“It was a last-minute decision, Dad. We’d been snowed in and Georgina needed a lift back to London.”
“I’ll put the kettle on.” Frankie moved toward the kitchen.
“We’re not staying, Dad. I’ve just come to—”
“Nonsense!” Georgina took off her coat and scarf, placed them across the back of an armchair and stood with her back to the fire. “A cup of tea to fortify us for the road would be excellent. Shall I lend a hand?”
Maisie flushed again, annoyed with Georgina for taking liberties—first when she insisted upon coming into the house, and now in assuming that she could just march in and do as she wanted. “No, that’s all right. I’ll go.”
Laughter came from the sitting room as Maisie bustled around the kitchen gathering cups and saucers and setting them on the tray with such energy that she thought they might crack. She knew her behavior was juvenile, knew that if she tried to explain her mood, she would seem—and feel—churlish, but as she listened to Georgina asking her father questions, drawing him out so that the usually reticent man conversed easily, Maisie wanted to run into the room and stop the exchange immediately.
Having let her guard down while at Bassington Place, Maisie felt that Georgina was using that knowledge of her, overstepping the mark, giving her father the impression of a friendship that did not—could not—exist between them. She picked up the tea tray and, stooping to avoid the low beam above the door, returned to the sitting room, determined to wrest control of the conversation.
It was a half an hour later that Maisie insisted they should leave, given the possibility of poor road conditions. Frankie Dobbs donned a heavy woolen jacket so that he could wave them off. As she pulled out onto the carriage sweep, she automatically looked to her left before proceeding right and saw Lady Rowan walking across the snow- covered lawn with her three dogs at heel. She waved her walking stick in the air to attract Maisie’s attention.
“Who’s that?” asked Georgina.
“Lady Rowan Compton. Look, please stay here, Georgina, I really must say a quick hello.”
Georgina opened her mouth to speak, but Maisie had already stepped from the motor car and slammed the door behind her before running to greet her former employer.
“I say, lovely to see you, Maisie—though I do wish I had known you were at Chelstone. It’s a long time since we sat down for a chat.”
“It’s a flying visit, Lady Rowan, I needed to collect my case. I was snowed in while visiting a friend and couldn’t return to Chelstone until this morning. Now we’re back off into town.”
Lady Rowan squinted toward the motor. “Is that your doctor friend in the MG?”
Maisie shook her head. “Oh, no. That’s the friend I stayed with last night, Georgina Bassington-Hope.”
“Bassington-Hope?” Maisie noticed the older woman’s posture change with her words, her back becoming straighter, her shoulders bracing. “Daughter of Piers and Emma Bassington-Hope, by any chance?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Lady Rowan shook her head. “Well, I never.”
“Is something wrong, Lady Rowan?”
“No, no, nothing at all.” She smiled at Maisie, then added in a brisk manner, “Better not keep you. It’s turned into a lovely day, with the sun streaking across the snow. The roads will be clearer now, so you’ll have a good run back into town.” The dogs began to bark as they ran in the direction of the Groom’s Cottage, for they had seen Frankie Dobbs, whom they knew to be a source of treats. “Oh, dear, just when I thought they were behaving. Cheerio, Maisie.”
Maisie said good-bye, ran to her MG and set off. When she looked back before turning onto the Tonbridge Road, she saw Lady Rowan standing with her father, both of them staring after the motor car. Though Frankie Dobbs gave a final wave, Lady Rowan did not raise her hand. Even from a distance Maisie knew that she was frowning.
MAISIE WAS DELIGHTED to return to her own flat to find that the radiators were now warm to the touch. It was enough to contribute to the costs of the central boiler, without adding on a gas fire. Thank heavens the builders had decided not to put in one of the efficient, but so expensive, electric fires.
Sitting in an armchair, her legs curled to one side, she rested a notebook on her knees and jotted some notes. Despite thoughts and feelings that assailed her earlier in the day, there was nothing to convince her that Nick Bassington-Hope’s death was anything but an accident. However, if she assumed foul play, she might make progress swiftly. She must look for evidence, motive and a killer. She had not wanted to work in this way at first, for a method based on assumption might lead to misunderstanding, viewing some innocent item as a vital clue, or an offhand comment as the basis for an inaccurate conclusion. She had seen such things happen with the police, when it was obvious that pressure was coming from a higher quarter to make an arrest. Though her approach sometimes took more time, the accuracy of her accomplishments bore out the integrity of her work. But this time, to create momentum, she would take that alternative tack.
Maisie closed her eyes. Envisioning the gallery, she brought to mind the artist working on his platform. He was securing the anchors that would hold the triptych, which must have been quite large. Or was it? The studio in his carriage home would have accommodated a canvas of about eight feet in height, at a pinch, if the canvas were set at an angle for the artist to work. She considered the place where the triptych would hang. Yes, that would have been about right for a center piece, say, eight feet by four or five feet. Then side panels. She thought back to the mural. Everyone assumed that the lost work comprised three pieces, but what if there were more? Would that make a difference to the outcome? She would study the wall in as great a detail as possible to try to ascertain what preparation Nick was making—indentations in the wall where anchors had been placed might provide a clue to the number of pieces, though the screws and nails used in the construction of scaffolding had also left their mark, despite later renovation work.
A clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour. It was six o’clock, time to get ready for Georgina Bassington- Hope’s party. She was dreading it. The truth was that she knew she would feel ill at ease, and not only due to the doubts that had enveloped her earlier in the day. The very thought of a party brought to mind her years at Girton, when she returned after the war to complete her studies. There were occasions when she and other women were
