She sat in front of the fire for a moment or two longer, then, sighing, she moved to her desk, reached for the telephone receiver and placed a call to Duncan at Georgina’s flat. As luck would have it, he was there alone and agreed to see her in an hour. She was sure that Duncan and Quentin would recount their respective conversations with her to each other, so she took the liberty of inquiring as to where she might find Quentin and was directed to the Chelsea Arts Club, where he would most likely be playing snooker all afternoon.
As Maisie replaced the receiver, she wondered if Alex had confided details of their meeting to his friends. She was still uneasy upon recalling their conversation and the leisurely way he shared confidences. Was she being manipulated? She reconsidered the conversation at the party, the manner of Haywood and Trayner in particular, keeping quiet as Alex Courtman regaled her with tales of the past. It occurred to her that he was perhaps too keen to deflect her attention back to earlier times.
Turning the knob at the side of the gas fire, Maisie shut off the jets and looked around the office. Everything was tidy, all notes and files were neat and not one single item was out of place. She stood for some time, thinking of Billy and Doreen Beale, the rush to admit Lizzie to the hospital, the raging fever that was a portent for what was to come and the anguish of losing their child. How was it, then, for them to return home, for them to touch her clothes and, given the circumstances of her death, to burn everything that was hers?
Closing the door, she secured the room, turning keys in two locks and checking the handle once to ensure that it was safe. As she stepped out into the square, the cold caught her cheeks and she slammed the door behind her, again taking care to check the lock—she might not come back to the office until tomorrow morning when, she hoped, Billy would return to work. Thoughts of work brought her firmly back to the case of Nick Bassington-Hope, whereupon she looked at her watch and set off toward the MG, which she’d parked around the corner in Warren Street. Had she waited just one more moment, Maisie would have seen two men walk across the square to the building she had just left and open the door with ease. One of those men she would have recognized, though she did not know his identity.
DUNCAN HAYWOOD OPENED the door before Maisie had a chance to knock. As at their first meeting, Maisie thought he resembled a small creature that scurried back and forth, squirreling away supplies for a long winter. His clothing was precise: a well-tailored but well-worn tweed suit, a clean shirt and tie and polished shoes. Had he made the effort to ensure a good impression during her visit? Would he usually be more relaxed, perhaps like Courtman, or Nick Bassington-Hope? Though the thought had not occurred to her in such a way before, Maisie concluded that Nick had been very much the leader of the group.
“Miss Dobbs, lovely to see you again.” He reached forward to take her hand. “May I take your coat?”
“Thank you for agreeing to a meeting—and no, don’t worry about my coat, I’m still a bit cold.” Maisie smiled, shook hands and entered the flat, taking up the same seat as before, with Duncan settling onto the chesterfield in the same place that Alex had previously chosen.
“I take it that Alex and Georgina are both out today?” She slipped her gloves off, laid them in her lap and unwound her scarf.
“Yes, Alex is looking at a studio-cum-bed-sitting-room to rent, and Georgina is probably with Lord Bradley.”
“Lord Bradley?”
Duncan smirked. “A joke, Miss Dobbs. It’s a nickname we have for him, Quentin, Alex and I, and of course, Nick, when he was alive.” He paused, as if to gauge her sense of humor. “After all, the man is trying to be British to the core, what with his suits for the City, tweeds for shooting and you should see him on a horse! Tailored jodhpurs, hacking jacket, the lot, and he rides to hounds with the West Kent, and occasionally with the Old Surrey, you know. Then, of course, he opens his mouth.”
Maisie thought the man’s manner snobbish and felt like saying as much, but instead put a question to him. “Duncan, I wonder if you can tell me more about your relationship with Nick, and about your life down in Dungeness—even though you live in Hythe now, and are newly married.” She smiled. “Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thank you.” He smiled in return, hesitating in a manner that suggested he was measuring his response to the question. “I’ve known Nick since before the war, as you know—so I won’t repeat old news.”
She inclined her head, acknowledging his subtle reference to her information gathering and her understanding that there were few secrets between the friends. But few did not eliminate the possibility that there might be one or two important facts not shared, and Maisie suspected that Alex might not have revealed all the details of the meeting to Duncan.
“I was as close as one could be to Nick, to tell you the truth. Georgina was his closest confidant, though a chap can’t tell his sister everything, can he?” The question was rhetorical; there was no pause for a reply. “We were all in the same boat, frankly. A bit broke, wanting some peace and quiet, and the coast provided exactly the environment we were looking for, plus there was the added attraction of railway carriages being sold off on the cheap and a community of artists coming together in Dungeness. Most have gone now, not everyone can hack that weather and the coast can be bleak. Of course, Nick was really coming back and forth a lot to London, as he began to enjoy a level of success that we three could only dream of, to tell you the truth. Mind you, ‘success’ is a loose term to an artist, Miss Dobbs. Success is when you can afford food on the table, your canvasses and oils and to put a new shirt on your back. But Nick was just making it, just getting to that point where the money was coming through in larger quantities.”
“But I thought Bradley had been purchasing his work for years.”
“He had, but not only does Lord Bradley drive a hard bargain—I think it’s in the blood—Svenson also takes a cut, then there’s all sorts of others to pay when you have an exhibition. And you obviously know that Nick was more or less bankrolling the activities of his brother.”
“I knew he helped him out.”
He smirked again. “Oh, to have that kind of helping out!” Standing, Duncan moved to lean against the mantelpiece, but instead kneeled down to light the paper, kindling and coals already set in the grate. The fire did not catch immediately, so for a few seconds longer Duncan’s attention was drawn to the kindling. Maisie looked on, noticing that an old packing crate had been put to good use, the black lettering still visible across one or two shards of splintered wood. Almost mindlessly, Maisie read the word: Stein. As Duncan struck yet another match, Maisie looked around the room, drawn, as she was nowadays, to the paintings. A new landscape had been added to the wall above the cocktail cabinet, a rather modern work not to her taste. She wondered, once again, what it would be like to have sufficient funds to part with money for something that wasn’t actually useful.