Georgina nodded and was about to close the door when Maisie turned to her one last time. “Oh, by the way, are you acquainted with a Mr. Stein?”
Georgina frowned and shook her head rather too fiercely as she replied, “No. The only Stein I know is Gertrude.”
MAISIE WONDERED IF she had gone too far with Georgina. What do I know about journalism, to be advising her? Then she reconsidered. The woman was clearly grief-stricken over her brother’s death, but wasn’t it also true that her actions since that time reflected a need to have some of her old power back? Bullying the police had led her, in frustration and anguish, to Dame Constance, who had in turn led her to Maisie. And now, of course, she was fueling her emotions with an adulterous affair. Georgina had been known as a maverick in the war, a young woman who went too far, who pushed as hard as she could—indeed, she had been something of a cause célèbre among the alumnae of Girton College. Her bravery had inspired a notoriety that even her detractors could not fail to admire. But now, with no cause to champion, no passionate call to arms to draw out her skill with words, no treacherous game of risk to excite her, her language had become flabby, her interest in her assignments minimal. It did not take an expert in journalism to understand what had happened.
Maisie continued to consider Georgina as she drove south toward the Romney Marshes. She had succumbed to the same failing that she had warned Billy against, having become resentful of those with greater means, their ability to indulge themselves when so many were vainly clutching at any semblance of hope. As she watched the new suburbs give way to the frost-laden apple orchards of Kent, she recalled the nightclub, the dancing and the home that she returned to each night, and Maisie flushed. Am I not becoming such a person? And she wondered, again, whether her chosen service truly amounted to a contribution of some account.
DUSK WAS ON the verge of night as Maisie drove from Lydd along the road to Dungeness. Though the land was barren, with few houses and a cold wind blowing up from the beach, she managed to park the car on the side of the road, where it was shielded by an overhanging tree. She wrapped her scarf around her neck, pulled her cloche down as far as she could and took her knapsack from the passenger seat, then set off in the direction of the beach. She had taken a small torch from her knapsack but did not use it, preferring to stabilize the night vision she would rather depend upon, along with her memory of the route to Nick Bassington-Hope’s railway carriage home. She walked as quickly as possible, but took care to be as light of step as she could.
Reluctantly, she flicked on the torch every fifty or so yards to get her bearings. Finally, with salt-filled sea air whipping across her face, she came up to the front door of the cottage, having taken care to move into the shadows as the lighthouse beam swung around onto the beach. Her gloved fingertips were numb as she removed the key from her coat pocket. She sniffed against the chill air and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and squinted. Turning against the side of the carriage so that the glow of her torch could not be detected, she flashed the light to illuminate the lock, pressed the key home and gained entrance, extinguishing the torch as she stepped into the carriage. Closing the door behind her, she moved with speed to pull down the black blinds, though she would not use the lamps. Even a sliver of light might give her away.
With the torch, she inspected the cottage to see whether there were any signs that others had been there since her previous visit. The stove was as she had left it, the counterpane seemed untouched. She moved into the studio, directing the beam to the walls, to the chair, the paints, the easel. The greatcoat was still in the closet and as she touched the thick woolen fabric once again, Maisie shivered. She returned to the main living room, this time using her torch to inspect the mural once again. Yes, Nick Bassington-Hope was a talented artist, though she wondered what others had thought when they looked at the mural. Did they note what she had seen, ask themselves the same questions? And what of Amos White—had Nick ever invited him in? Could he have seen the mural? If so, he must have felt threatened. Nick Bassington-Hope told stories with his work, transposing images of those he knew onto his depiction of the myths and legends that inspired him. She touched the faces and thought of the triptych. But what if the story were true, and the faces known to others as well as to Nick? That, most definitely, would constitute a risk.
Maisie pushed one of the armchairs close to the window, then pulled the counterpane from the bed. She would have loved to light the fire but could not risk even a wisp of smoke being seen from the beach, so she settled into the chair, wrapping the counterpane around her body as she did so. She reached into the knapsack and took out cheese and pickle sandwiches and a bottle of R. White’s Dandelion and Burdock. The set of the blind allowed the barest snip of a view out to the beach. It was all that she needed, for now. She tucked into her food, stopping to listen between each mouthful. Then she waited.
Fearing the magnetic pull of sleep, Maisie went through the entire case in her mind, from the moment of that first encounter with Georgina Bassington-Hope. Admittedly, she was intrigued by the group of friends—she had never engaged with such people before—though at the same time she felt ill at ease with the company her client kept, and it was not simply a matter of money, upbringing or class. No, these people did not live by the same rules; their behavior both fascinated and intimidated her. The house in Tenterden came to mind. There was none of the familiarity that inspires a sense of security. Everything she touched seemed to challenge the accepted way of living, with color and texture assaulting the senses in a way that she had never before experienced. Had she not felt seduced by the audacity of the family, by the fact that they dared to be different? She sighed. This case resembled Stig Svenson’s Gallery, the exhibition hall designed so that only one piece was truly visible at a time, so the attention of the viewer was not distracted by the next piece or the next. She seemed able to consider only one clue, one item of evidence at any one time.
Feeling the gritty sensation of fatigue in her eyes, Maisie squirmed in the chair, pulling the counterpane around her again to fight the cold. It was then that she heard the crunch of boots on the pathway that led down to the shingle bank and then the beach. Moving to the gap between window and blind, Maisie squinted to see better. The shadowed figures tramped toward the bank, drawn by an ever-brighter light that beamed up from the beach. She heard raised voices, then the heavy rumble of a lorry. It was time for her to make her move.
Replacing the counterpane and chair took barely a minute. She checked both rooms once with her torch, and then left by the back door. Though it seemed as if each footfall reverberated into the night air with an increasingly loud echo, she knew that the men would hear nothing, the sound caught up and carried away by the cold wind. Maisie stepped forward with care, using old barrels, the sides of other cottages and any fixture available to disguise her approach toward the activity, which was now illuminated by lanterns.
Maisie took her chance, leaning around the corner of an old shed to ensure her way was clear. Then, stooping, she ran to cover alongside the remains of an old fishing boat, its clinker-built sides having given way to rot as it languished, spent and broken, until someone deemed it ready for the fire. She caught her breath, the bitterly cold air razor sharp in her throat and chest, then closed her eyes for a second, before she took a chance to look out from her hiding place.
A large fishing boat had made landfall and been winched up the beach. On the boat, the Draper brothers from Hastings, together with Amos White, moved back and forth, easing large wooden containers from the deck onto the shingle, where Duncan and Quentin took the contraband and carried it to the waiting lorry. Barely a word passed between the men, though when a voice was raised, it was invariably that of the fourth man on the boat—the man who had instigated the beating of Harry Bassington-Hope, the man whose face was depicted in the mural on the dead man’s carriage wall. Maisie remained in place for another moment, observing, working out who was who, which man wielded power. Clearly the fishermen were mere puppets, doing what many had done for centuries to augment the meager income of the fisherfolk. The artists seemed confident, knowing exactly what they were doing, and the other man, the man who came from the underworld of London—what was his role? Maisie watched closely. He isn’t a lackey, and he isn’t the boss either—but he does have power. It was time to leave, to move on, to be ready for what she anticipated would come next. And as she moved, she knew the dice had just rolled from her cupped hand across the table