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.
Maisie stood back to look at the mural in its entirety. The infamous eighteenth-century Kent gangs given life, given color, by the hand of the artist. She moved in toward the wall and held the light to the finely drawn faces, to marvel at the detail, even that of the dog cowering to one side as the horse reared up. Nick Bassington-Hope was indeed talented, that much was evident even in a whimsical scene depicting life gone by in the place where he had established his retreat.