? Then I am sure your friend won’t mind if I steal you away for a dance, will he?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Courtman. I’d rather not.”

  “Come on! You don’t go to a club unless you are up for a dance or two.” Courtman reached over, took Maisie’s hand and led her, blushing and protesting, to the dance floor. The popular tune had drawn many more couples from their tables, so there was hardly room to move, but that didn’t stop Courtman from swinging his arms from side to side with the beat and, embracing the music, and occasionally Maisie, with gusto. Maisie, too, began to swing her arms, following her partner’s lead. Seeing her enthusiasm, Courtman took her by the waist and swirled her around. As the music reached a crescendo, a trumpet joined the rag, wheeling in with a high-pitched long note, to the accompaniment of piano, bass, drums and trombone. The dancers roared, applauding as they continued to move around the floor. Harry Bassington-Hope had arrived.

  Courtman claimed Maisie for two more dances before, breathless, she held up her hands in mock surrender, and returned to the table, her partner following her.

  “I say, you can dance when you like, can’t you?”

  Maisie shook her head. “To tell you the truth, apart from Georgina’s party last week, I don’t think I’ve danced since…since…well, since before the war, actually.”

  Courtman raised his hand to summon a waiter, then turned back. “Don’t tell me, you danced with the love of your life and he never came home from France.”

  The smile left Maisie’s face. “It’s none of your business, Mr. Courtman.”

  He touched her hand. “Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just one of those wartime stories, isn’t it?”

  Maisie nodded to acknowledge the apology, withdrawing her hand. She changed the subject. “So, are you a regular here?”

  “I come occasionally. But especially when I’m owed money.”

  “Harry?”

  Courtman nodded. “He’s Nick’s brother, after all. He tapped me for a few pounds on Sunday. Said he’d repay it in just two days, so it’s time for me to receive my due from him.”

  “Was it just a few pounds?”

  He shook his head. “No, a bit more than that—twenty, to tell you the truth. But I’m not exactly flush, so I wanted it back today. And I’ll get it too.”

  Maisie looked toward the dance floor, which was still packed, and then at Harry Bassington-Hope, his legs splayed, his bow tie pulled loose, as he leaned back again, his trumpet held high, teasing another impossibly high note from the shining instrument.

  “If he looked after his money like he looks after that trumpet, he’d be a rich man.” Courtman reached for the cocktail the waiter had just set before him.

  “It’s gleaming,” said Maisie. She turned to Courtman. “When does he stop, or take a break?”

  “In about another fifteen minutes. You can leave a message with the waiter—along with the appropriate monetary accompaniment—and he’ll pass it on to Harry, telling him to join you.”

  Maisie followed his instruction, slipping a couple of coins into the waiter’s palm as she gave him the folded piece of paper.

  “Shall I wait until he comes?” Courtman smiled at Maisie with such sincerity that she could almost forgive his lack of manners just a few moments ago.

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Courtman. I am not really accustomed to such places, to tell you the truth.”

  “I know. Mind you, I’m only staying on one condition.”

  “Condition?”

  “Yes. I want to claim the first dance after trumpet boy gets back up there.”

  HARRY BASSINGTON-HOPE SWAGGERED off the stage and over to the bar, stopping on the way to receive backslaps, shake hands with customers and to lean over and kiss women on the cheek, receiving a few lipstick prints on his face as he did so. Maisie watched as the waiter approached him and whispered in his ear, whereupon Harry looked around to locate Maisie’s table. He nodded to the waiter, reached for the drink that had already been pl
aced on the bar in front of him and made his way over to Maisie.

  “Miss Dobbs, we meet again, though I must say, I would never have pegged you for a night owl.” He pulled out a chair, turned it around and sat down, his arm resting on the chair back as he set his glass down on the table. He saw Maisie look at the clear liquid. “Soda water. Never drink anything stronger while playing, though I try to make up for lost time when I’m off duty.” He turned to Alex Courtman. “Alex, old chap, still taking up room in my sister’s flat? I would have thought the Yankee would have kicked you out by now.”

  Alex Courtman stood up. “Moving on next week, Harry, to new digs over in Chelsea.”

  Harry Bassington-Hope turned back to Maisie. “What do they call an artist without a girl?”

  Maisie shook her head. “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Homeless!” He chuckled at the joke, while Maisie smiled and shook her head.

  “The old ones are the best, aren’t they, Harry?” Courtman stood up and drained his glass. “I’ll be back to claim that dance when trumpet boy here starts playing again.”

  Georgina’s younger brother watched as Courtman strode toward the bar, then brought his attention back to Maisie. “So, what can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”

  Maisie thought Harry Bassington-Hope did not look like a man who had lost his only brother just a month earlier. “As you know, Georgina has been unsettled regarding the police assessment of the circumstances of your brother’s death and believes be may have been the victim of foul play. She asked me to look into the matter, and—”

  “And it’s usually someone close to the victim, isn’t it?”

  “Not always, Mr. Bassington-Hope. Though, family and friends tend to have a transparent relationship with the victim, in which they are not always consciously aware of anything unusual going in the months and days leading up to death. In asking questions, I find that the memory is ignited, to some extent, and even a small recollection can shed light on a meaningful clue as to the truth of the incident.”

  “I suppose it’s no secret, then, that my relationship with my brother—as dear as he was to me—was really rather poor.”

  “Was it?” Maisie said only enough to keep Bassington-Hope speaking.

  “I was still in school when he went into the army, so he was very much the big brother, and as for the girls, Georgie and Nolly, well, Georgie was off on her own adventure anyway, and Nolly barely noticed me. I was a sort of fly in the sibling ointment. Mind you, I rather liked Godfrey, Nolly’s husband. He was always up for a game of cricket, you know, much more of a big brother type than Nick, actually.”

  “And what about when Nick died?”

  “Stupid accident, very stupid accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Was it?”

  “Of course. Now if he’d just let his pals help him a bit more and hadn’t been so secretive, then it wouldn’t have happened.” He shook his head. “No, I can’t imagine anything but an accident, and it could have been avoided.”

  “Hadn’t you and Nick argued over money?”

  “Hmmph! I suppose that must be common knowledge.” He paused, checked his watch, then went on. “My brother and I lived different lives. Yes, I had hit a spot of trouble financially, and Nick helped me out, but you know, with Nick there always had to be a bit of a lecture. God knows why, it’s not as if his halo wasn’t a bit tarnished.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing really. He just wasn’t the blue-eyed boy that Georgina would have you believe. Didn’t think twice about who he’d upset with his work, you know, and believe me, he could upset people.”

  “Who did he upset?”

  He looked away, toward the stage, where the other musicians were taking their places, stood up and drained his drink before replying. “You could start with the family. Had a habit of upsetting everyone at some time or another. Father had to calm Nolly down a couple of times—to think he could upset her so much after all she’d done for him.”

  “How did he upset—”

  “Sorry, Miss Dobbs. I really have to go, the boys are waiting for me.” He turned and hurried around the perimeter of the room so as not to be waylaid by admirers and was up on the stage with a single leap, taking up his trumpet and coaxing another wail into the rafters, the band joining him as the note changed mid-climb for a slide down the scale. The dancers were up and moving, and as Maisie collected her bag, she felt a pressure on her elbow.

  “Oh, no you don’t! You promised one more dance.” Alex Courtman had loosened his tie while sitting at the bar, waiting for Harry Bassington-Hope to depart.

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts’—come on.”

  IT WAS ANOTHER hour before Maisie left the club to make her way through cold, smog-filled streets to her flat. She parked the MG, checked the lock and walked toward the main door of the building. It was as she opened the door that she looked around behind her. A shiver had slithered along her spine, and she closed the door behind her with haste, then hurried to her ground-floor flat. Once inside, she locked the door and, without turning on the lights, went to the window and looked out at the small front lawn and surrounding trees that separated the flats from the street. She stood there for some time, but there was no one there, though she felt, instinctively, that she had been watched.

  Clearing her mind, she sat on a pillow, cross-legged in meditation before going to bed, hoping that her practice would leave a path free of conscious thought for some fresh connections to reveal themselves to her. She had not been able to question Harry Bassington-Hope as thoroughly as she had wanted, though she had not come away empty-handed. From a practical perspective, she had procured a list of the clubs where he was employed and knew broadly how and when to find him again—if she needed to continue the conversation that had been so abruptly brought to a close. She had not pressed any point that might have alerted him to her knowledge of his underworld dealings—and she knew already that one of his attackers the previous Sunday was also known to Nick.

  The conversation had shed even greater light on the Bassington-Hope family, and though it was not something a well-mannered woman would do, she now planned to drop in without prior notice when she made her way back from Dungeness this week. She suspected she’d be welcomed anyway. Nick alienated members of his family from time to time, and in the weeks before his death it appeared that he had argued with both sisters and his brother—he had had little in common with the latter in any case. He had upset the man who was not only the source of a considerable amount of money, but his sister’s lover. And the dynamics of those relationships seemed as if they were about to give Stig Svenson peptic distress—he had a lot to lose when Nick Bassington-Hope refused to toe the line. Alex Courtman was an interesting case—not as close to Nick as the other two friends and bluntly honest about his ability as an artist. He was also quite forthcoming in terms of sharing information with Maisie. Was he deliberately misleading her? And why did he seem to be on the edge of the “inner circle”?

  Maisie decided to push the case to the back of her mind, and instead concentrate her thoughts on Lizzie Beale. Billy might be back at work in the morning—she hoped against hope that the news of his daughter was encouraging. Having lain awake for some time worrying, it distressed her when she tried to summon an image of Lizzie and found that she couldn’t. She could see her little red coat, the lace-up leather boots on her feet, her mop of curls like those of a rag doll and her dimpled hands. But not her face.

  Thirteen

  As Maisie packed her suitcase for the journey down to Dungeness the following day, the earthy smell of new leather reminded her of Andrew Dene, from whom the suitcase was a gift just a few months earlier. She fingered the straps, running her hand across its smooth top as she closed it. Today would challenge her, she understood that already, and she knew it would have been heart-warming to think that, at the end of the day, she could turn to someone who loved her, someone who would say, “You’re home now, let me hold you un
til tomorrow comes.”

  Though there was no rain, no sleet, the sky above Fitzroy Square was gunmetal gray, shedding a deep silver light across equally gray flagstones. It was as if all color had been drained from morning’s promise, as if time would be suspended until tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that. As she unlocked the front door, Maisie checked the watch pinned to her jacket pocket. Even though she was a few minutes late, she knew she would be surprised if Billy were at the office. He would not come today. She moved toward the staircase, and stopped. Why am I even going up the stairs? Then she turned, locking the door behind her again, and made her way back to the MG.

  Rain had started to fall lightly, that fine mist of a shower that would continue now for the remainder of the day. Maisie did not drive to the hospital in Stockwell, for she knew there was no need. Instead she drove straight to the Beales’ small house in the East End.

  She saw that the curtains were drawn as she parked her motor car on the street outside the house, and as she stepped from the driver’s seat, she was aware that the thin, worn fabric at the windows of other houses on the street had flicked back and forth, as neighbors watched the comings and goings. Maisie knocked at the door. There was no answer, so she knocked again, hearing footsteps become louder until the door opened. It was Doreen’s sister. Maisie realized that she had never been introduced to the woman, so did not know her name or how to address her.

  “I came…I hope…”

  The woman nodded and stepped aside, her eyes red-rimmed, the bulk of her pregnancy weighing upon her, causing her to clutch her back as she made room for Maisie to enter the narrow passageway.

  “They’ve been talking about you, miss. They’d want to see you.”

  Maisie touched the woman on the shoulder, and walked to the kitchen door, where she closed her eyes and petitioned herself to say and do the right thing. She knocked twice and opened the door.