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?
Five
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.