Maisie nodded, then looked around for a nurse or doctor to speak to. “Have they told you what the emergency was?”
“The poor little mite is in trouble all over ’er body. I reckon they’ve shoved some more of that antiwhatsit into ’er.” Billy faltered. “And it’s not just ’er breathin’, no, it’s ’er ’eart, her kidneys, it’s everything. She’s fighting though, by God she’s fighting.”
“I’ll see if I can find out anything more for you.” Maisie placed a hand on Doreen Beale’s shoulder, nodded at Billy, and went in search of a nurse. She had barely reached the door when a doctor came into the waiting area.
“Are you Mrs. Beale?”
“No,” replied Maisie, “I am Mr. Beale’s employer, and I have come to see if I might be of assistance to them. I was a nurse, so I have an understanding of the situation, and I brought their daughter in.”
“Good, it’s quite troublesome talking to the parents at times, especially from the East End, you know—words of one syllable, if you know what I mean.”
Maisie glowered. “No, I don’t know what you mean. The parents are perfectly capable people, but they are distraught—and they depend upon your compassion and honesty, if I may say so. Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to give me the details, and I will talk to them.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…we’ve just had a lot of children brought in overnight. Half the time the poor souls haven’t had a good meal because the father can’t get work, and the whole situation isn’t getting any better. They haven’t the heart for the fight.”
Noting his waxen skin and the way he rubbed a hand across his forehead, Maisie softened her tone, which she realized had been rather too harsh, still bearing some residue from the earlier conversation with Stratton. She had seen such strain years ago, in France, though the frontline fight was against the weaponry of war, not diseases left to flourish amid decay and want. “How is Lizzie Beale?”
The doctor sighed. “I wish I had better news. How that child is still alive beggars belief. She clearly didn’t present early signs of diphtheria, and of course it progressed until it came down hard on the poor little wretch, like a wall of bricks. As you know, we proceeded with an immediate tracheotomy, tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy, so the risk of infection is terribly high. Antitoxin was administered, but she’s fighting to keep vital organs functioning. There’s little more we can do except watch, wait and keep her as comfortable as possible.”
“And your prognosis?”
“Well, every minute she’s alive is like money in the bank. I can’t promise she’ll still be with us by this time tomorrow, though.”
Maisie felt the lump in her throat grow. “And the other Beale children?”
“Got it in time; early stages, so they are expected to make a full recovery.”
“Can the parents see Lizzie?”
The doctor shook his head. “Strict rules, you know. Matron would have my entrails for garters if she thought I’d let family in at this time.”
“Doctor, I know all about matrons. You have cause to feel as you do. However, the child is clinging to life, and the parents in turn are grasping for a shred of hope. Why not allow them to be together, just for a few minutes?”
He sighed again. “Good Lord, you will have me shot! But…oh, all right. Go and get them, then come with me.”
Nurses shook their heads as the doctor led the Beales along the corridor, first into a small anteroom where they were instructed to wash their hands and put on masks, then into a ward where the most serious cases were quarantined. Austere, iron-framed cots were lined up, each with just a sheet and rough blanket to cover the feverish body of a child. The vapor of disinfectant barely masked another lingering smell, the foul breath of death waiting for another victim to weaken.
“I’ll wait outside, just in case Matron comes along,” said Maisie. “I can bear the brunt of her temper if she finds the rules have been broken.”
The doctor nodded and was about to take the Beales to their child when Maisie spoke to the couple. “Don’t be afraid to touch her. Hold her hands, tell her you’re there, rub her feet. Let her feel you. It’s important. She’ll know…”
Maisie departed the hospital a half hour later, leaving the Beales to wait for an opportunity to see young Bobby before returning home. Billy maintained he would be at the office the following morning. Rearranging her plans as she drove to the Ritz, where she would call on Randolph Bradley, Maisie decided that a visit to Stig Svenson would be more effective tomorrow, before her visit to Dungeness. If Billy were with her at the gallery, it would provide an introduction to conversation with the caretaker. And she didn’t want to arrive at the coast too early. No, she needed to be there at dusk. To wait.
Eleven
“No, but I am sure he will see me as soon as he knows I am here.” She reached for the card. “Look, let me scribble a quick note for him on the back. Do you have an envelope?”
Maisie wrote on the card and slipped it into the envelope, then passed it back to the clerk, along with a coin. “I’m sure you can arrange for him to receive this directly.”
The man executed a short bow, then turned to another clerk, who nodded, then went on his way. Twenty minutes later, as Maisie stood waiting in the foyer, a tall, distinguished man walked toward her. She estimated him to be about six feet two inches and probably forty-five years old. His suit was impeccably tailored and indubitably English. A royal-blue kerchief had been placed in his breast pocket with a flourish and matched his tie. His shoes shone. He had one hand in his trouser pocket as he walked across the foyer and waved to the clerk with his free hand. His smile was engaging, his blue eyes sparkled. This was a very successful man, a man who seemed to excel at cultivating Englishness, though in his ease of manner, it was clear that the British Isles was not his home.
“Miss Dobbs?” The man had taken the hand from his pocket, and now held it out to her. “Randolph Bradley.”
Maisie smiled. She had only ever met one American, and that was Charles Hayden, Simon’s doctor friend, in the war. She remembered that same relaxed style, despite the gravity of his work. “It’s very good of you to see me, Mr. Bradley.”
The man looked around, clearly searching for a place conducive to private conversation. “We’ll have coffee in there.” He pointed to the dining room, where it appeared the waiters were preparing for lunch. Undeterred, Bradley simply strode to a table, stood as a waiter pulled out a chair for Maisie, then took a seat, ordering a large pot of fresh coffee as he did so.
“So, Miss Dobbs. You want to know more about my interest in Nick Bassington-Hope’s work?”
“Yes. When did he—and his work—first come to your attention, as a collector?”
Bradley reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “Let me ask a question before I say anything. Are you helping the boys in blue?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The police?”
“No, I am not. I work privately, as I said in my note, and as you can see from my card.”
“So, who’re you working for? Who’s paying you?”
“I have been asked by Georgina Bassington-Hope to conduct a limited investigation into her brother’s death. She felt that there were a few unanswered questions. In order for her to put the family’s loss behind them, Miss Bassington-Hope retained my services.”
“So are you investigating me?”
Maisie smiled. “Mr. Bradley, you are an avid collector of Mr. Bassington-Hope’s work, so he obviously spent time with you—any artist would be anxious to keep the buyer happy, is that not so?”