“Maisie, that was absolutely uncalled for. You are not the only person in the world with demands upon them, or the only person who’s ever had to deal with death—come down to my neck of the woods and you’ll see that!”
“Andrew, I—”
“We can talk about this when we meet. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, there’s much to be laid on the table.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right.”
“Well, I’d better go, Maisie. You’re busy—and I know from experience that this is not the time to extend our conversation. I’ll be in touch.”
There was a click on the line. Maisie slammed the telephone down in frustration and pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. It was not how she had intended to end her courtship. She knew that she had been curt, her manner unforgivable. She had allowed her sadness regarding the sick child to become anger, which didn’t help anyone. But she had to put the exchange to the back of her mind—there was a morning of work to get through.
Another woman might have waited by the telephone, expecting the ring that would herald the start of a conversation where contrition was expressed on both sides. Or she might have picked up the receiver, poised to utter I’m sorry. But Maisie was already considering the comment she had made. A murdered artist. Though she had wanted to keep an open mind for as long as possible, and despite the fact that she had suggested to Billy that to accept the Bassington-Hope case as a murder investigation would move their work along, she had not until this moment made a declaration of her personal feelings about the matter. And now she had. Burdened by emotion, had her intuition spoken? Andrew Dene was almost forgotten as Maisie leaned over the case map and prepared to meet Georgina Bassington-Hope, who, she thought, was not quite above suspicion herself, despite the feelings expressed, hand on heart, when they first met.
Maisie was about to make a notation on the map when the telephone rang again. She was inclined not to answer it—she wasn’t ready to speak to Dene yet; she didn’t really know what to say—but when the caller did not give up, she relented.
“Maisie, I am glad I’ve caught you.” Lady Rowan spoke before Maisie could give her number.
“Lady Rowan, how good to hear from you. Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Well, no, not really, that’s why I’ve taken the liberty of telephoning you at your office.”
Maisie sat down at her desk. “It’s not a liberty, Lady Rowan. Is there something I can help you with?” She ran the telephone cord through her fingers.
Lady Rowan continued. “Actually, I hope I am about to help you. Look, I know this is none of my business, and I did think that perhaps I ought not place the call, but—you know me—I have to speak as I find.” She paused, and when Maisie did not respond, went on. “It was seeing you with the Bassington-Hope woman, I just wanted to know—are you good friends?”
“She’s an acquaintance. I was invited to Bassington Place for tea on Saturday, and when the weather closed in, they insisted I stay until the following day.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“What do you mean?”
The woman sighed. “I’ve known the Bassington-Hopes for years, since before Piers and Emma were married. You could say it was a marriage made in heaven, two art lovers coming together. I know that sounds all very romantic, but I wanted to warn you.”
“About what?”
“Oh dear, this is so hard to explain without seeming terribly narrow, but I felt you should know what type of people they are—how they work, so to speak.”
“Work?”
“All right, I am just going to launch in—it’s my way and at least I will have said my piece.”
“Go on.”
“The Bassington-Hopes have always been spoiled, both before their marriage, and afterward. Their way of life is completely indulgent, and it’s rubbed off on their children. Now, I know there’s no law against all that; however, such people can be dangerous—not in an aggressive manner, you understand—but in the way they use people.” She paused. “I’ve seen it happen. They seem to collect people, people who interest them—even artists can get bored with one another, after all. It is as if they suck upon those who are chosen to entertain them, then spit them out when they are done—then they move on to someone else.”
“Oh dear…Lady Rowan, if I may say so, that sounds rather harsh.”
“I am not saying that there’s something terrible in the way they do things, Maisie, and one feels desperately sorry for them, losing their son in that accident—I read the obituary. Awful business, that accident.” She paused, taking a deep breath before speaking again of the reason for her telephone call. “And you know, they can be enormous fun. But when they are no longer interested, when they’ve taken what you have to give, they drop you. One can never feel safe with them.”
“I see.”
“Do you, Maisie? Have my comments made me sound like an old fusspot? I was worried because I feared such a thing might be happening to you. I know you are terribly clever and can see this sort of thing for yourself, but I wanted to make sure—you’re just the sort of person they would draw into their circle, someone interesting, someone with something to say. Then when you were comfortable, you’d find that their curiosity had waned, and someone you thought to be your true friend wasn’t, after all. I don’t think that makes them bad, or even that they do it consciously. As I said, you can see it in their children, except perhaps that older girl—she must be forty by now. Didn’t she lose her husband in the war? Poor dear. I remember we were invited to a party when she was sixteen or thereabouts. The house was full of all sorts of people—like puppets in a play, I felt—but there was no one there for her, none of the younger set. Instead there were all those supposedly bright lights with new ideas—politicians, writers, artists, professors—even a royal presence.”
“I understand—and I know it isn’t like you to speak out of turn, so I appreciate your candor. Thank you for your concern, Lady Rowan, and for taking the trouble to telephone.”
“And I haven’t poked my nose where it doesn’t belong?”
“Of course not. I hope you always draw my attention to such things. And the conversation will remain between us.”
“Yes, I know that, Maisie. I can trust you.”
MAISIE SET THE telephone receiver back on the cradle and remained seated and still for some moments. Lady Rowan’s warning had illuminated a dark corner in Maisie’s understanding of the Bassington-Hope family, a blind spot where feelings of doubt and a lack of trust had been seeded. Now I know why I could not feel safe. She had been an audience to the Bassington-Hope show, a performance that went on despite the shadow of death. She thought about Nick and Georgina, and could see where the traits described by Lady Rowan had manifested in the children. Nick using real people in his paintings, despite the fact that he risked causing pain or embarrassment to another—yet, for the most part, those same people were drawn back to him. Then Georgina, throwing a party full of “interesting” people, inviting a controversial politician, drawing energy from the bright lights she gathered around her.
To her surprise, Maisie felt a wave of tenderness for Georgina. Where Lady Rowan saw a woman who used others, Maisie saw one who hungered for the attention and associations that would define her. Could it be that her past accomplishments meant little to her now? Maisie stood up and began to pace back and forth. She looked at her watch. Georgina would be here soon, and she wanted to consider the conversation with Lady Rowan before meeting her client. The Bassington-Hope offspring clearly had flaws—don’t we all, she thought—but how might such flaws have contributed to Nick’s death? That was her main concern, as was building respect between Georgina and herself. She remembered a discussion with Maurice, years ago, when there was an obvious disconnect between her mentor and a new client. Maurice discussed the issue of character with Maisie. “I don’t particularly like the man. However, I do respect him. I suspect his feelings toward me are the same. I’ve come to the conclusion that liking a person we are required to have dealings with is not of paramount importance, Maisie. But respect is crucial, on both sides, as is tolerance, and a depth of understanding of those influences that sculpt a character.”