“Damn!” said Maisie, in anger as well as shock, for the last thing she wanted to do was to damage the carriage and the weight of the chair had caused a floorboard to push up. “Oh, that’s all I need!” She knelt to inspect the splintered floorboard, but as she leaned closer, she realized that the piece of wood had become dislodged because it wasn’t a full-length floorboard but a shorter fragment that was already loose. She hadn’t noticed it before, because it was covered by the chair. Taking hold of the torch, she shone the light into the dark narrow recess below. When she reached in, her fingers brushed against a piece of paper. She extended her hand farther, and, between finger and thumb, pulled out an envelope of some weight.
Sitting back, Maisie turned the envelope and drew the torch across to reveal the words FOR GEORGINA. She bit her lip, considering the question of integrity, then shook her head and opened the envelope. A key wrapped in a piece of paper fell out, with an address in southeast London. She allowed her hands to drop and breathed out a deep sigh. Intuition was all very well, but luck held the trump card!
After completing a quick repair of the floorboard and setting the chair on top so that the damage was not immediately visible, Maisie packed up her belongings. For the last time, she checked the cottage to ensure that she had left it as she had found it. It was just as she was about to leave, her hand on the doorknob, that she set down her bags and returned to the wardrobe in the artist’s dressing room. There was no logical explanation for her actions, and she preferred not to question what it was that inspired her to do such a thing, but she opened the wardrobe and pulled out the army greatcoat. With the sound of waves crashing onto the beach outside, and gulls whooping overhead, Maisie buried her head in the folds of rough wool, breathing in the musty smell that took her back to another time and place.
There was much she understood about Nick Bassington-Hope, even though they had never met. Having lived through death, he had discovered life again, but with war’s horror still so present, he had searched for peace of mind, finding hope amid grand landscapes, and in the rhythm of life unfolding in nature. She had seen the heavy hand of anger in his work immediately following the war. But later, when he had achieved the equilibrium he’d traveled so far to find, he had surely been able to return with a new dexterity, a lighter touch, a broader view. Maisie understood that Nick had seen his message clearly, that maturity had provided him not only with skill but with insight, and that he had been able to touch the canvas with his most potent images but held his message close until the work was complete. And though she had never met Nick Bassington-Hope, she knew that this case, like so many before, contained a gift, a lesson that she would draw to her as surely as the coat she now held to her heart.
Carefully replacing the garment in the wardrobe, Maisie smiled. She patted the material one last time, acknowledging an essence caught in each thread, as if the fibers had absorbed every feeling, every sensation experienced by the owner in a time of war.
NOLLY BASSINGTON-HOPE WAS surprised but nevertheless extended a warm welcome to Maisie when she arrived at the house unannounced. She explained that her mother and father were out walking, sketchbooks in hand, making the most of a bright day, even though the cold snap continued.
“They may be getting on a bit, but it’s their habit, and the walk does them good. They’ll be back soon.” She showed Maisie into the drawing room, then excused herself for a moment to speak to the staff.
Maisie wandered around the room, grateful for time alone, time that allowed her to stop and look more closely at a painting or inspect a cushion embroidered in shades of orange, lime green, violet, red and yellow, invariably with a design that was outlandish in comparison to anything she had seen at Chelstone. She reflected upon how the house must have been before the war, with colorful, buoyant gatherings of artists and intellectuals drawn like moths to the bright light of possibility encouraged by Piers and Emma. She imagined gregarious friends of Nick’s and Georgina’s voicing opinions at the dinner table, encouraged, she thought, by the free-thinking elders. There would always be swimming in the river, picnics alongside the mill, impromptu plays composed on the spot, perhaps with the boy Harry and his trumpet entertaining the group—when he wasn’t being teased by his siblings. And Noelle? What about Noelle? Georgina had described her sister as an outsider, though Maisie had come to understand that she was, perhaps, simply just different, and loved all the same by Piers and Emma. The conversation with Noelle during her previous visit had been, she thought, too brief, and she was left with an incomplete picture of the eldest sibling. Now she must add color to her outline.
A sideboard bore a collection of family photographs in frames of silver, wood and tortoiseshell. Maisie was drawn to the photographs, for there was much to learn from facial expressions, even in a formal picture posed in a studio. Her attention darted from one frame to another, for she knew Noelle would return shortly. There was one photograph, at the back, of a young couple on their wedding day that drew her attention. Indeed, she was surprised it was still there and wondered if the image of the younger Noelle and her fresh-faced new husband gave solace, reminding Georgina’s sister of happier, more carefree times. Maisie picked up the photograph, holding a finger to cover the lower faces of both man and wife. Looking into their eyes, she saw joy and hope. She saw love, happiness. The photograph mirrored so many cherished photographs still dusted every day by women in their middle years, women widowed or who had lost a sweetheart in the war. Maisie replaced the photograph just in time.
“I bet you wish you hadn’t taken on this assignment from my sister, don’t you?” Dressed in a woolen walking skirt, silk blouse and hand-knitted cardigan, this time Noelle wore a red scarf at her neck, a color that seemed to highlight hair that was not as coppery as Georgina’s but now seemed less mousy and equally striking.
“On the contrary, it’s led me into some interesting places.”
Noelle held out her hand to a Labrador, who heaved himself up from a place beside the fire and came to his mistress. “Ah, you must have been out in search of Harry again. That would have taken you to some interesting places.”
Maisie laughed. “Oh, they’re certainly entertaining, those places where your Harry performs.”
Noelle softened and laughed along with Maisie. “He’s actually quite good, isn’t he?”
“You’ve been to see him?”
“Curiosity, you know.” She paused. “And more than a touch of big-sister surveillance.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Yes, so did I. And I knew there and then that there was nothing I could do for Harry, though I do still try to get him away.”
“I don’t think he’s going to audition for the philharmonic.”
“No, not Harry.” Noelle sighed. “Is he in trouble again? Is that why you came?”
“I came because I’ve been to Nick’s cottage a second time, and I have some questions, if you don’t mind.”
They were interrupted by the housekeeper, who brought tea, biscuits and cake. Noelle continued after pouring a cup for Maisie.
“And how can I help?”
“I understand that three people went to the cottage after Nick died. I assumed the visitors were you, Georgina and your father.”
Noelle nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Frankly, it was so upsetting that we only stayed for a short time. We thought we’d go back again in a few weeks. The cottage will be sold, obviously, but frankly, Emma just wants everything left as it was, for now—and I must respect her wishes.” She leaned forward to set her cup on the tray. “To tell you the truth, if it were completely up to me, I would have everything sold immediately, no hanging on, get it over with and get on with life. Now that is what Nick would have wanted.”