Maisie closed her eyes. Envisioning the gallery, she brought to mind the artist working on his platform. He was securing the anchors that would hold the triptych, which must have been quite large. Or was it? The studio in his carriage home would have accommodated a canvas of about eight feet in height, at a pinch, if the canvas were set at an angle for the artist to work. She considered the place where the triptych would hang. Yes, that would have been about right for a center piece, say, eight feet by four or five feet. Then side panels. She thought back to the mural. Everyone assumed that the lost work comprised three pieces, but what if there were more? Would that make a difference to the outcome? She would study the wall in as great a detail as possible to try to ascertain what preparation Nick was making—indentations in the wall where anchors had been placed might provide a clue to the number of pieces, though the screws and nails used in the construction of scaffolding had also left their mark, despite later renovation work.
A clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour. It was six o’clock, time to get ready for Georgina Bassington-Hope’s party. She was dreading it. The truth was that she knew she would feel ill at ease, and not only due to the doubts that had enveloped her earlier in the day. The very thought of a party brought to mind her years at Girton, when she returned after the war to complete her studies. There were occasions when she and other women were invited to parties, usually by men also taking up their studies once again, or younger men embarking upon them. And it seemed as if everyone wanted to dance the past away. For Maisie, such events usually meant an hour or two holding up the wall, a barely sipped drink in her hand, before leaving without even locating a host to thank. She had been to only one party she had ever enjoyed, where she had ever allowed herself to let down her defenses, and that was at the beginning of the war. Her friend Priscilla had taken her to a party being thrown by the parents of Captain Simon Lynch, who wanted to give him a joy-filled farewell before he left for France. Memories of that party remained bittersweet. Since then, despite the passage of time along with academic and professional success, she had never managed to garner confidence in such social situations.
Dressing in her black day dress along with the knee-length pale-blue cashmere cardigan and matching stole that Priscilla had given her last year, Maisie brushed out her hair, rubbed a little rouge on her cheeks and added a sweep of color to her lips. Checking her watch as she dropped it into the cardigan pocket, she took the navy coat from the wardrobe in her bedroom, collected her black shoulder bag, then pushed her feet into her black shoes with the single straps that she’d left by the door.
Maisie had debated the most appropriate time to arrive for the party, which, according to the invitation, started at seven, with a light supper to be served at nine. She didn’t want to be the first to arrive, but neither did she want to enter late and miss someone with whom it would behoove her to engage in conversation.
It was not possible to travel at more than a crawl along the Embankment, so dense was the ochre smog that enveloped buses, horses and carts and pedestrians alike—not that there were many of the latter out on a murky Sunday night. Parking close to the red-brick mansions, Maisie was grateful to secure a parking spot from which she could see people enter Georgina’s flat, and get her bearings, if only for a moment. It was cold, so she pulled the wrap around her neck and blew across her fingers as she waited for more guests to arrive.
An elegant couple arrived in a chauffeur-driven motor car, the woman—thankfully, observed Maisie—not wearing evening dress but clearly something shorter for what had now become the “cocktail” hour. On her way to Chelsea, it had occurred to Maisie that an evening dress may have been more appropriate, an academic thought, in any case, as she did not own a gown. Another motor car screeched to a halt in front of the wrong mansion, whereupon the driver slammed the vehicle into reverse gear with a grinding crunch, the brakes squealing as he then shuddered to a halt alongside the correct address. Two women and a man alighted, all looking a bit tipsy, whereupon the driver yelled that he was going to find a spot for the motor car, which he drove just another few feet and parked haphazardly before leaving the vehicle with the lights on. Maisie decided that rather than call after him, she would locate the man when she went into the party.
Maisie reached for her bag and was just about to open the door when another motor car pulled up, followed by a second that she recognized immediately. She hoped that her vehicle could not be easily seen from the front of the building. Fortunately, in the darkness, the usually distinctive claret would blend in among other motor cars parked on the street. As she watched, Stratton stepped from the Invicta, whereupon he approached the first motor car just as the man she had seen him speaking to yesterday alighted onto the pavement. They didn’t shake hands, so Maisie assumed they had met earlier, or—and this was a new consideration—that they didn’t particularly care for each other. A young woman, dressed for a party, followed the man from the first motor, and as both Stratton and the man spoke to her, she nodded. Maisie suspected the woman might be one of the new female recruits to detection working with Dorothy Peto at Scotland Yard. She waited. Soon the woman entered Georgina’s building, whereupon the two men returned to their respective vehicles and departed. Maisie ducked as they drove past, hoping, again, that she had not been seen.
She waited as two more motor cars, both chauffeur-driven, deposited party guests at the mansion. Then a man came out of the shadows and swirling smog, walking along the street. He was swinging a cane, his gait suggesting that of a young man, a man who was perhaps singing to himself. He wore no hat, and his overcoat was open to reveal evening attire, with a white dinner scarf hanging rakishly around his neck. Maisie suspected that this was Harry Bassington-Hope. As he walked up the steps to the front door, another motor car emerged from the shadows, and drove slowly past, much as a predator tracked his prey. But just as a lion might stalk for a while just for the sport, so the driver seemed only to be following. The scene suggested to Maisie that this was someone who was simply watching and waiting, someone in no hurry to make his move. At least, not yet.
Though the street was dimly lit, as the motor car came alongside, the driver looked directly at the MG. Maisie leaned back into the seat and remained as still as a statue, but at that moment a light went on in the window of the mansion to her left, illuminating his features. Despite the limitations of a sideways glance, she recognized him at once.
“MAISIE, LOVELY TO see you, so glad you’re here.” Georgina waved a waiter to one side, then linked her arm through Maisie’s, a demonstration of affection that unsettled Maisie, though she understood that for the people she was now mixing with, certain social boundaries and codes of behavior had been eroding in the past ten years.
“Let me introduce you to a few people.” Georgina turned to another waiter and took two glasses of champagne, passing one to Maisie, before tapping a man on the shoulder. The family likeness was instantly evident, and he was, without doubt, the same man Maisie had seen walking along the street, cane in hand. Though his coat was now gone, he was still wearing the dinner scarf.
“Harry, I want you to meet Maisie Dobbs.”
The young man reached out to shake hands. “Charmed, I’m sure. Always good to meet one of Georgina’s Amazons.”