“I see.” Maisie consulted her watch again. “You know, I do have one last question—for now, anyway. You hinted that if Nick was murdered, then your life might be at risk. What caused you to say that?”
Georgina shook her head. “I think I was being overcautious. It’s just that Nick and I did the same kind of work, the same things were important to us. It’s hard to explain, but we both wanted to do something with our chosen fields. I didn’t want to just doodle away with words, I wanted to write exactly what I saw when I was driving an ambulance in France. Nick wanted to do the same thing with his art, whether it was to show the beauty of nature or the violence of men and beasts.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“Do you think he was murdered?” She looked directly at Maisie.
“There is compelling evidence to support the pathologist’s conclusion that his death was the result of an accident, though I have a feeling in my heart—as you do—that the truth is not quite as straightforward. I believe we have made progress this morning, Georgina. I will be leaving for Dungeness again on Wednesday, but I would ask you not to tell anyone else that I will be there. I plan to go to the gallery again, and to pay a visit to Mr. Bradley. But, I cannot continue to feign a passing interest in Nick for much longer. Inevitably, others outside your family will learn that I am investigating your brother’s death.”
“And what tack will you take in these meetings?”
Maisie tapped the index cards with her pen. “If Nick sought to illustrate personal or universal truths, there are many who must have been touched by his work. Some might have been grateful for such enlightenment, but as experience taught Nick in the trenches, people do not always like to see what is so, especially if they see themselves reflected in the brutal honesty of the artist. I’m curious to know how he touched his more immediate audience—friends and associates—with his work. You see, if Nick was the victim of a crime, it is more than possible that he knew his killer. Which means that you are likely known to that person too.”
“INSPECTOR, I’M SORRY I’m late. My first appointment of the day went on a bit.” Maisie took off her scarf and placed it on the back of the chair facing Stratton, who was already sipping tea. “Another cup?”
“No, thank you, this will do.”
“Then you won’t mind waiting while I just fetch myself some.”
Maisie returned with a cup of strong tea from the urn and a plate of toast and jam, setting them down before taking her place at the table.
“So, Miss Dobbs, what is it this time?”
“Inspector, as I said before, I am most grateful to you for supporting Miss Bassington-Hope’s decision to seek my help—though, as we have established, the purpose was to keep her occupied and out of your hair. However, what has become clear to me is that something else is going on. Now, I appreciate that your investigations are your own business, but you must have known that I would stumble across the fact that you—and the Flying Squad chappie—have an intense interest in the activities of Harry Bassington-Hope.”
Stratton shook his head. “I told them you would find out.”
“Vance?”
“I even told them you would know his name in short order.”
“And whose idea was it to deliver Doris to her place of surveillance without regard for who might be watching?”
Stratton sighed. “All right, so you know there’s been an interest in young Harry.”
“You’re going to have to tell me more than that, Inspector. I seem to have become enmeshed in your work without being asked if I minded!”
Stratton shook his head, and took a sip of tea. “Harry Bassington-Hope, as you probably already know, has got himself involved with some rather undesirable people. In fact, undesirable is an understatement. Typical story, the odd flutter on the gee-gees or seat at the card table became something of a regular pastime, and the gambling habit, together with some of the types he meets in those clubs, led him deeper into debt with people one should never be indebted to.”
“How does this all connect to his brother?”
“I’m getting to that, though we doubt if there’s a direct connection, apart from the elder Bassington-Hope bailing out the younger from time to time. No, the reason why there was a collaboration between departments, between myself and Vance, is that a small-time punter one step shy of crooked—another Harry Bassington-Hope type—was found dead a couple of months ago, we believe murdered by the very same men that Harry is indebted to.”
“Harry’s the mouse to catch the big cat, is that it?”
“Yes. We are simply watching and waiting.”
“So, again, Inspector, the connection—or not—to the death of the artist?”
“Nick Bassington-Hope tripped over his feet on scaffolding, as we know. However, the timing was dreadful as far as our investigation was concerned. The last thing we wanted was that hot-headed sister—with her connections in Parliament, and unable to believe her beloved perfect brother could be so clumsy as to kill himself—running amok in search of a killer, ruining months of solid police work in the process.”
“I see. But what if there was no accident?”
“You mean our criminal element? No, they would have no interest in Nick Bassington-Hope. As far as we know the men at the top would not have even made a connection. Art isn’t their game.”
“What is?”
“They make a lot from the clubs—protection, that sort of thing. They’re fencing jewelry—diamonds, gold. They are involved with bank robberies. The crime barons of London, you could call them. It’s like a pyramid, from the little weasels on the ground tucking away a pound or two here and there, right up to the top, the men who run the show.”
“I see…”
“You see what?”
“Oh, you know…it’s clearer to me why you kept things quiet, though I do wish you had told me more a week ago.”
Stratton sighed. “Well, I must say, you’re doing a good job of keeping that woman quiet.”
“Am I, Inspector?”
“Yes. I’m sure we’ll have the string-pullers behind bars soon enough. We just have to keep very close to young Harry, and at some point we will nab them in the process of committing a crime.”
“Hmmm…”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Miss Dobbs?”
“Nothing, Inspector. Nothing at all.” Maisie took one last sip of tea, finished the toast, then set her cup on the saucer and reached behind her for her scarf. “By the way, how is Doris?”
“Well, I don’t think we’ll be using women in detection for a while. Wasn’t quite up to the job.”
Maisie stood up, her chair scraping against the bare floorboards. “Oh, I wouldn’t write off the likes of Doris just like that, Inspector. You never know what a woman might be able to uncover that you’ve completely missed.”
MAISIE FOUND BILLY and Doreen Beale in the waiting room of the fever hospital. “What news of the children? And Lizzie?” She had hurried into the building and was unwrapping her scarf and removing her gloves as she spoke.
Billy had his arm around Doreen, comforting her. Their faces bore the signs of strain, the skin around their eyes lined and drawn. Billy shook his head. “We’ve been waiting all night again, what with one thing and another. The eldest is at ’ome, with Doreen’s sister, and right as ninepence, and the other nippers—our Bobby, and Jim and Ada’s two—are all doin’ all right. But Lizzie…it’s still touch and go, like I said before. And we was just about to go in to see the little lass again, and they turfed us out, said there was an emergency.”