“And I want to see his friends, the men he was closest to. Was he courting, as far as you know?”
Georgina shook her head, and gave a half laugh. “Let’s just say that Nick was better with his finances than with his romantic life—‘fickle’ would suit very well.”
“I see.” Maisie knew from experience that the more personal aspects of a person’s life were seldom understood by immediate family. Hadn’t her own father thought it strange that she was not anxious to become engaged to Andrew Dene by now? She smiled in return, and continued. “And I want to see his work, in addition to those things I mentioned before: correspondence, journals—in fact, anything you have that belonged to Nick.”
The women stopped when they reached Piccadilly, where each would go their separate way. “Oh, and one last question for you?”
“Yes?” Georgina turned to face Maisie directly.
“When a person close to the victim suspects foul play, they usually have a suspect or two in mind. Would that be true of you, Georgina?”
She blushed. “I’m afraid it isn’t. As I told you yesterday, it was just that feeling here.” She touched her chest. “That’s all I can say.”
Maisie nodded, then smiled. “I’d like to go down to Dungeness tomorrow, so perhaps you can let me have keys at your earliest convenience. Then perhaps we can meet in Tenterden on Saturday—probably best if we visit your parents together. Can you arrange it?”
“Of—of course.” Georgina paused, somewhat flustered. She reached into her handbag and took out an envelope, which she passed to Maisie. “This is a photograph of Nick, taken in the summer at Bassington Place, my parents’ estate.”
Maisie took the envelope, and removed the photograph halfway, claiming a moment to study the man whom the lens had caught leaning in an easy, almost somnolent manner against a tractor. Using the size of the tractor as a guide, Maisie thought he must have been about six feet in height, with hair that was a barely controlled mop of curls on his head, the “short-back-and-sides” haircut having little effect on his crown and fringe. He wore wide trousers, a collarless shirt with rolled-up sleeves and an unbuttoned waistcoat. His smile was expansive and Maisie thought that, if her father were to see the photograph, he might comment that the man had the look of a lout, rather than the well-bred son of good circumstance. Though Frankie Dobbs was a working man, a costermonger by trade and, since the outbreak of war in 1914, a groom at the Compton estate in Kent, he had strong opinions on being properly turned out.
Maisie placed the photograph in her bag and nodded to Georgina. “Good. Now then, I must be on my way. Please telephone me as soon as you can so that we can confirm arrangements and your progress with my list. Until then, Georgina.” Maisie held out her hand, which Georgina took in a manner that suggested she was regaining some of the strength and resolve that had propelled her somewhat infamous reputation.
When they were some three or four yards apart, Maisie turned and called to her client. “Oh, Georgina—I want to meet Harry as well.”
She had timed her final request perfectly.
Georgina flushed. “I—I’ll see what I can do, he’s…oh, never mind. I’ll contact him and let you know.” Then she hurried away.
BILLY JOINED MAISIE as she watched Georgina Bassington-Hope being swallowed into a flurry of passersby.
“Miss B-H gone then?”
Maisie nodded, seemingly half dreaming, though Billy knew that the glazed eyes disguised a depth of thought that some might have considered quite unnecessary in the circumstances.
“Everything all right, Miss?”
“Yes, yes, I’m very well, thank you.”
They began to walk toward Piccadilly underground station. “She shot off a bit sharpish, didn’t she?”
“Hmmm, yes, it was a bit quick. But then it gave us some interesting information.”
“What’s that, Miss?”
“That, concerning Harry B-H, the family—or perhaps just Georgina—has something to hide.” Maisie turned to Billy. “Now then, you know what to do this afternoon, don’t you, Billy—usual lines of inquiry with your newspaper friends.” She pulled on her gloves. “I’ll see you back at the office around three. We’ll have a talk about our respective findings, then you can go home early—perhaps Lizzie will be feeling a bit better.”
Three
Having already nurtured contacts among the newspapermen who gathered in Fleet Street pubs—and many of those men, reporters, compositors and printers alike, were at the bar by mid-morning following a night shift—the cost of a pint often proved to be a very good investment, as far as Billy was concerned. Following the meeting at Svenson’s Gallery, Billy procured information from newspaper reports pertaining to Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s death. For her part, Maisie returned to the Tate gallery to meet with the helpful curator, Dr. Robert Wicker, with whom she had consulted the previous day. Now they were back at the Fitzroy Square office comparing notes on the day’s work.
“I looked through the obituary, and it didn’t say anything that wasn’t known to us already. There were a couple of write-ups on ’is paintings, otherwise it was all along the lines of ‘a rare talent lost’—you know, that sort of thing.” Billy seemed to stifle a yawn. “Mind you, there was a line or two in one of them about the sibling rivalry. I thought it was a bit snide myself. In the
“That doesn’t mean that there was anything untoward in the competition though. That sort of thing often happens, I believe.”
“Too right, Miss. You should see my boys go at it sometimes.”
Maisie smiled and was about to speak again, when Billy continued. “Now then, Brian Hickmott, one of the reporters what I know, did say that ’e remembered the story because ’e went over there, to the gallery, as soon as the press got wind of something going on.”
“And?”
