“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?