Messenger of Truth (14 page)

Maisie was still smiling as she searched for her hostess to thank and say goodnight before leaving. The hall was quiet and empty as Maisie turned the corner, in time to hear raised voices coming from a room off to the side. She had glimpsed into the room as she entered the flat, and had seen the journalist’s book-lined sanctuary. Now, as she crept closer, she heard Georgina’s voice, followed by that of her younger brother.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Georgie, you really are a fusspot. In fact, you’re getting more like Nolly every bloody day.”

“If asking you what in heaven’s name you think you’re doing is making me like Nolly, then so be it. Do you think I can keep handing over more money to pay off your debts?!”

“Come on, Georgie. You’re always flush and this
is
a matter of life and death.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Harry.” As Georgina spoke, Maisie heard paper rustle. “There you are. It’s all I can let you have at the moment.”

There was a pause in the conversation, then Harry Bassington-Hope spoke again. “Nick might have nagged the stuffing out of me, but there was always a bit more in my pocket after the upbraiding.”

“Well, I’m not Nick! The least you could do is say thank you.”

Maisie heard the already ajar door open wider and stepped back so that when she retreated into the hall, there would be no suspicion raised that she had heard the exchange. The front door slammed behind Harry Bassington-Hope, who had not even bid his sister good night.

“Georgina, I’m leaving now, I—”

“Must you go?” Georgina appeared tired, but in the manner of the true hostess began the pretense of being put out by the departure of her guest. As she spoke, she looked over Maisie’s shoulder and smiled in the direction of another guest, adding, “In a moment, Malcolm.” She turned back to Maisie. “Well, I hope you had a good evening, Maisie, dear.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, indeed, it was. I was rather surprised to see Sir Oswald Mosley here—do you know him?”

“My dear, everyone who’s anyone knows Oswald. Future PM, just you watch.”

“What do you think of him?”

Georgina shrugged her shoulders, as if there really was no other answer than the one she was about to give. “I think he’s a brilliant politician, an amazing man. We’re lucky to have his like among us—it was quite a coup, having him come this evening. Everyone wants him at their parties.”

Nodding again, Maisie changed the subject. “I’d like us to confer tomorrow morning as early as possible. I have some more questions for you, and there are aspects of the case I wish to discuss.”

“Right you are, but let’s hope you don’t mean too early. How about ten?”

“Of course. Can you come to my office?”

“All right. Ten o’clock at your office.”

Maisie smiled. “Thank you for inviting me to the party.”

Georgina Bassington-Hope moved forward and pressed her cheek to Maisie’s, then looked around to ensure they were alone. “Maisie, I’m so glad you came. I know it probably seems heartless, having a party when someone you love has died, but…”

Maisie nodded. “It’s all right, Georgina, you don’t have to explain. I do understand.” She paused, placing her hand briefly on the woman’s upper arm to reassure her. “Your life must go on. I am sure Nick would approve—everyone’s having a wonderful time and I have enjoyed myself thoroughly.”

Georgina nodded, assured Maisie that she would see her in the morning, then turned aside to indicate to the butler that her guest was leaving. As Maisie departed, she heard Georgina in the distance say, “Not leaving so soon, Oswald?”

MAISIE SLIPPED INTO
the driver’s seat of the MG and sighed. Despite earlier misgivings that had remained uppermost in her mind, she had seen a vulnerability in Georgina Bassington-Hope and had allowed it to touch her. She was still on her guard, but that did not preclude the compassion she felt for her client when she overheard the conversation with manipulative Harry Bassington-Hope. She understood that the truths that lay between black and white, in the gray areas of experience, were never cut and dried, and though she did not trust Georgina—doubting her in some way she had yet to identify—she had always tried to see the humanity in others.

She started the motor, turned on the lights and pulled out into the street. The smog was even thicker, if that were possible, and once again rendered any speed in excess of a crawl dangerous.

Leaning forward as she drove, Maisie stopped at the junction with the Embankment before turning right to continue her journey. It was then that she saw an unexpected movement by the river wall, an activity that sparked her suspicion and caused her to pull over and turn off the MG’s lights. She could barely ascertain what was happening, so thick was the air around her. In the murky light shed by gas lamps, she saw two men talking to a third man who had his back to the wall. One of the first two poked the third man repeatedly on the shoulder, until he reached into his pocket and pulled out something that he passed to the second man. The first man poked him again, whereupon he and the second man stepped into a waiting motor car and drove off. The man with his back against the wall took a few moments to compose himself—he also seemed rather drunk—then he turned and ambled off along the Embankment, as if he were not entirely sure where he was going. The man was Harry Bassington-Hope.

At first, Maisie thought she should offer him a lift, but then decided against such a move. She did not want him to consider that she might have seen what had just transpired, the passing on of money taken from his sister. Even drunks have memories, if unreliable. And she thought that he was probably safe now, seeing as the piper had been paid. But who was the piper? Experience informed her that such men as those encountered by Georgina’s younger brother were usually servants to one who was much more powerful, and certainly the conversation she overheard earlier indicated that Nick had baled out his brother before.

Maisie parked in her customary place, close to her flat. As she closed and locked the door, she smiled, remembering the dance, and took one or two steps in rhythm to the rag she could still hear ringing in her ears. But that smile soon evaporated. She stopped to listen, to pay attention to the physical sensation of fear that at once enveloped her, then continued walking. She considered that the sensation might be associated with the scene she had witnessed alongside the Embankment and entertained the possibility that the one to whom Harry Bassington-Hope was indebted might have previously approached Nick directly. Or, if he had not approached him, it was even more likely that he tried to find a weakness he could exploit. She considered the driver of the motor car that had trailed the younger Bassington-Hope to his sister’s party, and it occurred to her that she had already discovered the source of Nick’s Achilles’ heel. It was therefore crucial that she speak to his friends as soon as possible.

With the feeling of dread increasing as she approached the door, Maisie took the flat key from her shoulder bag, then looked toward the brightly illuminated center stairway and the silhouette of a man pacing back and forth. Now she understood the root of her dread. The appearance of Billy Beale waiting for her late on a Sunday night could mean only one thing.

Driving at what amounted to breakneck speed, considering that she could barely see three feet beyond the front of the motor car, Maisie was so intent upon getting to Billy’s house that she took chances she would never otherwise have taken. Barely missing a horse and cart, the carriage lanterns dim as the man made his way home, she turned into Billy’s street with a screech that must have given half the neighborhood cause to believe the police themselves had come in search of criminals. It was a neighborhood where to see a motor car was still a rarity, and where residents lived in damp, cramped conditions, most with no running water, and windows that had to be shut tight against the fetid air that came up from the docks.

Billy’s wife stood at the already open door as Maisie leapt from the MG, reached behind the seat for what she called her “medicine bag” and rushed into the house.

“We’ve got her downstairs, Miss Dobbs.” Doreen Beale had been crying but followed Maisie as she made her way along the narrow passage through to the kitchen at the back of the house. A pregnant woman sat holding Lizzie Beale, who was whimpering and, it seemed as her eyes rolled back, was on the brink of unconsciousness.

“Clear the table, and set a blanket and sheet on it for me—and Billy, bring over that lamp so that I can see her.” Maisie reached for Lizzie, cradling her in one arm as she pulled open the shawl that swaddled her, and then the buttons on her flannel nightdress. “She’s burning up and fighting to breathe—and you say you couldn’t find the nurse or the doctor?”

Billy shook his head as Doreen laid out a blanket across the table and topped it with a clean sheet. Maisie set Lizzie down.

“No, Miss,” replied Billy. “And every time we tried to pick Lizzie up, she screamed, so I knew we’d never get ’er to the ’ospital, that’s if they would take the nipper.” He paused, shaking his head. “The ’ospitals might be run by the council now, but it don’t seem to ’ave changed much, not really.”

Maisie nodded, wishing that one of Maurice’s clinics were nearby. She reached into the bag that Billy had set on a chair next to her and pulled out a white cotton mask that she placed over her nose and mouth, then secured with ties knotted behind her head. She reached into the bag again and took out a thermometer, along with a wooden speculum that she would use to depress Lizzie’s tongue. She also unpacked a small, narrow pan with a handle at each end, which she set on the table and filled with hydrogen peroxide, a makeshift form of disinfection. Taking up the thermometer, she shook it a couple of times before placing it between the soft folds of skin under Lizzie’s armpit. Then, leaning closer to Lizzie’s face, she lifted each eyelid and studied the child’s eyes. She shook her head, gently opening the cherry-red lips a little wider, and pressed down on Lizzie’s tongue.

“Closer with the light, Billy.”

Billy leaned over, holding the oil lamp close with both hands.

“She’s been sick for about four or five days now, hasn’t she?” Maisie removed the instrument, and set it down on the table, running her hand across Lizzie’s forehead as she did so, then reached for the thermometer, leaning toward the light to study the result.

Billy and his wife nodded together, then Doreen spoke. “At first we thought she was getting better, then she started to get worse, and now this.” She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and leaned against Billy. “What do you think’s wrong with her, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie looked up. “She has diphtheria, Doreen. The tell-tale thick gray membrane has formed across her throat, she has severe inflammation of the tonsils and adenoids, she has a temperature like a furnace and she must be taken to the fever hospital immediately. There is absolutely no time to lose when the disease has progressed this far.” She turned to Billy. “If I’m right, I think the nearest is in Stockwell. If we take her to another hospital, we will most certainly be turned away, money or no money. But we must act immediately. Doreen, come with me, we’ll go now. I have room for only one passenger, and you’re the child’s mother. We’ll use this sheet and blanket to wrap her.” She took off her mask and went to the sink to rinse the instruments, which she wrapped in a clean cotton towel before replacing them in her bag. “Now, here’s the important thing: You have got to disinfect this whole house. Normally I would say to burn the sheets, but linen doesn’t come cheap, so take all the sheets and blankets and boil them in the copper—and I mean all of them and I mean a rolling boil with disinfectant. As soon as you can, get all the children up and into a tin bath with disinfectant. Scrub everything, Billy, everything. Scrub yourselves, the children, everything and everyone. Throw away any milk in the larder. Keep the windows closed against that air out there. Leave no stone unturned. Boil the children’s clothes. You’ve got four more children in this house, and they’re all at risk. Make sure they’ve all got handkerchiefs, and check for cuts, which you must cover with a clean dressing. Here—” She took a roll of paper-wrapped bandage from her bag. “Children get cuts and you don’t even know about them, but it’s a way to spread the disease. You’ll probably have the inspector around tomorrow in any case, and they may take them in as a precaution. Now, we can’t spare any more time.” She gathered her belongings, but stopped to issue one last instruction, directed at Doreen’s pregnant sister, who was already banking up the fire to heat the water. “You must be doubly careful, madam.” She took a clean mask out of her bag. “This may be overdoing it, but please wear this whenever you are with the children. At least until they have all been examined.”

It was almost midnight when Maisie sped off once again, this time balancing regard for the comfort of her passengers with the need to get Lizzie to the fever hospital. She had not said as much to Billy and his wife, but Maisie knew only too well that Lizzie’s chances of clinging to life would have increased greatly had she been admitted to hospital three days ago. Each day without medical care following onset of the disease increased the mortality rate in young children. The knowledge that one in five children left untreated at five days after first signs of sickness would die caused Maisie to press down on the accelerator. Parking the car in front of the hospital, Maisie put her arm around Doreen’s shoulders as they rushed into the dour Victorian building. A doctor was summoned and Maisie gave an immediate diagnosis and details of symptoms and Lizzie Beale was taken away. The women were instructed to remain in the waiting room until the doctor came out to give a prognosis, though Maisie suspected it would be a long wait, for she knew that the child was bound for the operating theater, where she would be given injections of antitoxin to protect her vital organs from the vicious disease. Without doubt, she would have a tracheotomy to clear the upper airway obstruction, plus removal of her tonsils and adenoids. Would her little heart be able to bear such a dangerous operation?

“Oh, my precious Lizzie. My precious girl.” Doreen Beale broke down in Maisie’s arms, tears coursing down her face. “We could’ve sold something, pawned my wedding ring. I blame myself, I should’ve said to Billy, ‘Sell my ring.’ I wish I had, I wish I had known. I didn’t think.” Her heaving sobs seemed to crush her chest, such was the grief and self-recrimination.

“Don’t blame yourself, Doreen, you mustn’t. It’s not your fault. Some children don’t display the usual signs until the disease has progressed. It must have looked just like a cold to start with.” As she clutched the woman to her, she concentrated on pouring strength into the mother who would need every ounce of resolve in the hours and, if they were fortunate, days ahead. It had been a long evening, and as they stood in the hospital waiting room, Maisie thought back to the party, to those who would never need to think twice about money to help a sick child, or adult, for that matter. Though she had taken an instant dislike to him, she could see why the man whom Georgina predicted would one day be prime minister had begun to appeal to both rich and poor alike. He promised a government that would look after its own first. He promised hope. And the people desperately needed reason to hope.

Maisie’s thoughts turned to Billy. “Look, Doreen, Billy should be here with you and Lizzie. The doctor will be out as soon as he has some news, and after he’s seen you, they’ll likely advise you to leave. I’ll go and get Billy, and”—she reached into her shoulder bag—“here’s the money for a taxi-cab home.”

Doreen began to object, but Maisie countered immediately. “Please, Doreen, take it. I’m too tired to argue my point, and you’re too worn out to be proud.”

The woman nodded, still sobbing, and Maisie left.

Later, having dropped Billy at the hospital, with an instruction to send word if there was anything else she could do, Maisie returned home. The cold silence of the drawing room barely touched her, for she was as numb now as she had ever been when faced with the prospect of death. She had blamed herself all the way home: She should have insisted on coming to see Lizzie earlier. But now, even in her own home, and even from a distance of some miles, she was not without resources. There was a part she could play to help the little girl win her fight for life. She did not bother to remove her coat, but took her place in one of the armchairs and closed her eyes. With her feet square on the ground, her hands resting on her lap, she allowed herself to descend into a deep meditation, as she had been taught by the wise man Khan, and as he had been taught by his elders before him. She sought the timeless state where, according to her teacher, everything was possible.

Maisie had been so full of doubt in earlier days, wondering what this strange practice was supposed to do, and why Dr. Blanche took her to receive instruction in something so embarrassing, so seemingly useless. But later, in her darkest hours, the worth of those lessons was proven to her time and time again, and she had come to hold the word of her teacher in high account. Opening her mind, she imagined the sweet face of Lizzie Beale, the mop of curls, her chuckle when amused, the rosy cheeks and red, red sweetheart lips. She saw her in the hospital and began to speak to the child who was in another part of London. She told Lizzie that her heart was strong, that she could rest now, and that when she awoke, she would be well again. Maisie imagined the child giggling in her bed, her mother and father at her side. And before she opened her eyes, and brought her consciousness back to the room, she petitioned the little Lizzie Beale of her imagination to choose life.

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?