Messenger of Truth

of it.”

“Anyway, Nick leaped into the water—which wasn’t that deep—and pulled out poor spluttering Harry.” Georgina was now in fits of laughter.

Piers smiled. “Maisie, this is the sort of high jinks our children got up to when they were younger—terrifying at times, thoroughly mischievous in hindsight, but good for a laugh later on.”

Maisie inclined her head and nodded agreement, though she wondered if Harry found the experience mischievous, in hindsight.

“And,” added Georgina, “I remember poor little wet Harry screaming, ‘I hate you, Nick, I hate you! Just you wait until I grow up!’ Which of course incited Nick to even more teasing, along the lines of ‘You and your army, eh, Harrykins?’”

The laughter subsided and Emma suggested retiring to the drawing room for coffee. As they relaxed in front of the fire, Emma brought out photograph albums, telling detailed stories of this event or that. Soon, however, the wine that had aided such mirth an hour earlier now rendered the group more than a little soporific.

Maisie returned to her room, warm and cozy as Gower had made up the fire before retiring. A hot-water bottle had been placed in the bed and an extra blanket folded across the counterpane. She undressed, put on the nightgown left by Georgina and snuggled under the covers. Before turning off the light, Maisie leaned back on the pillows and gazed at the golden threads of the spider’s web above. She found the Bassington-Hopes almost as intoxicating as Piers’s homemade wine, though she had taken only a few sips at dinner. She was warmed by the intimacy of their stories, the sharing of family events and photographs. But was she captivated by the color, by the sheer audacity of the family? And if so, could she be blindsided by them, unable to discern something important with her usual integrity?

It was clear that Nick Bassington-Hope was the blue-eyed boy of the family. And despite their differences, Maisie detected a respect between Noelle and Georgina, as if each held the other’s strength and bravery in some account. Though Noelle might have thought that Georgina took enormous risks, and clearly disapproved of her way of life, she was proud of her sister’s accomplishments as a journalist. For her part, Georgina may well be frustrated by her sister’s bossy behavior, the disapproval even of her parents, but she was filled with compassion for the woman who had lost her husband to war, the young man she clearly adored. Georgina, too, was a woman alone, and understood Noelle’s quest to rebuild her life, the need to fashion a future with financial security, with companionship and with meaning.

Noelle had been completely honest with Maisie about her ambitions for the estate, and her belief that they should use Nick’s legacy to fund repairs and an income foundation based upon more than the leased farms and proceeds from the sale of various crops. It was evident that she considered both Nick and Georgina “troublesome” and Harry a lost cause. A musician, if you please!

And as Maisie replayed each and every sentence in their conversation, along with an image of the way Noelle moved when she made a point, or waited for Maisie to complete a question, she was struck by the fact that the eldest sibling—the one who tried, with limited success, to rule the Bassington-Hope roost, who acted more like a matriarch than her mother—had, apparently, never asked to speak to the person who discovered Nick’s body, had held back from visiting the gallery and had declined the pilgrimage to a London mortuary to say that final farewell to her brother. While the older sister was recounting events at one of Nick’s exhibitions, Georgina—who was more than a little tipsy and leaning toward Maisie on the soft-cushioned settee—whispered, “She didn’t even come to see him at the chapel of rest.”

No, Maisie had not finished with “poor Nolly” yet, any more than she had with any of the Bassington-Hopes, Georgina included. And then there was Harry. What was it that Georgina’s father had said about his younger son, when they were looking at photographs taken of the children in the summer of 1914? It was when he pointed out the photograph of Noelle, Georgina, Nicholas and Harry, who was about twelve years of age at the time, some ten years younger than the twins, and about half Noelle’s age. “And there he is, bringing up the rear. Harry. Always behind, always on the edge, that’s Harry.”

Burrowing under the covers, Maisie pondered the words before sleep claimed her: Always behind, always on the edge, that’s Harry.

Eight

An early morning thaw, together with the efforts of the industrious tenant farmer and his shire horses, meant that the avenue leading to Bassington Place was cleared of snow by eleven, allowing Maisie to leave at noon with Georgina, who had claimed a lift back into London. After a journey that proved to be slow-going, they reached Chelstone. The women conversed comfortably throughout the drive, though in quiet times, Maisie found herself questioning the source of an unease in Georgina’s company that had dogged her from the time the woman had first come to her office in Fitzroy Square. At first she had brushed it aside, but now the sensation was hard to ignore. As much as she admired Georgina’s strength and felt a compassion for her as she mourned her brother, there was something that nagged at her. It was as they drove through the village of Chelstone that a single word came to Maisie with such power that she almost said it out loud. The word was doubt. Her sense of confidence was being undermined by doubt, though she did not know whether it was her ability that she doubted, or her relationship with Georgina and the other Bassington-Hopes or the case itself. She wished she had time alone to think, to discover the cause of a potentially crippling emotion.

“I say, what a pile, Maisie. And I thought Bassington Place was sprawling! You certainly kept this quiet, didn’t you?” Georgina’s voice sounded loud to Maisie.

“Oh, we’re not going to the main house, Georgina. My father lives in the Groom’s Cottage.” She turned left down a lane just past the Dower House, where Maurice Blanche lived, and drew up alongside the small beamed cottage that was her father’s home. “I shan’t be a moment.”

“I’m not sitting out here in the freezing cold! Come on, you’ve met my family. It’s my turn now.” Georgina opened the passenger door and almost ran to the cottage, rubbing her arms as she went.

Before Maisie could take another step, the door had opened and Frankie Dobbs, expecting to see his daughter, instead came face to face with Georgina Bassington-Hope. Maisie felt her cheeks flush. This was only the third time since her mother died that someone she would introduce as a “friend” had come to the house. There had been Simon during the war, then Andrew last year, but no one else.

“Dad, this is—” Maisie slammed the driver’s door.

“Georgina Bassington-Hope. Absolutely delighted to meet you, Mr. Dobbs.”

Frankie appeared somewhat startled, but was quick to welcome Georgina. “Pleasure to meet you, miss.” He beamed as Maisie approached, taking her in his arms as she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. “Come on inside, both of you. It’s brassy out here.”

Once in the cottage, Frankie pulled another chair in front of the fire. “You didn’t tell me you’d be bringing a friend home, Maisie. I’d’ve bought something special for tea.”