“I hope no one really thinks this is all my fault,” said Maisie.
“No, not your fault, love, just all come at the same time. And like you said: People talk.” Frankie looked at the clock again. “You’re off in a minute, I know, so I’ll say my good-bye now. Better get over to the stable.”
Maisie kissed her father and waved him off, watching him walk slowly down the path. Frankie hated to see his daughter drive away, so she had expected him to leave before she departed the cottage. It was time he retired, and Maisie was grateful for the fact that Lady Rowan had assured her that the Groom’s Cottage would be her father’s home for the rest of his life; she had never forgotten that Frankie Dobbs had saved her horses from requisition in the war.
After tidying up the kitchen, Maisie packed her bag and left before nine, with the intention of reaching Hastings by ten o’clock. In the solitude of the journey down to the Sussex coast, she could consider the case of Nicholas Bassington-Hope against the cold light of day. And it was most certainly cold, and bright, for a clearing wind had swept across the south leaving blue skies but frosty ground underfoot.
Maisie liked to work methodically through a case, while at the same time allowing for intuition to speak to her, for truth to make itself known. Sometimes such knowledge would be inspired by something as simple as an unfamiliar scent on the air, or perhaps uncovering information regarding a choice made by one of the victims. And Maisie had found that the perpetrator of a crime was often every bit as much a victim. Yet this case seemed to beg for another approach, requiring her to “work both ways at once” as she had commented to her father, when he had asked her about the assignment that had brought her to Dungeness. Not that she had said anything else about the case, simply that it demanded something quite different from her.
That something different was the need to build up a picture, an image of the victim’s life without, perhaps, some of the usual information that might have been available. As she drove, she reflected upon the fact that she had not had the advantage of being present soon after the accident, so the immediate environment was clear of that energetic residue she always felt in the immediate presence of death. She thought she might in any case visit the gallery again soon, alone. Thus far she was only just beginning to fill in the outline of Nick Bassington-Hope’s life. She had first to sketch in her landscape, then, as she uncovered new information, she would add color and depth to her work.
Maisie changed gear as she decreased speed down the shallow hill into Sedlescombe. Her thoughts were gathering pace. Wasn’t this whole case like creating one of those murals, building a picture across uneven terrain, telling a story by adding detail to give life and momentum to the masterwork?
She had her broad charcoal sketch of the artist’s life, now to the finer points. First Dungeness: Had she seen something untoward or had the eerie silence of the coast at night ignited her imagination? Perhaps Nick’s carriage-window mural had teased her, led her to see something that wasn’t there, as hardworking fishermen brought their catch ashore against the unrelenting winter weather. Perhaps the lorry ahead of her on the road was not the one she had seen at the beach, or perhaps it was the same vehicle going to a warehouse or rural factory where fish were packed in ice for transit to London. Maurice had often warned her that the emotional or unsettled mind could interpret an innocent remark into a cause for argument, could change a happily anticipated event into an outing to be dreaded. And hadn’t she been unsettled by the greatcoat, by the weight of a garment that had been dragged though Flanders’s mud, with sleeves covering arms that, perhaps, had lent support and final comfort to the young officer’s dying men?
As Maisie pulled into the narrow road that led to the outer edge of the Old Town, above the slum of broken-down beamed cottages on Bourne Street, and along to the houses that commanded views across the Channel, she knew that she had a list of detailed sketches to create: the Bassington-Hope family; Nick’s friends and associates; those who collected his work and those who hated it; the mysterious lock-up. She wanted to know why her client had argued with Stig Svenson at the gallery. Looking back to that first meeting, she remembered Georgina’s observation that if someone had murdered Nick, they might also prey on her. What event, what situation gave cause for such a fear, or was it a throwaway comment meant to egg on the investigator? Was she being played for a fool by Georgina as well as by Stratton?
It was early yet, only two days had passed since the first meeting with Georgina Bassington-Hope, but now there was work to do in earnest—if not for her client, then for herself. For she was now quite convinced that even if Nick Bassington-Hope was killed in a terrible accident, and possibly as a result of his own negligence, it had given Svenson a cause to argue with his client’s executor, had resulted in a rift between the Bassington-Hope sisters and was leading to some very strange behavior by Detective Inspector Stratton.
“Maisie! By golly, I thought I would never see you again—and why, might I ask, are you sitting in your little red car staring out to sea?”
Maisie shook her head. “Oh, sorry, Andrew, I was miles away.”
Dene opened the door of the MG, took Maisie’s hand and pulled her to him as she alighted. “You’ve been avoiding me, I think,” he said teasingly, though the statement clearly begged for contradiction.
Maisie smiled, and blushed. “Of course I haven’t. Don’t be silly.” She turned her head toward the sea. “Let’s go for a walk. I have to leave at about two o’clock, you know, so let’s not waste the morning.”
For just a second Dene’s expression revealed his disappointment, then he smiled in return. “Grand idea, Maisie. Come on in while I put on my coat.” He held out his hand for Maisie to go ahead into the house. “Just a pity you aren’t staying until tomorrow.”
Maisie did not reply, did not turn back to offer an explanation or even an apology. And Dene did not repeat the sentiment, thinking his words had been caught on the wind and swept away, which, he considered, was probably just as well.
IT TOOK ONLY fifteen minutes to amble down to the High Street and then on to Rock-a-Nore toward the tall fishermen’s net shops at the Stade, where the couple stopped to watch a boat being winched ashore. Nets from other boats had been heaped in piles, ready to be cleaned out, mended and stowed for another day’s fishing. Though Dene was an orthopedic surgeon at the nearby All Saints’ Convalescent Hospital, he traveled to London regularly to lecture medical students on matters concerning injuries to the spine and the rehabilitation of those who are adversely affected by accidents, disease or the wounds of war. A protégé of Dr. Maurice Blanche, Dene thought that this connection in common with Maisie might promote their fledgling courtship, but after a promising start, he now wondered if he had not been rather optimistic. This morning he had opened his mouth to speak several times, hoping to open a deeper dialogue, only to remain silent.
Strolling along, Maisie and Andrew Dene watched as the womenfolk of the Old Town sold fish, winkles and whelks to winter day-trippers from London, who would take them home, a special treat with a bit of bread and dripping for their Sunday tea. Then there were those who paid a few pence for a white saucer of jellied eels or whelks to eat while leaning against the counter, a delicacy when washed down with a cup of strong tea.“Lovely plate of whelks, that.”“Have you tried them jellied eels?”“Nice day, when you get out of that wind, innit?”