Frankie looked at the clock. “I’ve got to get out to the horses a bit sharpish this mornin’. I tell you, we’re doing well, with another mare due to foal soon, though it’d sit better with me if it weren’t so cold for a young ’un to come into the world. Spend all my time makin’ sure the stables’re warm.” He turned back to his breakfast, dipping bread into fried egg.
“As long as you’re not overdoing it, Dad.”
Frankie shook his head. “Nah. All in a day’s work.” Deflecting any further harking back to injuries sustained in an accident the year before, Frankie repeated some gossip heard on the estate. “Well, you’ve certainly set the cat among the pigeons, haven’t you?”
“Me?” Maisie set down her knife and fork. “What do you mean?”
“There’s talk that, what with you moving out of Ebury Place, ’er Ladyship won’t keep it on because you’ve left and there’s no one she trusts to keep an eye on the property, that she’d be better off mothballing it, you know, until that James comes back to England.”
“But she didn’t keep it on for me, Dad. I was just there as a sort of overseer, and I admit it was handy. Helped me to get some savings in the bank. I’m sure this is just hearsay, you know how they all talk.”
Frankie shook his head. “No, I reckon there’s something in it this time. Costs a lot of money to keep a house like that going, and even if they just close it up, it’ll save a bit.” Frankie paused to take a sip of tea. “But I don’t think it’s the money, myself. No, I think that ’er Ladyship just doesn’t want to spend much time up there in the Smoke. And she doesn’t want to be out with them types anymore, you know, them what don’t know there’s a slump on. Reckon the only people she ever ’eld in account were the ones like old Dr. Blanche, them with a bit of nouse.” Frankie pushed back his plate, then tapped the side of his head with his forefinger. “She don’t much mind what station a person is, as long as they’ve got something to say for themselves. So I reckon it’s on the cards, especially with Mrs. Crawford gone to ’er brother and ’is wife in Ipswich. They’ve already brought that Teresa down to work in the kitchen, but it’s not as if anyone wants a big staff anymore, not like it was years ago.”
“I hope no one really thinks this is all my fault,” said Maisie.
“No, not your fault, love, just all come at the same time. And like you said: People talk.” Frankie looked at the clock again. “You’re off in a minute, I know, so I’ll say my good-bye now. Better get over to the stable.”
Maisie kissed her father and waved him off, watching him walk slowly down the path. Frankie hated to see his daughter drive away, so she had expected him to leave before she departed the cottage. It was time he retired, and Maisie was grateful for the fact that Lady Rowan had assured her that the Groom’s Cottage would be her father’s home for the rest of his life; she had never forgotten that Frankie Dobbs had saved her horses from requisition in the war.
After tidying up the kitchen, Maisie packed her bag and left before nine, with the intention of reaching Hastings by ten o’clock. In the solitude of the journey down to the Sussex coast, she could consider the case of Nicholas Bassington-Hope against the cold light of day. And it was most certainly cold, and bright, for a clearing wind had swept across the south leaving blue skies but frosty ground underfoot.
Maisie liked to work methodically through a case, while at the same time allowing for intuition to speak to her, for truth to make itself known. Sometimes such knowledge would be inspired by something as simple as an unfamiliar scent on the air, or perhaps uncovering information regarding a choice made by one of the victims. And Maisie had found that the perpetrator of a crime was often every bit as much a victim. Yet this case seemed to beg for another approach, requiring her to “work both ways at once” as she had commented to her father, when he had asked her about the assignment that had brought her to Dungeness. Not that she had said anything else about the case, simply that it demanded something quite different from her.
That something different was the need to build up a picture, an image of the victim’s life without, perhaps, some of the usual information that might have been available. As she drove, she reflected upon the fact that she had not had the advantage of being present soon after the accident, so the immediate environment was clear of that energetic residue she always felt in the immediate presence of death. She thought she might in any case visit the gallery again soon, alone. Thus far she was only just beginning to fill in the outline of Nick Bassington-Hope’s life. She had first to sketch in her landscape, then, as she uncovered new information, she would add color and depth to her work.
Maisie changed gear as she decreased speed down the shallow hill into Sedlescombe. Her thoughts were gathering pace. Wasn’t this whole case like creating one of those murals, building a picture across uneven terrain, telling a story by adding detail to give life and momentum to the masterwork?
She had her broad charcoal sketch of the artist’s life, now to the finer points. First Dungeness: Had she seen something untoward or had the eerie silence of the coast at night ignited her imagination? Perhaps Nick’s carriage-window mural had teased her, led her to see something that wasn’t there, as hardworking fishermen brought their catch ashore against the unrelenting winter weather. Perhaps the lorry ahead of her on the road was not the one she had seen at the beach, or perhaps it was the same vehicle going to a warehouse or rural factory where fish were packed in ice for transit to London. Maurice had often warned her that the emotional or unsettled mind could interpret an innocent remark into a cause for argument, could change a happily anticipated event into an outing to be dreaded. And hadn’t she been unsettled by the greatcoat, by the weight of a garment that had been dragged though Flanders’s mud, with sleeves covering arms that, perhaps, had lent support and final comfort to the young officer’s dying men?
As Maisie pulled into the narrow road that led to the outer edge of the Old Town, above the slum of broken-down beamed cottages on Bourne Street, and along to the houses that commanded views across the Channel, she knew that she had a list of detailed sketches to create: the Bassington-Hope family; Nick’s friends and associates; those who collected his work and those who hated it; the mysterious lock-up. She wanted to know why her client had argued with Stig Svenson at the gallery. Looking back to that first meeting, she remembered Georgina’s observation that if someone had murdered Nick, they might also prey on her. What event, what situation gave cause for such a fear, or was it a throwaway comment meant to egg on the investigator? Was she being played for a fool by Georgina as well as by Stratton?
It was early yet, only two days had passed since the first meeting with Georgina Bassington-Hope, but now there was work to do in earnest—if not for her client, then for herself. For she was now quite convinced that even if Nick Bassington-Hope was killed in a terrible accident, and possibly as a result of his own negligence, it had given Svenson a cause to argue with his client’s executor, had resulted in a rift between the Bassington-Hope sisters and was leading to some very strange behavior by Detective Inspector Stratton.
“Maisie! By golly, I thought I would never see you again—and why, might I ask, are you sitting in your little red car staring out to sea?”
Maisie shook her head. “Oh, sorry, Andrew, I was miles away.”
Dene opened the door of the MG, took Maisie’s hand and pulled her to him as she alighted. “You’ve been avoiding me, I think,” he said teasingly, though the statement clearly begged for contradiction.
Maisie smiled, and blushed. “Of course I haven’t. Don’t be silly.” She turned her head toward the sea. “Let’s go for a walk. I have to leave at about two o’clock, you know, so let’s not waste the morning.”
For just a second Dene’s expression revealed his disappointment, then he smiled in return. “Grand idea, Maisie. Come on in while I put on my coat.” He held out his hand for Maisie to go ahead into the house. “Just a pity you aren’t staying until tomorrow.”
Ma
isie did not reply, did not turn back to offer an explanation or even an apology. And Dene did not repeat the sentiment, thinking his words had been caught on the wind and swept away, which, he considered, was probably just as well.
IT TOOK ONLY fifteen minutes to amble down to the High Street and then on to Rock-a-Nore toward the tall fishermen’s net shops at the Stade, where the couple stopped to watch a boat being winched ashore. Nets from other boats had been heaped in piles, ready to be cleaned out, mended and stowed for another day’s fishing. Though Dene was an orthopedic surgeon at the nearby All Saints’ Convalescent Hospital, he traveled to London regularly to lecture medical students on matters concerning injuries to the spine and the rehabilitation of those who are adversely affected by accidents, disease or the wounds of war. A protégé of Dr. Maurice Blanche, Dene thought that this connection in common with Maisie might promote their fledgling courtship, but after a promising start, he now wondered if he had not been rather optimistic. This morning he had opened his mouth to speak several times, hoping to open a deeper dialogue, only to remain silent.
Strolling along, Maisie and Andrew Dene watched as the womenfolk of the Old Town sold fish, winkles and whelks to winter day-trippers from London, who would take them home, a special treat with a bit of bread and dripping for their Sunday tea. Then there were those who paid a few pence for a white saucer of jellied eels or whelks to eat while leaning against the counter, a delicacy when washed down with a cup of strong tea.“Lovely plate of whelks, that.”“Have you tried them jellied eels?”“Nice day, when you get out of that wind, innit?”
All around them conversations could be heard, but little passed between the pair. Dene was about to try another tack, start another conversation, when he noticed Maisie looking across the Stade at one of the fishing boats. She was squinting, holding a hand across her forehead to shield her eyes from the light.
“What is it, Maisie? Seen one of the boys unload a fish you’d like?” quipped Dene.
She barely moved, still staring in the direction of the boat, then looked back at him. “Sorry, Andrew, what did you say? I was rather preoccupied.”
Dene replied in a clipped manner. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Maisie, you have been rather preoccupied since you arrived. What’s the matter? Can’t we even have one afternoon together without you seeing something that sparks a thought that clearly takes you back to your work—or to somewhere other than here, with me, in any case?”
Maisie did not address his comment, but instead asked a question. “Andrew, do you know the fishermen here? Are their names familiar?”
Dene suspected that Maisie had barely even heard him. “I—I…yes, I do, Maisie. I know most of the families, simply because I’m a doctor and I choose to live close to Bourne Street, where the ordinary people live.” He felt tension rise as he spoke, a mixture of annoyance at her avoiding his observation and fear that she might have used the moment to speak of her feelings—feelings he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear. He was relieved when she laced her arm through his and continued to walk in the direction of the men she’d been watching.
“Come on, let’s wander back to the tea shop. I’d love a cup before I leave for Tenterden.” With that she smiled, though Dene was quick to notice that, although she continued speaking, her attention had been drawn to three fishermen now standing alongside their boat. They were deep in discussion, backs against the wind, heads almost touching. As the couple passed by, Dene saw the men look up in unison, then turn back to resume their talk. Maisie was facing him now, as if, he thought, she did not want them to know she had seen them. They crossed the road.
“So, do you know who those men were, Andrew?”
“Look, what’s going on, Maisie? I know it’s none of my business, but—”
“Just their names, Andrew.”
Dene sighed, not for the first time today. “I don’t know the one in the middle with the red ponytail, but the other two are brothers. The Drapers: Rowland and Tom. They run Misty Rose, the boat they were all leaning against.”
Maisie walked faster now, unentwined her arm and faced Dene again. “Andrew, do you know anything about smuggling along the coast?”
Dene laughed, shaking his head as they reached the tea shop. “Oh, the things you ask, Maisie, the things you ask.” Placing coins on the counter for two cups of tea, Dene waited until they were served and had secured two seats at a table before replying. “Of course, smuggling has flourished along the coast from the Middle Ages, you know. Once upon a time it was cloth, fine wool or silk. Spice was valuable enough to be smuggled, then alcohol or even the fruits of piracy. It’s all a bit cloak-and-dagger and Dr. Syn-ish.”
“Dr. Syn?”
Dene took a sip of his tea before replying. “You should read a few more adventure stories, Maisie, then perhaps you wouldn’t look for trouble.” He paused to see if she would rise to the bait, but she continued to listen, without comment. “Dr. Syn, the Romney Marsh vicar and smuggler—a tale of devil riders and witches, me ’earties!” He mimicked the voice of a pantomime pirate and was delighted when Maisie laughed at his joke, but she soon became serious again.
“And what about now? What do they smuggle now?”
Dene leaned back. “Oh, I don’t know if there is smuggling nowadays, Maisie. Of course, there’s talk that those caves up on the cliffs all lead to tunnels that in turn wind their way into Old Town cottage cellars—so you know the smuggling went on, and they had a way out with the spoils, so to speak.”
Maisie was thoughtful. “But if you had to hazard a guess, what do you think people might smuggle, if they could?”
Dene shook his head, and shrugged. “I really don’t know. I mean, I suppose people smuggle things that are hard to get, and that you can get a good price for. I’m not sure that means alcohol anymore, or spices, or silks and wools.” He thought for a moment. “People probably smuggle things for different reasons….” He paused, shaking his head. “Now you’ve got me at it, Maisie. Speculating over something of little consequence.” It was Dene’s turn to consult his watch. “You’d better be getting on if you want to arrive at your appointment in Tenterden on time.”
They reached the MG in silence. Maisie turned to Dene before taking her seat and starting the engine. “I’m sorry, Andrew. I don’t seem to be able to give you what you want, do I?” She looked into his eyes, as if to gauge the effect of her admission, her assessment of their situation.
“We’re probably the kind of people who end up wanting the same thing at different times.” He smiled, though as his shoulders sagged and he looked down at the ground, it was the smile of a man resigned to a situation, rather than one who knew how he might change it.
Maisie touched his cheek with her hand but did not kiss him. It was just as she was about to drive away, her face framed in the side window of the motor car, that Dene leaned down and kissed her. He drew back, then spoke again. “Oh, and about those smugglers—I would imagine that the only reason for smuggling now is if someone is prepared to pay handsomely for something they desire, something that’s hard or impossible to get here. There are people who will do almost anything for something they really want, you know.” Dene patted the roof of the car as he stepped back to watch Maisie drive off.
THERE ARE PEOPLE who will do almost anything for something they really want, you know. Maisie repeated the words as she drove toward Tenterden. The third man on the beach, the one Dene didn’t know, was Amos White, the Dungeness fisherman. Maisie wondered whether it was usual for the fishermen to meet in this way. Of course, it must be. Surely the fishermen all know one another, they fish the same territory, probably trade together. But they had seen her, had found it necessary to comment to one another as she passed. Though they whispered, the tension in their bodies, the way they clustered as if to protect a secret, all served to speak directly to Maisie, as if they had uttered their very thoughts to her, or shouted their conversation above the wind. Yes, she had seen them all before, and so had Nick Bas
sington-Hope. She knew that now.
THE SKY HAD become lightly overcast by the time Maisie reached Tenterden, but instead of being a portent for rain, the cloud cover shimmered, backlit by a low sun that served to render the fields greener, the bare trees more stark against their surroundings. The conditions were ideal for ice on the roads, perhaps snow later. She had allowed more than enough time to drive from Hastings and had enjoyed a clear journey, so there would now be an opportunity to complete a couple of errands. At the florist she bought a small bouquet of flowers for Mrs. Bassington-Hope. Blooms were scarce at this time of year, but greenhouse flowers from the Channel Islands of Jersey and Guernsey were available, though expensive. As she left the florist, Maisie wondered how long the shop might remain in business, as expenditure on items such as flowers was becoming increasingly difficult for everyone—not that the poor ever had money for frivolous extras.
The local bookshop was another business run from premises with limited space. She was curious to see a copy of Dr. Syn, the book mentioned by Andrew Dene. There were two copies in stock, and Maisie settled into a chair to read the first few pages. If the novel had in some way inspired the artist, Maisie wanted to know more about the story. Before leaving the shop, she made a notation or two on an index card, then slipped it into her shoulder bag as she approached the bookseller to thank him for allowing her to look at the book.
“Maisie!” Georgina Bassington-Hope waved to Maisie when she saw her pull up at the station, then walked over to the passenger side of the MG, opened the door and sat down. “I cajoled Nolly into giving me a lift into town. She had to run a few errands, you know, visit the farm tenants, and so on, but if I ask a favor of her, she acts as if I’ve petitioned her to go in and feed herself to the lions.”
Maisie checked the road, then pulled out.
“No, don’t let’s go yet, I’d like to have a word first.”
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