Maisie stood up and began to walk toward the man who had come to destroy the work of his beloved son.
“Piers…”
Now partially illuminated in a half shaft of light from the street-lamp outside, the man frowned, as if not quite able to comprehend what was taking place. “What the hell—?”
She could wait no longer; the risk was too great. “Billy, Stratton!”
Soon the gallery was filled with movement as Stratton’s men rushed in with sand-filled fire buckets, and Piers Bassington-Hope searched for anything that could be used to ignite the flammable liquid.
“It was his fault, you know, it was Nick. I didn’t mean it to happen, I didn’t want—”
“You can save that for the station, sir,” instructed Stratton. He nodded to a sergeant, who pulled the older man’s arms behind him, the loud click of a handcuff lock echoing in Maisie’s ears as the killer of Nick Bassington-Hope was led away.
“I—I wanted to talk to him, I—” Maisie looked around. The fire brigade had been summoned to secure the gallery.
“It’s too dangerous here and there’s no need for you to remain anyway, Miss Dobbs. You’ll have to come down to the station, of course.”
“Yes, indeed—but I’ll have to telephone Svenson first, and I want to wait until the gallery is safe before I leave. I don’t think either of us expected this sort of damage.”
Stratton looked up at the painting. “Pity he didn’t get rid of that thing, if you ask me.”
Billy, who had been talking to both the police and fire brigade, joined them at that moment.
“You talking about that valuable work of art there, Inspector?”
“I am indeed.”
Maisie rolled her eyes. “Let us just say, gentlemen, that my endeavors with paint might have saved a great work of art this evening.”
They all turned to look at the six pieces of plywood that Sandra had whitewashed earlier, and that Maisie had proceeded to use as a background for her own masterpiece.
“Thank heavens he came without a torch!”
MAISIE FELT HEAVY in body and soul as she drove slowly back to her flat in Pimlico in the early hours of the morning. Piers Bassington-Hope had trusted that one beloved child would understand the plea he’d made on behalf of another; his actions, borne of a deep disillusionment, had caused the death of his eldest son. Yet he had not considered, as Maisie had, that the child he cared for so deeply might be strong enough to endure any depiction of life or death created by her brother.
Nineteen
Later, at the graveside, Billy’s quiet stoicism provided strength for Doreen as she leaned against him for fear her legs would not support her during the final farewell. And cradling her newborn child swaddled in blankets, Ada stood alongside her sister, knowing the warmth of their sisterhood would be sustenance on grief’s barren journey. A clutch of relatives gathered around the Beale family, so Maisie stood to one side, though Billy had beckoned her to come closer. She watched the coffin as it was lowered into the ground and pressed a hand to her mouth as the minister, with a gentleness that can only be borne of strength, said the words, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” and followed with another prayer for the dead child. Then Billy reached down to lift a fistful of cold brown earth. He looked at the dirt in his hand, then took the rose from his lapel and threw it into the chasm that would soon be filled. It was only when the rose sat between the pure white snowdrops that he threw down the first clod to signal his good-bye. Doreen followed, then others stepped forward. Having waited until last, respectful of those closest to the Beale family, Maisie walked slowly to the edge of the grave, remembering, once again, the softness of Lizzie’s head, of the curls that brushed against her chin, and the small dimpled hand that grasped her button. She, too, took up a handful of earth and heard the thud as it splashed across the coffin. Then she bid Godspeed to dear Lizzie Beale.
ON THE PREVIOUS day, instead of driving straight to Scotland Yard following the arrest, Maisie had gone immediately to Georgina Bassington-Hope’s flat, where she broke the news that her father had been taken into police custody in connection with the death of her brother.
“Georgina, I am sure you want to be with him. I will take you now, if you wish.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Georgina placed a hand on her brow, as if not sure what to do next.
“I’ll get your coat, Georgina.” Maisie summoned the housekeeper, who left, then returned with her employer’s coat, hat, gloves and handbag.
“Do you need to inform anyone before we leave?”
“I—I think I will…no, I’ll see him first. No good talking to anyone before I’ve seen Daddy, and Inspector Stratton. Nolly will have a fit if I don’t have every last detail at my fingertips. I think that’s what made me a journalist, you know, having Nolly for a sister!” Georgina gave a half laugh, then looked at Maisie, her eyes dark, her skin ashen. “Fine mess I’ve got the family into, eh? I should have left well enough alone.”
Maisie silently opened the door for her client, steadying her as she descended the steps to the waiting car. She said nothing to Georgina about truth, about the instinct that had inspired her to seek Maisie’s help. It was not the right moment to speak of the inner voice that instructs us to move in a given direction, even though we know—even though we know and might never admit to such intuition—that to continue on our path is to risk the happiness of those we hold dear.
GEORGINA BASSINGTON-HOPE ALL but fell into her father’s embrace upon entering the interview room at Scotland Yard, her sobs matching his own as they held each other. Having escorted her to the room, along with a woman police auxiliary, Maisie turned to leave, only to hear Georgina call to her.
“No, please, Maisie—stay!”
Maisie looked to Stratton standing behind Piers Bassington-Hope, who gave a single nod. She could remain in the room.
Sitting close enough to see Georgina’s hands shaking, Maisie was silent as they spoke, Piers repeatedly clearing his throat and running his hands back through his silver hair as he recounted the events that led to his son’s death.
“I’d gone along to Nick’s cottage, must have been early in November. We hadn’t had much time to…to talk, as father and son, alone, for ages. You know what your mother’s like, always fussing around Nick, so that I hardly had time with him when he came to the house.” He swallowed, then cleared his throat again. “Nick had gone to fill the kettle with water from the barrel, so I sat down—next to a pile of sketchbooks. I began leafing through them—as always, stunned by your brother’s work.” He paused. “I was so proud of him.”
Georgina reached out to her father, then withdrew her hands to pull a handkerchief from her pocket, with which she rubbed her eyes.
Piers continued. “Nick was taking his time, so I continued—ready to put them down when he came in, you know how secretive he could be, and I wouldn’t want him to think I was snooping. And that’s when I found them, the sketchbooks….” He held a hand tohis chest, heaving a sob, then coughed, so much so that the woman auxiliary left the room to bring a cup of water.