Messenger of Truth (8 page)

Maisie placed a half-eaten crust on her plate. “I have seen the wall against which the scaffolding was positioned and it appeared that there were anchors in place. I’m not an expert at this sort of thing, but I would have thought that, being an artist, he would have been used to setting up all sorts of exhibits, and, seeing as he worked on fairly large pieces, of actually getting at the canvas to paint. I mean, the man wasn’t a fool, he’d been a soldier, had a certain dexterity—”

Stratton shook his head. “That artistic temperament—seen it a lot in my time. He was a soldier over thirteen years ago now, so I am dubious about any lingering practicality that might have been drilled into him at the time. And he was fiercely secretive about his work—as you probably know, they can’t even find half of it! No, for his own reasons, he wanted to do everything himself, which led to his death.”

“And that brings me back to my original purpose for wanting to see you: Do you think there might be even the merest scrap of merit in Miss Bassington-Hope’s belief that her brother was the victim of a crime?”

Stratton sipped again from his cup. Maisie smiled, knowingly.
He’s playing for time.

“To tell you the truth, I’m only too glad she came to you, otherwise she would be nipping at my heels. That woman is one of those terrierlike people who, once they have something to chew on, simply do not let go. I should never have been assigned to go to the scene of the accident in the first place, as it was—to me—clearly not a place where a crime had taken place.” Stratton sighed. “She did not accept that her brother was the victim of his own ineptitude and seemed set to make a nuisance of herself, just like she did in the war.”

“But I thought she did something quite brave in the war—after all, it was a risk to do even half of the things she did in order to obtain background information for her dispatches.”

“Oh, dear, Miss Dobbs, is this an old Girton girl camaraderie? I do hope you haven’t fallen under the spell of the charismatic Georgie Bassington-Hope, I—”

“Old Girton girl camaraderie? Charismatic? I’m disappointed in you, Inspector.”

“It was a figure of speech. She uses her buoyant charm to get what she wants, even if that thing she wants is access to dangerous places she has no right to even contemplate entering—and all to write a story.”

Maisie raised an eyebrow. “To write the truth.”

Stratton shook his head. “She was a troublemaker, her ‘stories’ undermined the government’s decision to—”

“But hadn’t the government undermined—”

“Miss Dobbs, I—”

“Detective Inspector Stratton, if I am to keep Georgina Bassington-Hope out of your way, to effectively pick up your laundry, then wash and fold it, I should say you owe me a bit more than fifteen minutes in a third-rate caff on Oxford Street.” Though she noticed that Stratton’s cheeks had become flushed, she continued. “I have a few questions for
you
, if you don’t mind.”

Stratton looked around at the counter. “I think they’ve just brewed up a fresh urn of tea. Another cup?”

Maisie nodded. Stratton picked up the cups and walked to the counter. She checked her watch, noting that if she left London by half past eleven, she could feasibly be in Dungeness by half past two. An hour or so of daylight before the grainy dusk of the coast set in.

“This is a bit better.” He set two cups of tea on the table, pushing one toward Maisie.

“Thank you.” Maisie reached for her cup, and then looked away as Stratton proceeded to put several teaspoons of sugar into his tea, a habit she had observed before but which set her teeth on edge. She turned back as he moved the sugar to the center of the table. “Now then, I want you to tell me anything you can about Mr. Bassington-Hope’s death; it’s the least you can do if you want me to keep your terrier under control.” She paused. “Oh, and by the way, I must say, though I am familiar with her reputation, she didn’t strike me as a terrier when it came to keeping her first appointment with me. She could barely garner enough courage to go forward with the interview.”

“I can’t account for the woman’s behavior. However, I anticipated that you wanted to see me regarding this case.” He reached into the large inner pocket of his mackintosh and pulled out an envelope from which he removed several sheets of paper. “You can’t take this with you, but you can peruse the postmortem notes.”

Maisie reached for the sheets of paper proffered by Stratton, then took several moments to read carefully. Determined not to rush for Stratton’s sake, she opened her document case and removed a few index cards and set them on the table beside her teacup, which she then picked up and held against her cheek until she’d finished reading. She took two or three more sips as she placed the report on the table and flicked through a few pages again, then she set down her cup, reached for a pencil in her case and proceeded to take notes.

“I say, I haven’t got all day, you know.”

Maisie smiled. Had he not known her professionally for some time now, Stratton might have thought that he was being manipulated. “Just a moment longer, Detective Inspector.” Maisie completed her notes, then leaned back. “The predictable broken neck, caused by an unfortunate fall at an awkward angle. Death almost instantaneous, according to the examiner. Now then, how about the bruises to the side of the head and to the upper arm. Is the pathologist sure that these indications of trauma are in keeping with the nature of the fall?”

“Second-guessing the doctor, are you?”

“I should not have to remind you that, not only was I a nurse, but I served a lengthy apprenticeship with Dr. Maurice Blanche. I am used to questioning the examiner; it is what I am trained to do.”

“The bruises are not severe enough to indicate an alternative cause of death and were, as the pathologist concluded, in keeping with the nature of the accident.”

“Hmmm, that’s two ‘in keepings’—I wonder what else they might be ‘in keeping’ with?”

“Miss Dobbs, you appear to be suggesting a lack of attention to detail, or perhaps ineptitude. I would not have closed the case had I any doubt—”

“Wouldn’t you?” Maisie did not allow the question to linger, and ensured only that it had been voiced. “If I seem confrontational, it is only because my brief from my client—thanks to you supporting the referral—requires me to ask such questions. Indeed, I do believe I could point out several anomalies, but at the same time, I can see why such a conclusion was reached by the attending physician.”

“May I?” Stratton reached for the document. “Now, I can’t help with anything else, I’m afraid. I am sure you have more questions, but if I had the time to answer—or saw reason to answer—then I wouldn’t have closed the case.” Stratton returned the report to the envelope, and then to his pocket. “I’ve got to leave now. Busy day as I’m leaving work early today.”

Maisie knotted her scarf and stood up as Stratton pulled out her chair. “Going away for the weekend, Inspector?”

Stratton shook his head. “No, just an evening out. A banquet, actually. Rather looking forward to it.”

They left the café, shaking hands before they went their separate ways. Maisie felt compelled to turn and look back as she walked toward her motor car, and as she did so, she saw Stratton crossing the road in the direction of the waiting black Invicta and the police driver who held open the door for him. It was at that moment that she noticed another motor car parked behind Stratton’s, and though she could not be sure, she thought that the second motor was a faster, newer model, and of the sort used by the Flying Squad. A man wearing a black hat and black overcoat who had been leaning on the door of the motor car threw a cigarette stub on the ground, then pressed into it with the sole of his shoe. He walked over to Stratton. Leaning toward each other, they spoke briefly, before turning to look in her direction. Maisie feigned interest in the window of an adjacent shop, then when she felt it was safe to do so, cast her eyes once again in the direction of Stratton’s motor, just in time to see the two men shake hands and climb into their respective vehicles.

Reaching the MG, Maisie checked her watch. Yes, she would be in Kent before half past two. As she drove, confidently, despite sleet that caused the London streets to become increasingly hazardous, she replayed the meeting with Stratton so that it was like watching a moving picture show in her mind’s eye. There were questions to be asked, but if she rushed to answer them at this stage, she might bring to a halt the possibility of reaching a full and complete conclusion to the case in a timely fashion. Her first questions—for Maisie’s curiosity rarely seemed to grow without more questions attached, as if it were a giant root with subsidiary tubers feeding—centered around Stratton’s delight that she was working for Georgina Bassington-Hope. Did he really want the woman occupied lest she pen some controversial piece regarding police procedure for a newspaper or one of the political journals? Had he reason to continue his investigation into the artist’s death without the knowledge of either Maisie or the next-of-kin?

Maisie used the back of her hand to wipe condensation from the inside of the MG’s windscreen while thinking about the second motor car and the meeting between Stratton and the man in the black hat and coat. Of course, collaboration between men with different police responsibilities—one dealing with murder, one with gangs, robberies and other such crimes—should not be suspicious; after all, their paths must cross all the time. But she felt a sensation at the nape of her neck, as if a colony of ants were beating a path from one shoulder to the other. The image that now seemed to impress itself upon her was of a cellar with steps leading down into the darkness. It was not an unfamiliar picture, one that often presented itself at the outset of a troublesome case, but Maisie shuddered as she realized that she had already gone beyond the top step. She was clearly in the dark when she took on the case and began her descent, but there was no going back now.

As she left the outskirts of London and crossed the border into Kent, the low afternoon sun finally managed to break through, casting a cut-glass sheen across the Weald. She was glad of a break in the weather, as it took just a hint of clear, bright sky to begin to warm her bones. Settling into what she hoped would be an easy run down to the coast, Maisie looked out across the countryside, the wintery white swath of land interspersed with patches of green where sheep and cattle clustered, their backs against the chill wind. Kent calmed Maisie, had tempered her since girlhood, when she moved from London to work at the Comptons’ country estate. Despite that calm, she was unsettled, the image of Stratton and the other man, and their furtive looks toward her giving rise to more questions. Then Georgina and Stratton came to mind. Might they be attending the same function this evening? Together, perhaps? As she changed gears to negotiate a turn, she wondered if there was a plan already in progress, and whether she could be a pawn in the game. But if so, whose pawn might she be? And how serious was the game?

Maisie arrived in Dungeness at two o’clock, having made good time. The flat expanse of shingled land, a promontory that reached out into the western limits of the Straits of Dover, seemed to extend from the village of Lydd until one reached the sea. She thought the word
windswept
must have been invented for Dungeness, positioned at this southernmost point of the Romney Marshes, across which gales would howl, even on a good day.

Maisie made her way at a low speed along a track worn by the milk tender. She thought her MG might be the only motor car that had ventured down the road for a while, so quiet was the land, with no sign of even the fishermen. Looking both ways as she crossed the narrow-gauge lines of the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch railway, she held Georgina’s map against the steering wheel and looked down for a second or two as she continued driving. It seemed that most of the old railway carriage homes were to the south, so she turned right past the lighthouse and maintained a crawling pace until she reached the former railway carriage that was the home of Nicholas Bassington-Hope.

Maisie parked, pulled her scarf around her, then opened the MG’s door, which she had to hang on to, fearing that it would be swept back by the wind. Once she reached the carriage, she fumbled with the key but, thankfully, did not have to resort to the good graces of Amos White, as she gained entry after only one false turn in the lock. Maisie pressed all her weight against the door to close it again, then secured it behind her. She let out a deep breath, glad that she was finally inside and out of the freezing winter weather.

“Nothing like the marshes to brittle your bones!” Maisie said aloud, as she pulled back her scarf, removed her hat and looked around the dwelling. For a moment, she was surprised, for the converted cottage did not resemble anything she had envisaged.

Without taking off her coat—it was still far too cold—she used her scarf to wipe rain droplets from her hair and face as she walked around the room. In truth, she couldn’t really remember what image came to mind when Georgina first mentioned that her brother lived in a converted railway carriage, but vaguely thought of prickly vermillion-red wool fabric on seats, dark wooden walls and doors with signs that read
FIRST CLASS
or
THIRD CLASS
. She had imagined the artist living in a glorified goods wagon, as opposed to the tasteful interior she now beheld.

The sun was already going down, but Maisie found matches next to an oil lamp on the sideboard, so removed the flue to light the wick. She was rewarded by a warming light as she replaced the column of glass and then a yellow globe shade that had been set alongside.

“That’s better.” Maisie placed her document case on the table and walked around the main room. As neat as a pin, the room had been thoughtfully decorated, though Nick had clearly retained the more attractive elements of railway carriage design. The rich wooden bulkhead walls at either end had been stripped, varnished and polished to a shine, as had the floorboards underfoot. Side walls had been painted in a pale cream distemper, and there were dark linen blinds against windows that faced the sea. Two leather armchairs, the sort one might find in a gentlemen’s club, were positioned close to a wood-burning stove set against the bulkhead to the right of the front door. A stack of dry driftwood had been placed on one side of the red-tiled hearth, and on the other was a large kettle filled with water, alongside several fire tools. A wood-framed bed was set lengthways against the other bulkhead, the rich burgundy counterpane hanging low over the sides to mingle with a Persian carpet woven of what seemed to be every shade of red wool, from claret to vermillion, from maroon to a color that was almost burnt umber. Opposite the sideboard stood a dresser with upper cupboards and shelving for crockery and an open space underneath where Nick Bassington-Hope had placed a set of jars and a bread bin, with a heavy bread board placed on the flat working top to protect the dresser. Two more cupboards below held a frying pan, saucepan, and various dry goods and tins of soup. Turning around, Maisie thought the compact room seemed to exude warmth, something she thought was probably essential to life on this part of the coast, whatever the season.

Opening a second door, Maisie found that the accommodation was not one carriage, but two, positioned parallel to one another. A house-size door had been installed, which led to a small vestibule, built to connect the two carriages. Windows on this long side of the carriage had been painted white, then decorated with a mural. Maisie did not linger to consider the story depicted in the series of paintings, instead continuing her survey of Nick Bassington-Hope’s home. The vestibule gave way to a studio and bathroom, though there was no running water or plumbing for the residents of Dungeness. The bathroom consisted of a wooden washstand with a tile splashback and marble top. A jug and ewer were placed on top of the washstand, while underneath a chamber pot was covered with a plain white cloth. Maisie suspected that residents made a quick trip across the shingle to the water’s edge each morning to empty the “thunder pot.” Upon investigation, a small wardrobe held several items of clothing: three shirts, a pair of blue corduroy trousers, a brown woolen jacket and another jacket of heavy waxed cotton. Reaching farther into the depths of the wardrobe, Maisie felt the rough texture of heavy wool and drew the sleeve of another garment toward her. Nick Bassington-Hope had kept his army greatcoat. Pulling the coat from the wardrobe, Maisie lifted it out and instinctively held it to her nose.

Oh, my God, I should never have done that.
She held the coat at arm’s length, then walked into the studio to take a closer look.
Oh, dear.
There was still a speckle of mud across the hem of the coat; then, as she pulled the fabric closer to the light, she noticed a broad, aged stain on the sleeve that she knew to be blood.
My God, he kept it all this time.
Maisie closed her eyes and gripped the coat to her, the smell of death lingering among the folds of fabric, as if the garment had absorbed something of what the artist had seen as a young subaltern. As Maisie returned the item of clothing to the wardrobe, her hand lingered on the door handle for some seconds while she tried to extinguish the thought of Nick Bassington-Hope and the greatcoat he could not part with.

It was almost dusk now and Maisie had barely dented the task she had set for herself this afternoon. Having made a note to ask Georgina why Nick’s clothing had not been taken from his home, she moved on. She had imagined an artist’s place of work to be somewhat untidy, perhaps with drawings here and there, paints weeping from unsealed pots, color-smeared rags, books and papers strewn across the floor. Looking at the clean, carefully tended studio, Maisie realized that she probably held the same impression as Stratton of an artistic “type.” Admonishing herself, she moved around the studio in which Nick Bassington-Hope created the work for which he had been feted.

On the wall that paralleled the first carriage, a special wooden case had been fitted to store the artist’s paints. It reminded Maisie of the mail slots at the block of flats that was now her home. Here each wooden pigeonhole had been allotted a certain color, and within held tubes and small pots of paint in the many hues that could be described as blue, red, yellow, green, black, orange and violet.

Jugs in varying sizes had been set on a gaily decorated wooden tea trolley to hold a collection of brushes, and though each brush showed the staining and wear associated with good use, it had been properly cleaned before being stowed again. An easel stood by the bulkhead close to the bank of windows, and against the new partition that had been fitted to form the bathroom was a chest of narrow drawers that held papers of different weights as well as wood for frames and sections of unused canvas. A basket of stained but clean cloths was set on the floor, and there was also a deep, cushioned armchair by the window. Alongside the chair was a small table with untouched sketchbooks and pencils.

“But where’s your work, Nicholas? Where have you put your work?” Maisie asked the silent studio.

Holding the lamp in her left hand, she used her right to open the bottom drawer of the paper chest. Bundles of well-used sketchbooks were stored there, so, still with her coat on, she sat on the floor, set the lamp alongside her, and began to leaf through the books, all of which were signed and dated. She had only just begun when there was a loud thump on the door.

“Oh!” Maisie was startled at the intrusion, but clambered to her feet, and with the lamp in hand went to answer what sounded like an impatient caller.

Opening the door, Maisie faced a heavyset man no taller than she was herself. He wore a long jacket of rubber-covered cloth and a woolen cap atop his graying red hair, which was drawn back in a long, thick braid. His trousers of the same rubbered cloth were tucked into boots that had been turned over at the top. Maisie wanted very much to smile, for she had no doubt as to the identity of this man.

“You must be Mr. White.” She spoke before he had a chance to open his mouth, to quell any questions he might have about her right to be in the house of a man not long dead.

He stared at her for some time, it seemed, as if taken aback by her forthright manner. Then he spoke, with the rounded brogue of the Kentish fisherman. “Just thought I’d look in, don’t want strangers looking into Mr. ’ope’s matters.”

“I’m not a stranger, Mr. White. I am a friend of Mr. Bassington-Hope’s sister Georgina. She asked me to look in as I was in the area.”

“Funny area to be in, bit out of the way for the likes of anyone, not a place you pass through, Dungeness.”

“No, I know, it was just a bit out of my way.” Maisie smiled again, though she felt her polite responses were having little effect on the fisherman. “I know the Marshes and was going to Hastings, so it seemed a good opportunity to help Miss Bassington-Hope.”

He shook his head. “Strange lot, them ’ope’s. You’d’ve thought they’d’ve been down a bit more, not just the one visit. Three of ’em just came in, then left as soon as they got ’ere. Funny lot.” He shook his head, moved as if to leave, then turned again. “You’d be best to move that little motor car be’ind the carriage, out to the back. Come mornin’ you won’t ’ave a roof on that thing, what with the wind.” He regarded Maisie without speaking, then continued. “You knowin’ the Marshes, I would’ve thought you’d’ve parked round the back to begin with.”

Maisie checked her watch. “Well, I didn’t expect to stay very long.” Maisie felt the sting of cold rain on her cheeks, and the lamp flickered. “Gosh, I really should be on my way.”

Amos White turned, speaking as he walked away. “Just remember to put that little motor to the lee of the cottage.” Then he was gone.

Maisie closed the door behind her and shuddered. Perhaps she ought to stay here in Dungeness, especially as she had barely started her search of Nick’s property, though she knew she would feel like an interloper, sleeping in a bed that was not hers, in a house she had not been invited to use as overnight accommodation. There was little time, and already more questions were lining up to be given voice, to be answered.
Who were the three family members? Could it have been Georgina and her parents? Or perhaps the three bereaved siblings?
She looked around the room. Either Nick was a tidy person, or someone else had come in and seen fit to ensure that the house was neat. Someone who had managed to escape the canny eyes of Amos White.

It was when Maisie stepped into the center of the room again that she allowed herself to push all questions to the back of her mind and studied the mural painstakingly crafted on the former railway carriage windows of the opposite wall. Each window, painted in a base of white to form a canvas, depicted a scene that was pure Romney Marsh, from the trees forced to lean inland by the wind, to isolated churches set in flat hedge-divided fields, with sheep grazing and, above the water-meadows, silvered clouds scudding across a gray sky. Maisie drew the lamp closer and smiled, for as her eyes moved from left to right, from the calm of the marshes to sea crashing against shingle, with some images larger than others to create an illusion of distance along with the immediacy of detail, she saw that the story told in the mural was one that had been part of the coast’s history for centuries. In the middle of the tale, day had drawn into night and the scene was of a fishing boat beached. Men were unloading their catch by lantern light, scarves drawn around their heads gypsy-style. Atop a black horse with wild eyes, a man in a tricorn hat and mask wielded a pistol while watching over the haul, which was not cod, nor plaice, huss, rock or haddock, but barrels and chests bursting open to reveal a bounty of gold and spices, silk and rum. Moving along the mural, the men had taken flight toward the church with their booty, where a welcoming vicar bid them enter, enabling their escape to a place beyond the pulpit. The next scene saw dawn break and the excisemen—as feared today as in ancient times—searching for the smugglers, to no avail. In the final scene, situated above the bed’s footboard, daylight has returned to the marshes once more. Sheep were grazing, the wind blowing against inland-leaning trees, and the thunderous sky had given way to blue. It was a scene of peace, of calm.