Maisie nodded. “It’s all right, Georgina, you don’t have to explain. I do understand.” She paused, placing her hand briefly on the woman’s upper arm to reassure her. “Your life must go on. I am sure Nick would approve—everyone’s having a wonderful time and I have enjoyed myself thoroughly.”
Georgina nodded, assured Maisie that she would see her in the morning, then turned aside to indicate to the butler that her guest was leaving. As Maisie departed, she heard Georgina in the distance say, “Not leaving so soon, Oswald?”
MAISIE SLIPPED INTO the driver’s seat of the MG and sighed. Despite earlier misgivings that had remained uppermost in her mind, she had seen a vulnerability in Georgina Bassington-Hope and had allowed it to touch her. She was still on her guard, but that did not preclude the compassion she felt for her client when she overheard the conversation with manipulative Harry Bassington-Hope. She understood that the truths that lay between black and white, in the gray areas of experience, were never cut and dried, and though she did not trust Georgina—doubting her in some way she had yet to identify—she had always tried to see the humanity in others.
She started the motor, turned on the lights and pulled out into the street. The smog was even thicker, if that were possible, and once again rendered any speed in excess of a crawl dangerous.
Leaning forward as she drove, Maisie stopped at the junction with the Embankment before turning right to continue her journey. It was then that she saw an unexpected movement by the river wall, an activity that sparked her suspicion and caused her to pull over and turn off the MG’s lights. She could barely ascertain what was happening, so thick was the air around her. In the murky light shed by gas lamps, she saw two men talking to a third man who had his back to the wall. One of the first two poked the third man repeatedly on the shoulder, until he reached into his pocket and pulled out something that he passed to the second man. The first man poked him again, whereupon he and the second man stepped into a waiting motor car and drove off. The man with his back against the wall took a few moments to compose himself—he also seemed rather drunk—then he turned and ambled off along the Embankment, as if he were not entirely sure where he was going. The man was Harry Bassington-Hope.
At first, Maisie thought she should offer him a lift, but then decided against such a move. She did not want him to consider that she might have seen what had just transpired, the passing on of money taken from his sister. Even drunks have memories, if unreliable. And she thought that he was probably safe now, seeing as the piper had been paid. But who was the piper? Experience informed her that such men as those encountered by Georgina’s younger brother were usually servants to one who was much more powerful, and certainly the conversation she overheard earlier indicated that Nick had baled out his brother before.
Maisie parked in her customary place, close to her flat. As she closed and locked the door, she smiled, remembering the dance, and took one or two steps in rhythm to the rag she could still hear ringing in her ears. But that smile soon evaporated. She stopped to listen, to pay attention to the physical sensation of fear that at once enveloped her, then continued walking. She considered that the sensation might be associated with the scene she had witnessed alongside the Embankment and entertained the possibility that the one to whom Harry Bassington-Hope was indebted might have previously approached Nick directly. Or, if he had not approached him, it was even more likely that he tried to find a weakness he could exploit. She considered the driver of the motor car that had trailed the younger Bassington-Hope to his sister’s party, and it occurred to her that she had already discovered the source of Nick’s Achilles’ heel. It was therefore crucial that she speak to his friends as soon as possible.
With the feeling of dread increasing as she approached the door, Maisie took the flat key from her shoulder bag, then looked toward the brightly illuminated center stairway and the silhouette of a man pacing back and forth. Now she understood the root of her dread. The appearance of Billy Beale waiting for her late on a Sunday night could mean only one thing.
Nine
Billy’s wife stood at the already open door as Maisie leapt from the MG, reached behind the seat for what she called her “medicine bag” and rushed into the house.
“We’ve got her downstairs, Miss Dobbs.” Doreen Beale had been crying but followed Maisie as she made her way along the narrow passage through to the kitchen at the back of the house. A pregnant woman sat holding Lizzie Beale, who was whimpering and, it seemed as her eyes rolled back, was on the brink of unconsciousness.
“Clear the table, and set a blanket and sheet on it for me—and Billy, bring over that lamp so that I can see her.” Maisie reached for Lizzie, cradling her in one arm as she pulled open the shawl that swaddled her, and then the buttons on her flannel nightdress. “She’s burning up and fighting to breathe—and you say you couldn’t find the nurse or the doctor?”
Billy shook his head as Doreen laid out a blanket across the table and topped it with a clean sheet. Maisie set Lizzie down.
“No, Miss,” replied Billy. “And every time we tried to pick Lizzie up, she screamed, so I knew we’d never get ’er to the ’ospital, that’s if they would take the nipper.” He paused, shaking his head. “The ’ospitals might be run by the council now, but it don’t seem to ’ave changed much, not really.”
Maisie nodded, wishing that one of Maurice’s clinics were nearby. She reached into the bag that Billy had set on a chair next to her and pulled out a white cotton mask that she placed over her nose and mouth, then secured with ties knotted behind her head. She reached into the bag again and took out a thermometer, along with a wooden speculum that she would use to depress Lizzie’s tongue. She also unpacked a small, narrow pan with a handle at each end, which she set on the table and filled with hydrogen peroxide, a makeshift form of disinfection. Taking up the thermometer, she shook it a couple of times before placing it between the soft folds of skin under Lizzie’s armpit. Then, leaning closer to Lizzie’s face, she lifted each eyelid and studied the child’s eyes. She shook her head, gently opening the cherry-red lips a little wider, and pressed down on Lizzie’s tongue.
“Closer with the light, Billy.”
Billy leaned over, holding the oil lamp close with both hands.
“She’s been sick for about four or five days now, hasn’t she?” Maisie removed the instrument, and set it down on the table, running her hand across Lizzie’s forehead as she did so, then reached for the thermometer, leaning toward the light to study the result.
Billy and his wife nodded together, then Doreen spoke. “At first we thought she was getting better, then she started to get worse, and now this.” She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and leaned against Billy. “What do you think’s wrong with her, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie looked up. “She has diphtheria, Doreen. The tell-tale thick gray membrane has formed across her throat, she has severe inflammation of the tonsils and adenoids, she has a temperature like a furnace and she must be taken to the fever hospital immediately. There is absolutely no time to lose when the disease has progressed this far.” She turned to Billy. “If I’m right, I think the nearest is in Stockwell. If we take her to another hospital, we will most certainly be turned away, money or no money. But we must act immediately. Doreen, come with me, we’ll go now. I have room for only one passenger, and you’re the child’s mother. We’ll use this sheet and blanket to wrap her.” She took off her mask and went to the sink to rinse the instruments, which she wrapped in a clean cotton towel before replacing them in her bag. “Now, here’s the important thing: You have got to disinfect this whole house. Normally I would say to burn the sheets, but linen doesn’t come cheap, so take all the sheets and blankets and boil them in the copper—and I mean all of them and I mean a rolling boil with disinfectant. As soon as you can, get all the children up and into a tin bath with disinfectant. Scrub everything, Billy, everything. Scrub yourselves, the children, everything and everyone. Throw away any milk in the larder. Keep the windows closed against that air out there. Leave no stone unturned. Boil the children’s clothes. You’ve got four more children in this house, and they’re all at risk. Make sure they’ve all got handkerchiefs, and check for cuts, which you must cover with a clean dressing. Here—” She took a roll of paper-wrapped bandage from her bag. “Children get cuts and you don’t even know about them, but it’s a way to spread the disease. You’ll probably have the inspector around tomorrow in any case, and they may take them in as a precaution. Now, we can’t spare any more time.” She gathered her belongings, but stopped to issue one last instruction, directed at Doreen’s pregnant sister, who was already banking up the fire to heat the water. “You must be doubly careful, madam.” She took a clean mask out of her bag. “This may be overdoing it, but please wear this whenever you are with the children. At least until they have all been examined.”