Dear Miss Dobbs,
Maisie noticed that, though Georgina had taken the early liberty of using Christian names, in her written correspondence she was rather more formal.
I must beg your pardon for the swift communiqué. I am attending a banquet this evening and have much to do. The attached map and directions will see you safely to Nick’s carriage-cum-cottage in Dungeness. Do prepare yourself; it is really quite simple, though he adored the place. Should you encounter a problem with the key or lock, Mr. Amos White lives in the old cottage to the right of Nick’s carriage as you are facing it, and I am sure he will help. Amos is a fisherman, so will probably be in his shed mending nets in the afternoon. Duncan and Quentin returned to Dungeness this morning, so do look out for them. I believe they will only be there for a day or so.
I will meet you outside Tenterden station at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon, as we agreed. If you are traveling from Chelstone, you will probably come from the direction of Rolvenden, thus you will find the station signposted from the middle of the High Street as you come into town, a sharp turn to the left. It’s best that we meet there and then go together to the house.
You will also find enclosed an invitation to a party at my flat on Sunday evening. It’s just a few friends. I thought it might give you a chance to meet some of Nick’s pals. Do come.
“Gosh…” Maisie shook her head.
“What’s up, Miss?”
“An invitation to a party at Georgina B-H’s flat on Sunday evening,” Maisie was rereading the invitation.
“That’ll be nice, you know, to get out.”
Maisie shook her head. “I don’t know how nice it will be, but I will most certainly go.”
“Take Dr. Dene along—you know, make an evening of it.”
Maisie reddened and shook her head. “No, just me, Billy. It’s business.”
Billy regarded her carefully, his attention drawn to the slight edge in her voice. Though they would never discuss Maisie’s private life, Billy could see it was quite clear that Andrew Dene’s intentions were toward marriage, whereas Maisie’s responses had become generally lukewarm. Now she was going to a party alone, which wasn’t something that a woman on the cusp of engagement might do, work or no work.
“Right then, we’d better get cracking. Let’s do a bit more work here, see if the cold light of day has brought any new thoughts to our investigation, then go our separate ways.” Maisie took out a sheaf of notes made the previous evening and moved toward the case map. She turned to look at Billy. “And remember, Billy—let me know if you need me to see Lizzie.”
Billy nodded, and they set to work.
THE CAFÉ ON Oxford Street where Maisie was to meet Detective Inspector Richard Stratton was a rather down-at-heel establishment that she had once described as being “more caff than café.” She had already packed her leather case for the journey to Dungeness, from which she had originally thought she might go directly to Hastings but then decided to make her way to Chelstone for the evening. She would visit Andrew Dene in Hastings on Saturday morning. It wouldn’t take long to drive from the Old Town to Tenterden in the afternoon.
Stratton was waiting at a table by the window and had just sat down. Having removed his hat and coat and placed them on a coat-stand by the door, he was smoothing back his dark hair, which was peppered with gray at the temples. He wore dark-gray gabardine trousers, with a black waistcoat, gray tweed jacket, white shirt and black tie. His shoes were highly polished, though he did not have the sort of accoutrements with which someone like Stig Svenson embellished his attire—there was no kerchief in the jacket pocket, no cufflinks at his wrist. Though he was not a young man—Maisie had thought him to be about thirty-eight or forty—an olive complexion and dark eyes meant that he was often the subject of a second glance from strangers. The detective was not aware of such attention, and the passersby would not have been able to explain why they were compelled to turn, though they might admit to thinking they had seen him in one of those new talkies at the picture house.
Stratton had already bought two cups of tea and a plate of toast and jam. The tea was strong and, Maisie thought as she approached the table, looked as if it had been in the urn long enough to make itself quite at home.
“You could stand a spoon up in that tea.” Maisie sat down as Stratton pulled out a chair for her, and smiled. Though they had crossed words on several occasions, there was a mutual respect that had led Maisie to be called to Scotland Yard to consult on cases where her particular skill and insight was thought to be of use in the investigation of a case.
“Keeps you going on a day like this, though. It’s been very chilly this past week, hasn’t it?”
Their eyes met. Maisie sipped her tea and nodded. “Gosh, that’s better.”
Stratton looked at his watch. “You wanted to see me, Miss Dobbs?”
“Yes.” She placed her plain white cup in the saucer, then paused as she reached for another slice of toast and jam, to which she added an additional half teaspoon of jam.
“Good Lord, would you like some toast with that dollop of jam?” Stratton leaned back in his chair and caught Maisie’s eye.
“I’m starving, Inspector.” She smiled again, then continued with her explanation. “I wanted to speak to you about the death of Nicholas Bassington-Hope. Of course, I must thank you for supporting his sister’s plan to engage my services so that certain doubts in her heart might be put to rest; however, I hope that you can tell me more about the event, from your perspective.” Maisie inclined her head, then proceeded to bite into the toast, reaching for her tea as she did so.
Stratton allowed a few seconds to elapse, seconds in which Maisie was sure he was composing a response that would have been acceptable to his superiors, had he been called to account for his actions. And despite the delay in answering, during which she appeared to make herself busy with another slice of toast, she knew that he had likely anticipated the reason for her request that they meet and was therefore ready to share only the barest minimum of information.
“There was—is—no doubt in my mind that Mr. Bassington-Hope fell from the scaffolding he had constructed. It hadn’t been put up by a builder or other person used to such a task, though he’d obviously had help. It was quite amateurish—in fact, he was asking for trouble.” He sipped from his cup. “Terrible waste—it’s not as if there aren’t builders out of work who would have jumped at the chance of making a shilling or two to give him a hand.”
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.