Messenger of Truth (27 page)

Quentin shook his head. “The point is, Williams, that we aren’t doing this anymore. It was more or less straightforward until you came along, and now it isn’t. Makes it tricky for everyone—especially our friends in Germany and France.”

“Well, I ain’t got the time to chin-wag about this with you boys. But I’ll be in touch. Oh, and here’s another little something, just for your trouble.” Williams took a roll of banknotes from his pocket and threw it to Duncan. “Thanking you.” He smiled, nodded to his driver, and turned as if to go. Then he looked back. “And if I was you, I wouldn’t leave it long before you move this little lot. Never know who might be watching you, you don’t.”

The two men left in the lorry, which rumbled away along the road. Duncan and Quentin remained in the barn a moment longer.

Quentin became agitated. “Damn that stupid Harry. And damn Nick for telling him about what we were doing. He had no right—”

“All right!” Duncan held up a hand. “The fact is that he did talk, and Harry got us into this. Now we have to get out of it. Bloody shame that we can’t help out Martin and Etienne and their people any longer though.” He sighed. “Anyway, let’s pack up, and get out of here.”

Maisie watched as they repacked the opened crates and made a mental note of the black numerals used for some sort of identification. Once the loading up was completed, the men were quick to depart. The van was secured and Duncan stood by the doors while Quentin reversed out of the barn. The doors were locked again, though Maisie did not move until she was sure she could no longer hear the van’s engine.

EASING HER WAY
down the wooden staircase, she brushed hay from her clothes and began to step into the area where the movement of crates and the handover of other contraband had taken place. She had managed to catch a glimpse of the work as it was uncovered by the men, and though the light was insufficient for identification, she knew that even if it was not the work of a venerable master, the piece was clearly valuable. But who owned it? And if bringing the piece into the country wasn’t completely illegal—she had no proof, but the conversation between Duncan and Quentin suggested something other than acquisition of art for financial gain—why was it being brought into the country at all?

Maisie took an index card from her knapsack and made a note of the identification markings she’d observed on the containers.
Did the markings indicate ownership or possibly value? Could they be a clue to a route from the point of departure until the container reached its final destination?
She considered these questions while making additional notes about the rough dimensions of each container. It was as she began to pack away her pencil and notes, that she ceased all movement, barely daring to breathe. Voices outside became louder, so she hurried toward the stairs again, but was only halfway up when the doors flew open and a long-haired Alsatian dog burst through. He made a beeline for Maisie, though the men who came behind the beast could not see his quarry. For her part, Maisie became still and silent, sitting down on the middle step and closing her eyes. She relaxed every muscle, as if to meditate, calming her mind and body so that she felt no fear. The bounding dog halted his gallop. Instead he stood before her, as if weighing instinct against training, then lay down at her feet, subdued. She used the moment to her advantage, slipping the index cards into the gap between two beams.

The panting dog was soon joined by a man. “And what have we here, Brutus?”

Another man, clearly more senior given his manner and tone of voice, was close behind. He was dressed completely in black, with a black pullover and cap, black trousers and black leather gloves. In fact, as other men came into the barn, Maisie noticed that they were all dressed for stealth at nightfall, with two men in uniform, but it was not the uniform of the police. She said nothing, though she recognized the second man immediately. He was the man who had been at the bar in the nightclub where Harry Bassington-Hope was appearing, who’d left to follow Stig Svenson and Randolph Bradley. She was beginning to understand who he was and knew that his powers far exceeded those of the police.

“If you’re mixed up with these little shenanigans, Miss Dobbs, you should be wrapping a worried look across your face.”

Maisie stood up, determined not to show any surprise that her name was known to the man. As she spoke, she reached down to rub the dog’s ear. “I am not involved in
these little shenanigans,
though, like you, I was curious to know what was going on here.”

“Jenkins!” The man called over his shoulder to a colleague, one of the men currently searching the barn. “Escort this young lady to HQ for questioning.” He turned back to Maisie and, as if he had forgotten something, addressed Jenkins again. “Oh, and while you’re about it, get this bloody useless specimen of a dog out of my sight and back into the training kennels. My wife’s Jack Russell’s got more gumption than this lug. Brutus, my eye!”

Maisie was silent while being escorted to a waiting motor car. It would not have done any good to complain about lack of warrants or any other required documentation. The powers of Customs and Excise officers were well known and predated the founding of the police. As Maisie knew well, they were of prime importance to the government, having been founded in times when all manner of revenue was crucial to a country saddled with outstanding war debts.

The officer ensured that she was seated securely, if not comfortably, in the van.

“Excuse me, sir, will you be able to bring me back here to collect my motor car?”

The man smiled, his grin eerie in flashes of light shed by torches and the headlamps of other vehicles. “The little red motor? No need, miss. We’ve already got an officer taking it in for you.”

“I see.” Maisie sat back in the van and closed her eyes. Even if she did not sleep, she must regain some energy for the inquisition that surely awaited her. She knew she would have to appear to be giving information, though she would, she hoped, with some subtlety be seeking facts to add to those already gathered. And she knew she would have to be very, very careful. Without a doubt these men were operating independently of Stratton and Vance, who were probably themselves being manipulated with some dexterity, so that their investigation did not interfere with that of the Customs and Excise. Maisie smiled. She had to be the one to pull the strings in the hours ahead.

Maisie was surprised. Instead of being led into a bleak whitewashed cell for questioning, she was shown into a comfortable sitting room where she was served tea and plain arrowroot biscuits. She was tired, which was hardly surprising, for it was now past three in the morning. Anticipating a long wait, she removed her shoes and lay down on the settee, pulling a cushion under her head for comfort.

“Nice little forty winks, miss?”

Maisie awoke with a start, as an officer touched her shoulder.

“Time to see the boss, if you don’t mind.”

She kept her silence as she leaned over to claim her shoes. Pushing her feet into the cold, mud-encrusted leather, she took time to tie her laces before standing to follow the officer, who was not wearing a uniform.

“Ah, Miss Dobbs, do come in.” The man held out his hand toward a chair, then flicked open a file from which he took several sheets of paper. “Now then, a few questions for you, then, all being well, we can let you go.”

“Where’s my motor car?”

“Safe as houses. Just needed to give it a bit of a once-over. Nice little motor car, cost a young woman like you a bob or two.”

Maisie did not rise to the bait, though she inclined her head and smiled at the man in front of her, who was clearly a senior officer. She lost no time, however, in demonstrating her knowledge of the department’s reach.

“I believe it’s not only my car that has been the subject of one of your once-overs, Mr….?”

“Tucker. The name is Tucker.” The man paused, gauging his response. “And you mean your office?”

“Yes, my office. Your men broke in and turned over my records with little consideration for my property.”

“Let’s just say that you were keeping company with persons who were subject to investigation. My officers and I decided that in the interests of the country, it was a good idea to see what you’d gathered, and we had to be quick about it. As you know, I do not have to explain myself to you.”

“You might have asked, instead of costing me a new lock.”

“And we might not.” He referred to his notes again and pulled a wad of folded paper from the file. “I think we should start with this, don’t you, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie made no sudden move toward the desk; instead she leaned back in the hard wooden chair, just enough to underscore her detachment from the outcome of the questioning. She didn’t want this man to think she was concerned.

“I was thinking, while being brought here, that I might see that particular item again today.”

“So, what is it?” The man snapped.

Maisie cleared her throat.
Good, he’s just a little off balance.
“It’s what my assistant and I call a ‘case map.’ Clearly you have knowledge of my profession, and why I might want to keep track of clues uncovered and items of evidence that might contribute to the conclusion of my work on a given case.” Maisie paused deliberately to exhibit an ease as she answered the questions put to her. “We draw up a chart where we ensure that every single aspect of our investigation is available to us in this graphic form. Pictures and shapes, even if constructed with words, can tell us more than just talking back and forth, though I think a blend of such conjecture always works very well—don’t you, Mr. Tucker?”

The man was silent for a moment or two. “And what does this map tell you—what have your little patterns led you to?”

“I haven’t finished yet,” she countered with an edge to her voice, which led to more fidgeting on the man’s part. Her interrogator clearly wasn’t used to the sense that control of a conversation was slipping from his grasp.

“Right then, what about the boys down in Dungeness?”

“What about them?”

“What do you know, Miss Dobbs, about their activities on dark and windless nights?”

“I should say you know more than I, Mr. Tucker.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I was merely interested in the two men, given their relationship with Mr. Bassington-Hope—Nicholas, not Harry, that is. You know that I was retained by his sister simply to corroborate the police findings, that his death was an accident.”

“Are you aware what was going on in Dungeness?”

“Smuggling.”

“Of course it’s smuggling—don’t be deliberately obtuse with me, Miss Dobbs.”

“Far from being obtuse, I am as in the dark as you, Mr. Tucker. If you must know, I think Duncan Haywood and Quentin Trayner are a long way from being seasoned smugglers, and embarked upon the operation with only the best of intentions. However, the underworld element clearly found a means of using the situation to their advantage.”

“You know about the diamonds, then?”

“I guessed.” Maisie leaned forward. “Now, how long have you been watching them?”

Tucker threw his pen onto the desk, splattering ink across the edge of the manila folder. “About three months—and you keep this under your hat, mind. I’ve looked into who you are, and I know which side you’re on, though I wish you’d keep your nose out of it. I’m not interested in these little bits and pieces of art coming across. For crying out loud, they might as well have sent them via any aboveboard carterage firm, though I am sure the French and German authorities would have their noses put well out of joint if they knew.” He gave a cynical half laugh. “No, we’re after what you call the ‘underworld element,’ though we’re waiting to catch the blighters red-handed. But we’ve been too slow about it.” He closed the file.

“So, what do you know about the paintings?”

Tucker smiled. “Now it’s my turn, Miss Dobbs—you know very well what the importation of the paintings is all about. You don’t need me to tell you.”

Now calmer, he explained that his interest was not in the artists, but in those who had taken advantage of the wayward Harry and his brother. For her part, Maisie explained that Nick would have done anything to keep Harry safe—even if it meant submitting to the demands of criminals. Tucker agreed, nodding as she spoke, whereupon Maisie shared her knowledge of the diamond smuggling operation. When it was clear that there was nothing more to be gained by detaining her, she was allowed to leave.

Collecting her motor car, she returned to Dungeness. It was all falling into place. Soon every single clue would be set on the case map she carried in her head, the one that no one could steal. She often thought it was like a child’s game in a coloring book, where tracing a line between dots on a page would reveal a picture to be filled in with crayons or paint. But one had to be careful to ensure that each dot was connected in the correct sequence, or the completed image might bring to mind something else altogether.

MAISIE HAD NO
fear of lighting the fire and warming water on the stove in Nick’s cottage. If she were seen, it was of little import now. The former railway carriage was soon warm, and as the kettle came to the boil, Maisie used a fork to toast her remaining sandwiches in front of the open stove. Once she had eaten, soothed by food and hot tea, fatigue enveloped her again, and she knew that, before she embarked upon the several tasks she wanted to complete prior to leaving the cottage for the last time, she must sleep. The blinds had remained closed against a winter sun just beginning its climb into the now clear coastal sky, so all Maisie had to do was draw back the counterpane and curl into Nick Bassington-Hope’s bed.

It was past ten when she awoke, rested and ready to set out on her quest to discover the location of the lock-up, for she was convinced that she would find the information she wanted here, in the artist’s home. Using the china jug from Nick’s dressing room, she brought water from the barrel outside the back door, shivering as she splashed her face and washed her body. The change of clothes in her leather case was welcome and would be more appropriate than her current attire for the return visit to Bassington Place. Refreshed, she was ready for her search, and stepped back into the studio.

The image that had presented itself to her on the previous visit, a slip of paper hidden somewhere in the recesses of the chair, had nagged at Maisie. From her earliest lessons with Maurice she had been taught to trust her intuition. She was blessed—and sometimes, she thought, cursed—with a keenness of insight. Trust and skill had enhanced her ability to see where others were blind, and confidence in herself and others had led her time and time again to that which she was seeking.

Removing cushions from the chair, she pushed her hands deep into the edges of the upholstered seat. Her fingers scraped against the wooden frame and, though she felt her knuckles grow raw, still she searched with her fingers. Another coin, some crumbs, a pen and a cork.
Blast!
Her fingers would only stretch so far. Frustrated, Maisie heaved the chair over with a thud. Linen had been stretched across the bottom of the chair to cover the frame and finish the piece. Though old and stained, and with a couple of small tears, the square of fabric had remained in good condition, so nothing that had fallen down into the chair could have been lost. Slipping her finger into one of the tears, she ripped the fabric back to reveal even more lost trinkets. There was a collection of dusty coins, a paintbrush—she marveled at how it must have worked its way into the base of the chair—and another pen. She pulled the linen off completely and cast the torch’s beam deep inside the skeleton of the chair. There was nothing there. She began to lower the chair, but her hands were moist with perspiration from the effort of holding up its weight. The chair began to slip, and with a sudden thud, landed on the wooden floorboards and bounced up again.

“Damn!” said Maisie, in anger as well as shock, for the last thing she wanted to do was to damage the carriage and the weight of the chair had caused a floorboard to push up. “Oh, that’s all I need!” She knelt to inspect the splintered floorboard, but as she leaned closer, she realized that the piece of wood had become dislodged because it wasn’t a full-length floorboard but a shorter fragment that was already loose. She hadn’t noticed it before, because it was covered by the chair. Taking hold of the torch, she shone the light into the dark narrow recess below. When she reached in, her fingers brushed against a piece of paper. She extended her hand farther, and, between finger and thumb, pulled out an envelope of some weight.

Sitting back, Maisie turned the envelope and drew the torch across to reveal the words
FOR GEORGINA
. She bit her lip, considering the question of integrity, then shook her head and opened the envelope. A key wrapped in a piece of paper fell out, with an address in southeast London. She allowed her hands to drop and breathed out a deep sigh.
Intuition was all very well, but luck held the trump card!

After completing a quick repair of the floorboard and setting the chair on top so that the damage was not immediately visible, Maisie packed up her belongings. For the last time, she checked the cottage to ensure that she had left it as she had found it. It was just as she was about to leave, her hand on the doorknob, that she set down her bags and returned to the wardrobe in the artist’s dressing room. There was no logical explanation for her actions, and she preferred not to question what it was that inspired her to do such a thing, but she opened the wardrobe and pulled out the army greatcoat. With the sound of waves crashing onto the beach outside, and gulls whooping overhead, Maisie buried her head in the folds of rough wool, breathing in the musty smell that took her back to another time and place.

There was much she understood about Nick Bassington-Hope, even though they had never met. Having lived through death, he had discovered life again, but with war’s horror still so present, he had searched for peace of mind, finding hope amid grand landscapes, and in the rhythm of life unfolding in nature. She had seen the heavy hand of anger in his work immediately following the war. But later, when he had achieved the equilibrium he’d traveled so far to find, he had surely been able to return with a new dexterity, a lighter touch, a broader view. Maisie understood that Nick had seen his message clearly, that maturity had provided him not only with skill but with insight, and that he had been able to touch the canvas with his most potent images but held his message close until the work was complete. And though she had never met Nick Bassington-Hope, she knew that this case, like so many before, contained a gift, a lesson that she would draw to her as surely as the coat she now held to her heart.

Carefully replacing the garment in the wardrobe, Maisie smiled. She patted the material one last time, acknowledging an essence caught in each thread, as if the fibers had absorbed every feeling, every sensation experienced by the owner in a time of war.

NOLLY BASSINGTON-HOPE WAS
surprised but nevertheless extended a warm welcome to Maisie when she arrived at the house unannounced. She explained that her mother and father were out walking, sketchbooks in hand, making the most of a bright day, even though the cold snap continued.

“They may be getting on a bit, but it’s their habit, and the walk does them good. They’ll be back soon.” She showed Maisie into the drawing room, then excused herself for a moment to speak to the staff.