thwarted when my mother insisted I was to be sent home, whereupon she boxed my ears for good measure—I was put to work at the ministry. Nick turned up after he was wounded and we both ended up drafting pictures to shake the populace out of its midwar torpor. Then Nick was sent over again for a stint with a paintbrush instead of a bayonet.”
“I see.” Maisie thought Alex painted an almost romantic picture of the friends’ wartime exploits, though was hardly surprised, for he seemed to be something of a romantic figure himself, with dark brown hair combed into place in such a way as to remind her of a poet, or an actor, someone she had seen at the picture house—Leslie Howard, perhaps. He was the taller of the three, and had retained something of the lanky adolescence of youth. His eyes seemed to narrow into half-moons when he smiled, which was often, and Maisie thought that one could see every one of his teeth when he laughed. Quentin, who was of medium height and stocky, with light brown hair and deep, hooded eyelids, seemed to stand apart, looking down at his feet or across at other guests as Maisie conversed with Duncan and Alex. She felt something akin to fear emanate from him, as if he wanted nothing more than for her to leave the three in peace.
“…so you should have seen us, raw recruits on the Friday route-marches across London.” Alex was speaking of the early days following their enlistment. “We’d be led by the regimental band along the Euston Road, past Lord’s, up the Finchley Road, past Swiss Cottage then on to Hampstead Heath. It was a lark, for us lads, because all the shopgirls used to come out and throw cigarettes and sweets at us.”
Duncan spoke up. “Frankly, as Nick always said, the most objectionable and insufferable enemies we had to face were mud and rats.”
“Oh, and do you remember the anthem?” Alex nudged Quentin, and looked at Duncan before bringing his attention back to Maisie. “Nick would get everyone singing—in fact, I think he wanted a spot at the Artists’ Rifles recruiting concert in 1915, but of course, we’d all gone over by then.” He cleared his throat and began to sing a verse.
A group nearby turned and applauded, calling out for more, whereupon Alex bowed and shook his head. He turned to Maisie. “Actually, I think that’s the only verse I can remember, and of course, it’s ‘Queen’ because the Rifles were founded in old Victoria’s time.”
Quentin spoke for the first time, adding in a surprisingly strong voice, “And we were never ready, any of us, for anything, especially not for France.”
The group became quiet, a few seconds of discomfort until a waiter approached with a tray of glasses filled to the brim with champagne.
“I say, over here!” Alex handed fresh glasses to his friends, while Maisie raised hers to indicate that it was still half full.
“And now you all live down in Dungeness?”
Once again Alex was first to reply. “We’re all moving on now, aren’t we chaps?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Duncan has recently married his long-suffering fiancee, so he’s moved to an idyllic cottage in Hythe. And Quentin’s in the process of moving.” He turned to Maisie and said in a mock whisper, “To live with his thrice-wed paramour in Mayfair.”
“That’s quite enough, if you don’t mind.” Quentin’s voice signaled a warning.
As the conversation listed toward matters of property in London, Maisie wondered how she might orchestrate a meeting with each man alone, deciding that the party presented neither the time nor the place. For now it was enough to have made the acquaintances necessary to reintroduce herself when they met again, which she planned would be within the next few days.
Maisie chatted to the men for a little longer, then excused herself, claiming a need to catch up with an old friend she had just noticed standing in the corner. As she walked toward the young woman she had seen with Stratton earlier, she was aware of the silence behind her and knew that Nick’s fellow artists were waiting until she was out of earshot before discussing the encounter.
“Oh, hello, I think we’ve met before, haven’t we? Was it at the Derby last year?” Maisie addressed the woman as she was reaching for an hors d’oeuvres offered by a waiter.
“I—I—yes, I do believe we have. And yes, it must have been the Derby.”
Maisie smiled. “Hadn’t you just backed a horse called Murder Squad?”
“Oh, crikey!” The woman all but choked on a vol-au-vont, then shook her head.
“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me, but next time, don’t agree to having seen someone at a place you haven’t visited. Best to admit that you don’t recognize them, then take it from there. A downright lie will always catch you out, unless you’re very clever.”
“Who are you?”
Maisie smiled as if she really were chatting to an old friend. “I’m Maisie Dobbs.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“At least you know I’m friend, not foe. Are you working for Stratton?”
She nodded. “I—I can’t tell you anything. Look, I really should be going.”
“No, don’t give up now, you’ll likely lose your job—or end up in front of a typewriter at Scotland Yard. Just tell me who you’re here to report on. Does our hostess know who you are?”
“No. I came in and latched on to one of those frightful men over there, they were leaning against the door when I came in, it was just the situation I needed.”
“Go on.”
The woman sighed. “I was seconded to come here by Stratton, and also Vance, from the Flying Squad.”
“And who are you watching?”
“Harry Bassington-Hope.”
