Messenger of Truth

There was no need for Maisie to turn her key in the lock, no need for her to twist the handle, lean on the door and then enter her office. The door was already wide open, the lock forced for someone to gain entry. Someone who had no thought for the faithfully maintained system of index cards or the detailed files kept in a cabinet alongside Maisie’s desk. The room was strewn with paper, with letters and cards. Drawers were pulled open, a chair was on its side, even a china cup had been broken as those who had gained unlawful entry had gone through in search of—what?

“Crikey, miss.” Sandra stepped forward and reached down, unbuttoning her coat as she did so. “This won’t take—”

“Don’t touch a thing!” Maisie surveyed the scene. “No, leave everything as it is.”

“Shouldn’t you call the police?”

Maisie had already considered that the two men might well have been police themselves, given Stratton’s strange behavior recently and the fact that he was working with the other man, Vance. No, she would deal with this herself. She shook her head. “I don’t think I will.” She sighed, appraising the task ahead of her, wondering how she might bring order to the chaos. “Sandra, do you know anyone who could fit a new lock, someone handy?”

The young woman nodded. “Yes. I do. Sort of why I came to you.”

“I’m sorry, Sandra. Look, let me deal with this first, then—”

“You stay right here, miss. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Where are you going?”

“Well, Eric don’t work at Ebury Place anymore. He’s working for Reg Martin, at the garage, now. He can turn his hand to anything, can Eric, so I’ll get him up here. He’ll put in a new lock for you.” Sandra pulled on her gloves and stood with her hand on the door frame. “And if I were you, miss, I’d close this door and shove that desk in front of it until I get back. Won’t be long.”

Maisie heard the door slam as Sandra left the building. Negotiating papers strewn across the floor, she stepped over to the table where she had worked on the case map with Billy. Usually the map was locked away each time they left the office, but this time…this time, she had slipped up, leaving the diagram of their progress on the Bassington-Hope case laid out ready to resume work when Billy returned tomorrow. Now the map was gone.

Fourteen

Maisie was exhausted by the time she arrived home. Once inside the empty flat, she collapsed into a chair without taking off her coat. The death of Lizzie Beale had taken its toll and now the burglary at her office added to her fatigue. She reached to ignite the gas fire, then leaned back into the chair again. The child’s passing had touched her deeply, and she knew it was not only because the death of one so young is always particularly wrenching—certainly she was not the only one to wonder what picture it painted of a country, of a government, when the life of a child was allowed to slip away, when a parent could not summon medical help for want of the money—but she remembered the first time she held Lizzie. The way in which the child buried her face into the crook of her neck, her dimpled hand holding on to a single button on her blouse, had left Maisie feeling bereft when she was taken from her. It was the child’s warmth and closeness as she clung to Maisie that had caused her to realize she was lonely, that there was a longing for a deeper connection in her life.

Slipping to the floor, Maisie rested against the seat of the chair and held her hands out toward the fire. She felt vulnerable, invaded. The image of the broken lock flashed through her mind; the memories of shredded wood where the door had been forced and the paper and cards strewn across the floor conspired to unsettle her even further. Who has stolen our case map? Could it have been those men she had seen with Harry Bassington-Hope? Surely they would not have taken the case map. Was it a consolation prize snatched by intruders who didn’t know what they wanted but were simply led by instinct? Could they have been hired by Bradley, perhaps expecting to find a clue to the whereabouts of the triptych? Might it have been Duncan and Quentin whom she had so recently unsettled? They’ve something to hide.

Or could it have been Nick Bassington-Hope’s killer? Sandra said she had seen two men. Could two men have killed the artist? She asked herself again if Harry’s gangland associates could have taken the life of his brother. Maisie rubbed her eyes and slipped the coat from her shoulders, reaching behind her to drape it over the seat of the chair. Sandra. She’d never discovered why Sandra had come to her; instead, distracted by the vandalism of her property, the young woman’s offer of help had been accepted with little more said.

By the time Sandra returned with Eric, who carried a bag of tools and a new lock, Maisie had cleared the office and begun to file papers and cards. The door was soon repaired. With every bone aching for rest, Maisie returned home. It was only when she sat gazing at the gas jets that she realized she hadn’t discovered the reason for Sandra’s visit, although she remembered, as the couple made their way toward the Warren Street underground station, her former maid’s arm was linked through that of the young man at her side.

Despite checking and double-checking the integrity of locks on the front and back doors and the windows, Maisie could not settle and slept fitfully. Though she had loved the idea of a ground-floor flat, with a back door that led out onto the postage stamp of a lawn, she now wondered if her choice of home were not somewhat precarious for a woman in her line of work. Not that she expected to have much to do with those who would cause her harm, though perhaps the fact that she had no such expectation demonstrated a naïveté on her part.

MAISIE WAS ON her hands and knees in the office the following morning when she heard the front door thump closed against the wind and Billy Beale’s distinctive footfall on the stairs. She clambered to her feet as her assistant entered the office.

“Bloody ’ell…”

Maisie smiled. “I’ve broken the back of the job, but we’ve got our work cut out for us today.” She smiled and came toward him, touching him lightly on the sleeve. “Do you feel up to it, Billy?”

With the semblance of a man in his sixties, not his thirties, Billy nodded. “Got to earn my keep, Miss.” He paused, taking off his coat and hanging it on the hook at the back of the door, along with his flat cap and scarf. A black cloth band stiched around the upper arm of his jacket signaled his state of mourning. “And to tell you the truth, what with one thing and another, it’s best for me, is this. Doreen’s sister started with the baby this morning, so there’s no room for me—or for Jim, ’e’s out looking for work again. So, it’s best if I’m out of it. Give something for Doreen to think about. They’ve got to get ready for the other nippers bein’ allowed ’ome soon as well. Anyway, the woman from up the road, the one who’s there for all the babies ’round our way, was just coming in the door when I was leaving, so I’m in no ’urry to go back there.”

“Is Doreen coping?”

“I should say she’s keepin’ ’er ’ead above the water, Miss. Just. It’s all a bit strange, to tell you the truth. There we are, you know, just lost our little girl, and there’s a baby about to come into the world. And what to? What sort of life is it? I tell you, Miss, I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’, but me and Doreen’ve been talkin’ and we’ve laid it out for ourselves, for our boys.”