Messenger of Truth

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

She shook her head. “I’m just here to report back on what time he arrived, who he spoke to, what time he leaves. I’m to note whether he arrived by taxi and whether he takes a taxi when he departs.”

“And how were you supposed to know how he arrived here if you were here first?”

“I’d ask him.”

“Have you?”

She shook her head.

“What’s your name?”

“Doris Watts.”

“All right, Doris, here’s what you need to know. He came on foot from the far end of the road, possibly having walked or caught a tube from his digs or another engagement—though you can hardly be expected to supply such details, unless he tells you. He’s currently drinking and entertaining anyone who cares to talk to him, so why don’t you go across and introduce yourself.”

“Will you tell Stratton you saw me?”

Maisie glanced around the room to locate Georgina, then replied, “Yes, I probably will, but I will also tell him that you were acting quite inconspicuously and that I would only have guessed that you were with the Yard because I saw them drop you off—now that was amateurish, so it’s entirely their fault.”

Doris Watts was about to speak again, when there was a commotion at the door as Georgina welcomed another guest into the party, the noise level of which had increased in the short time since Maisie had arrived. The hubbub of conversation died down and people began looking at the new arrival, stepping back as their hostess maneuvered the man into the center of a group standing by the window. Maisie turned away, for she had grown cold.

“Oh, my goodness, look who it is.” Doris Watts placed her hand on Maisie’s arm.

At that point, Maisie looked around, her curiosity piqued by the guest who had not only caused the sea of onlookers to part but whose presence had chilled her to the bone.

“Mosley,” she whispered.

“It is him, isn’t it? Wait until I tell D.I. Stratton that she knows Oswald Mosley.”

As the man began to speak to the group, more guests edged nearer to him. And with his immediate circle burgeoning to become an audience, what was at first an intimate conversation began to develop into a speech. Maisie, too, was drawn to the clustering guests, though not to listen, but to observe the effect one man could have on the surge of people around him that now encompassed the entire party—with the exception of Alex, Duncan and Quentin, who had quite noticeably moved away, each of them frowning as they looked back and forth from the man, then to one another as they whispered.

Oswald Mosley, the former Labour member of Parliament, was a suave, almost hypnotic orator, with black hair accentuating his piercing dark eyes. Maisie found him cobralike, with a power to beguile that mesmerized those present as he expounded his views on the future of the country.

“The New Party will lead the way, friends. There will be no more unemployment, which has only been increased by our Labour Party’s policies. There will be new friendships forged with our former enemies, and never, ever will we march again, to die on foreign lands in defense of our soil. We will build our country and protect our own borders. And we will go forward to take up our rightful place as leaders of the modern age.”

The cheers and shouts of “Hear, hear!” and “Hurrah!” escalated around her, with men and women reaching out to touch the charismatic politician as he began to shake hands with those who were queuing up, almost as if he were Midas and one touch would give them the blessing of untold riches. Maisie decided to take her leave. She stopped on the way to the front door to speak to Alex Courtman, who was reaching for another glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray.

“I say, Miss Dobbs, not leaving already, are you? The dancing will start in a moment!” As if on cue, the music changed from a background melody to a loud rag. “Oh, jolly good!” Courtman took Maisie’s glass and set it on the waiter’s tray with his own, and pulled her into the center of the room, where others were already moving in time to the music. “Just one before you go.”

“Oh, no, I—I—”

But before Maisie could object further, she had been caught up in the melee. And though she professed not to be able to dance, her feet found the rhythm and, looking sideways at the other dancers, she followed their lead, and was soon one with the partygoers bent on dancing the night away. She laughed as Courtman caught her around the waist with one hand, clutching her right hand as they stepped back and forth in unison to the ragtime number. She even laughed when she stepped on his toes, a move that caused Courtman to wince in mock pain. Maisie cast the worries of the morning to the side, allowing the music to buoy her spirit and touch her soul. Claiming two more dances before she waved her hands to indicate that she really must leave, Courtman pressed his hand to his heart at her departure, then gave a theatrical bow to signal his farewell. Smiling, she made her way from what had become a dance floor, then looked around just in time to see her partner grab a horrified Doris Watts and pull her to him, while the music grew even louder.

Maisie was still smiling as she searched for her hostess to thank and say goodnight before leaving. The hall was quiet and empty as Maisie turned the corner, in time to hear raised voices coming from a room off to the side. She had glimpsed into the room as she entered the flat, and had seen the journalist’s book-lined sanctuary. Now, as she crept closer, she heard Georgina’s voice, followed by that of her younger brother.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Georgie, you really are a fusspot. In fact, you’re getting more like Nolly every bloody day.”

“If asking you what in heaven’s name you think you’re doing is making me like Nolly, then so be it. Do you think I can keep handing over more money to pay off your debts?!”

“Come on, Georgie. You’re always flush and this is a matter of life and death.”