Turning over yet again, Maisie’s divergent thoughts began to blend, with her conscious mind finally giving way to fatigue. She had come to learn that there was often a theme to her work, as if in the dance with fate, cases would come to her that at first seemed unrelated, but were connected, perhaps by emotions raised in the search for truth or by a similarity of circumstance. Since the very day that Georgina Bassington-Hope had retained her services, she had been mindful of the web of connection that existed among that rarified community of people who had money and power. She considered the threads that linked those who wanted high office dearly, and those who would put them there; the relationship between those who wanted something so much that they would pay handsomely to own it, and those who would acquire that object of desire for them.
And couldn’t it be argued that the artist wielded uncommon power? One only had to look at the propaganda created by Nick Bassington-Hope. The gift of a creative dexterity gave him the power to move a population to think in a certain way, and to direct the actions of people accordingly. In the moments before sleep finally claimed her, Maisie remembered seeing a group of students clustered around a recruitment bill on the station wall at Cambridge in the autumn of 1914. It challenged them to do their bit for King and Country. GO NOW, BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE! She was a shameless eavesdropper, listening to the to and fro of words as the young men considered a slogan that amounted to a dare. They concluded that it would be a “jolly good show” and left the station bound for the enlistment office. Now that was power, and Nick Bassington-Hope was ashamed of it. And, in truth, wasn’t she too a little ashamed? Ashamed that she had used the power available to her to attain a flat of her own, when the Beales were struggling to share their home, their food and the income of one man with another family?
MAISIE WAS NOT in the best of moods when she arrived at the office the following morning. Having risen early, she left the house before six, planning to visit the Beales. As she drove down the narrow cobblestone street with terraced houses on each side, she saw a gray fever ambulance outside Billy and Doreen’s house. She parked behind the vehicle in time to see three children being brought out wrapped in red blankets. Already a clutch of local street urchins formed a standing audience to the scene, holding their collars and chanting:“Touch collar,Never swallow,Never catch the fever!Touch collar,Never swallow,Never catch the fever!”
Billy came from the house to send them on their way, shaking his fist as they ran up the road, still singing. He seemed as gray as the vehicle into which his middle child had been gently placed, along with Doreen’s sister’s two children. Turning to go back into the house, he saw Maisie.
“You didn’t ’ave to come, Miss. You did enough last night.”
“What’s happening, Billy? Do you have news of Lizzie?”
“I came ’ome a couple of ’ours ago; Doreen stayed. They didn’t like it, at the ’ospital, but she weren’t leaving with our Lizzie so ill. And what with the poor little scraps all lined up in cots, it’s a wonder they can keep an eye on all of ’em, though Lizzie is in a special ward, because of the operation.” He paused and rubbed his eyes. “They operated as soon as she went in there, had to do the cut ’ere.” He drew a finger across his throat. “Took out ’er tonsils. And she’s been given injections of antisomething or other.”
Maisie nodded. “What do they say?”
“It’s touch and go. They say they’re surprised she’s still alive, still fighting. What with ’er bein’ so young. They said they thought they’d lost ’er in the operating theater, but she started to pick up again. Shocked all of ’em, it did. Like I said, it’s touch and go though. And now they’re taking the others, all except the eldest, who’s not showing any symptoms. Inspector said that was because ’e’s older and in school. They pick up something there to protect ’em, what did the man call it?” Billy shook his head, his exhaustion plain to see.
“He probably has an immunity, Billy. And the others aren’t as far gone as Lizzie. Do you want a lift back to the hospital?”
Billy kicked his foot against the step. “But what about my job, Miss? Can’t afford to be out of work, can I?”
Maisie shook her head. “Look, let’s not worry about that now. I’ll drop you at the hospital. Mind you, I daresay the matron will give you your marching orders; they don’t like family waiting. Our matron used to complain all the time about family getting in the way, and that was at visiting time. Even the doctors were terrified of her. Anyway, come back to work when you’re ready, Billy.”
Later, as Billy was about to get out of the MG at the fever hospital in Stockwell, he turned to Maisie. “There’s many an employer would ’ave put me on the street for this little how-d’you-do. I won’t forget it, y’know.”
“It’s not important, Billy.” She sighed. “Just keep imagining Lizzie at home, back to her old self. Don’t see the sickness. See the life in your child. It’s the best thing you can do.”
MAISIE COULD NOT help but reflect upon her thoughts from the night before. Certainly there was plenty to inspire her, for as she made her way around London she could see men on their way to join the lines for assistance, or queues at factories where it was said a man could find work. And there were those who predicted that the situation would get even worse before it got better.
Feeling the anger, and shame, rise again, Maisie tempted her thoughts even more as she watched the exodus out in search of a job. Many of the men limped along, others bore scars on their faces or wore the expression of those embattled to a point where any last vestige of optimism had been lost. These were men—and women—whose country had needed them but who were now without a means to support themselves. They were the forgotten heroes now waging another battle for honor.
Slamming the door of her office, Maisie was in high dudgeon as she picked up the telephone receiver and dialed Scotland Yard. She asked to be put through to Detective Inspector Stratton.
“Yes!” The detective sounded rushed.
“Detective Inspector Stratton, I’d like to have a word with you this morning. Can you be at the usual caff, at around half past eleven?” She was aware of her clipped tone, but did nothing to correct her manner.
“All right. I assume it’s something important.”
“Important, Inspector? Well, you can tell me when we meet whether Harry Bassington-Hope is important or not.” She did not wait to hear a response before setting the black telephone receiver back in its cradle.
Maisie looked at her watch, then the clock. Georgina Bassington-Hope would arrive in approximately half an hour. There was time to compose herself before the meeting, which she was dreading, so much so that part of her did not want to become settled at all, but wanted to encounter her client with the fury that had been building since she arrived home last night. The telephone rang.
“Fitzroy—”
“Maisie.”
“Oh, hello, Andrew.”
“You don’t sound pleased to hear from me.”
Maisie shook her head, even though the caller, Andrew Dene, could not see her. “No, not at all. Just a bit pressed, that’s all.”
“You’re always pressed, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
As far as Maisie was concerned, it was the wrong comment, at the wrong time, the match that lit bone-dry tinder. “Well, Andrew, perhaps I am. Perhaps a dying child is a pressing thing, or a murdered artist. Perhaps you should go back to whatever you were doing and leave me alone to my pressing things!”