Messenger of Truth

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “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.”

  “Oh, it’s probably nothing.” Maisie shook her head again and smiled at Sandra. “Now, come along, let’s get into the office and you can tell me everything.” She led the way up the stairs. “This is the first time you’ve seen our office, isn’t it? Of course, my assistant—you remember Billy—isn’t here at the moment. It’s very sad, but—oh, my God!”

  There was no need for Maisie to turn her key in the lock, no need for her to twist the handle, lean on the door and then enter her office. The door was already wide open, the lock forced for someone to gain entry. Someone who had no thought for the faithfully maintained system of index cards or the detailed files kept in a cabinet alongside Maisie’s desk. The room was strewn with paper, with letters and cards. Drawers were pulled open, a chair was on its side, even a china cup had been broken as those who had gained unlawful entry had gone through in search of—what?

  “Crikey, miss.” Sandra stepped forward and reached down, unbuttoning her coat as she did so. “This won’t take—”

  “Don’t touch a thing!” Maisie surveyed the scene. “No, leave everything as it is.”

  “Shouldn’t you call the police?”

  Maisie had already considered that the two men might well have been police themselves, given Stratton’s strange behavior recently and the fact that he was working with the other man, Vance. No, she would deal with this herself. She shook her head. “I don’t think I will.” She si
ghed, appraising the task ahead of her, wondering how she might bring order to the chaos. “Sandra, do you know anyone who could fit a new lock, someone handy?”

  The young woman nodded. “Yes. I do. Sort of why I came to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Sandra. Look, let me deal with this first, then—”

  “You stay right here, miss. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Well, Eric don’t work at Ebury Place anymore. He’s working for Reg Martin, at the garage, now. He can turn his hand to anything, can Eric, so I’ll get him up here. He’ll put in a new lock for you.” Sandra pulled on her gloves and stood with her hand on the door frame. “And if I were you, miss, I’d close this door and shove that desk in front of it until I get back. Won’t be long.”

  Maisie heard the door slam as Sandra left the building. Negotiating papers strewn across the floor, she stepped over to the table where she had worked on the case map with Billy. Usually the map was locked away each time they left the office, but this time…this time, she had slipped up, leaving the diagram of their progress on the Bassington-Hope case laid out ready to resume work when Billy returned tomorrow. Now the map was gone.

  Fourteen

  Maisie was exhausted by the time she arrived home. Once inside the empty flat, she collapsed into a chair without taking off her coat. The death of Lizzie Beale had taken its toll and now the burglary at her office added to her fatigue. She reached to ignite the gas fire, then leaned back into the chair again. The child’s passing had touched her deeply, and she knew it was not only because the death of one so young is always particularly wrenching—certainly she was not the only one to wonder what picture it painted of a country, of a government, when the life of a child was allowed to slip away, when a parent could not summon medical help for want of the money—but she remembered the first time she held Lizzie. The way in which the child buried her face into the crook of her neck, her dimpled hand holding on to a single button on her blouse, had left Maisie feeling bereft when she was taken from her. It was the child’s warmth and closeness as she clung to Maisie that had caused her to realize she was lonely, that there was a longing for a deeper connection in her life.

  Slipping to the floor, Maisie rested against the seat of the chair and held her hands out toward the fire. She felt vulnerable, invaded. The image of the broken lock flashed through her mind; the memories of shredded wood where the door had been forced and the paper and cards strewn across the floor conspired to unsettle her even further. Who has stolen our case map? Could it have been those men she had seen with Harry Bassington-Hope? Surely they would not have taken the case map. Was it a consolation prize snatched by intruders who didn’t know what they wanted but were simply led by instinct? Could they have been hired by Bradley, perhaps expecting to find a clue to the whereabouts of the triptych? Might it have been Duncan and Quentin whom she had so recently unsettled? They’ve something to hide.

  Or could it have been Nick Bassington-Hope’s killer? Sandra said she had seen two men. Could two men have killed the artist? She asked herself again if Harry’s gangland associates could have taken the life of his brother. Maisie rubbed her eyes and slipped the coat from her shoulders, reaching behind her to drape it over the seat of the chair. Sandra. She’d never discovered why Sandra had come to her; instead, distracted by the vandalism of her property, the young woman’s offer of help had been accepted with little more said.

  By the time Sandra returned with Eric, who carried a bag of tools and a new lock, Maisie had cleared the office and begun to file papers and cards. The door was soon repaired. With every bone aching for rest, Maisie returned home. It was only when she sat gazing at the gas jets that she realized she hadn’t discovered the reason for Sandra’s visit, although she remembered, as the couple made their way toward the Warren Street underground station, her former maid’s arm was linked through that of the young man at her side.

  Despite checking and double-checking the integrity of locks on the front and back doors and the windows, Maisie could not settle and slept fitfully. Though she had loved the idea of a ground-floor flat, with a back door that led out onto the postage stamp of a lawn, she now wondered if her choice of home were not somewhat precarious for a woman in her line of work. Not that she expected to have much to do with those who would cause her harm, though perhaps the fact that she had no such expectation demonstrated a naïveté on her part.

  MAISIE WAS ON her hands and knees in the office the following morning when she heard the front door thump closed against the wind and Billy Beale’s distinctive footfall on the stairs. She clambered to her feet as her assistant entered the office.

  “Bloody ’ell…”

  Maisie smiled. “I’ve broken the back of the job, but we’ve got our work cut out for us today.” She smiled and came toward him, touching him lightly on the sleeve. “Do you feel up to it, Billy?”

  With the semblance of a man in his sixties, not his thirties, Billy nodded. “Got to earn my keep, Miss.” He paused, taking off his coat and hanging it on the hook at the back of the door, along with his flat cap and scarf. A black cloth band stiched around the upper arm of his jacket signaled his state of mourning. “And to tell you the truth, what with one thing and another, it’s best for me, is this. Doreen’s sister started with the baby this morning, so there’s no room for me—or for Jim, ’e’s out looking for work again. So, it’s best if I’m out of it. Give something for Doreen to think about. They’ve got to get ready for the other nippers bein’ allowed ’ome soon as well. Anyway, the woman from up the road, the one who’s there for all the babies ’round our way, was just coming in the door when I was leaving, so I’m in no ’urry to go back there.”

  “Is Doreen coping?”

  “I should say she’s keepin’ ’er ’ead above the water, Miss. Just. It’s all a bit strange, to tell you the truth. There we are, you know, just lost our little girl, and there’s a baby about to come into the world. And what to? What sort of life is it? I tell you, Miss, I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’, but me and Doreen’ve been talkin’ and we’ve laid it out for ourselves, for our boys.”

  “Laid out what?”

  “Plans, Miss.” Billy shook his head and leaned back against his desk. “There ain’t nothin’ ’ere for us, is there? Look at the place, look at it. I’ve got a trade, Miss, I’ve got this work with you, doin’ inquiries, under me belt, and look at me, I can’t keep me nippers safe. No, Miss, we’ve decided. We’re savin’ up, you know. To emigrate.”

  “Emigrate?”

  “Well, Miss, mate of mine in the war, ’e went over to Canada afterward. It was them Canadian boys tellin’ ’im all about it, you know. Took ’im until ’21 to afford passage.” Billy shook his head, recalling his friend. “Me mate wasn’t one to write, not the sort, but I got the odd postcard, you know, with ‘Hands Across the Miles’ on the front, and ’e says there’s a good life for men like me, men what ain’t afraid of a bit of ’ard graft, men what’ll work to make a better life for their families. I reckon we can put a bit by, me and Doreen—it’ll be easier when we ain’t got the extra mouths to feed—and we’ll go over there. Fred’s doin’ well, you know, got work, nice place to live, not all cramped up like we are in the East End, with all that river filth.”

  Maisie was about to say something about acting in haste, about waiting for the weight of their loss to lift before leaving home behind them, but instead she smiled. “You’re a good father, Billy. You’ll do what’s best. Now then, unless you’re planning to sail to Canada this afternoon, we’d better get on. I have to leave for Dungeness later, but I want to ensure this is all put away and clear again before I go.” She turned to the desk. “Oh, and you’ll need these—keys for the new lock.”

  Billy caught the set of keys Maisie threw to him. “Did we lose anything important, Miss?”

  Maisie nodded. “The case map.”

  SOME TWO HOURS later, Maisie and Billy had brought order to the chaos
and were now sitting at the oak table in front of a length of pristine white lining paper of the type usually used by decorators, which they proceeded to pin to the wood.

  “There, clean slate, Billy. We might see some links, some clues that have evaded us thus far.”

  “I ’ope so, Miss. Bloomin’ lot of ’ard work down the drain if we don’t.”

  Maisie took a red pen and began to draw a circle with Nick Bassington-Hope’s name in the center. “I want to see Arthur Levitt this morning, Billy, and I also want you to talk to your Fleet Street friend this afternoon, if you can.”

  “Right you are, Miss.”

  “All right then, let’s get on…”

  They worked on the map until ten o’clock, whereupon the length of paper was rolled up and secured with a piece of string. Both Billy and Maisie looked around the room.

  “Like I’ve said before, Miss, my old mum always said to ’ide somethin’ in plain view.”

  “Well, in my haste I already did that, and look where it got me! No, we need a very safe place—and I don’t want to take it home.”

  “I’ve got an idea, Miss.” Billy walked over to the fireplace, carefully edged out the gas fire that had been fitted to stand in front of an original grate designed for logs and coal. “Long as we don’t weaken the old gas line by pulling the fire back and forth, this should work for us, the old ‘up the chimney’ trick.”

  “Seems a bit obvious to me, Billy, but until we think of something better, it will have to do. Here you are.”

  Billy pushed the case map behind the gas fire, moved the fire back into position and checked to ensure the fuel line was not compromised by the exercise.

  Scrutinizing the door several times to check the integrity of the lock, the pair were finally satisfied that the office was secure.