Messenger of Truth

Later, as Billy was about to get out of the MG at the fever hospital in Stockwell, he turned to Maisie. “There’s many an employer would ’ave put me on the street for this little how-d’you-do. I won’t forget it, y’know.”

“It’s not important, Billy.” She sighed. “Just keep imagining Lizzie at home, back to her old self. Don’t see the sickness. See the life in your child. It’s the best thing you can do.”

MAISIE COULD NOT help but reflect upon her thoughts from the night before. Certainly there was plenty to inspire her, for as she made her way around London she could see men on their way to join the lines for assistance, or queues at factories where it was said a man could find work. And there were those who predicted that the situation would get even worse before it got better.

Feeling the anger, and shame, rise again, Maisie tempted her thoughts even more as she watched the exodus out in search of a job. Many of the men limped along, others bore scars on their faces or wore the expression of those embattled to a point where any last vestige of optimism had been lost. These were men—and women— whose country had needed them but who were now without a means to support themselves. They were the forgotten heroes now waging another battle for honor.

Slamming the door of her office, Maisie was in high dudgeon as she picked up the telephone receiver and dialed Scotland Yard. She asked to be put through to Detective Inspector Stratton.

“Yes!” The detective sounded rushed.

“Detective Inspector Stratton, I’d like to have a word with you this morning. Can you be at the usual caff, at around half past eleven?” She was aware of her clipped tone, but did nothing to correct her manner.

“All right. I assume it’s something important.”

“Important, Inspector? Well, you can tell me when we meet whether Harry Bassington-Hope is important or not.” She did not wait to hear a response before setting the black telephone receiver back in its cradle.

Maisie looked at her watch, then the clock. Georgina Bassington-Hope would arrive in approximately half an hour. There was time to compose herself before the meeting, which she was dreading, so much so that part of her did not want to become settled at all, but wanted to encounter her client with the fury that had been building since she arrived home last night. The telephone rang.

“Fitzroy—”

“Maisie.”

“Oh, hello, Andrew.”

“You don’t sound pleased to hear from me.”

Maisie shook her head, even though the caller, Andrew Dene, could not see her. “No, not at all. Just a bit pressed, that’s all.”

“You’re always pressed, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

As far as Maisie was concerned, it was the wrong comment, at the wrong time, the match that lit bone-dry tinder. “Well, Andrew, perhaps I am. Perhaps a dying child is a pressing thing, or a murdered artist. Perhaps you should go back to whatever you were doing and leave me alone to my pressing things!”

“Maisie, that was absolutely uncalled for. You are not the only person in the world with demands upon them, or the only person who’s ever had to deal with death—come down to my neck of the woods and you’ll see that!”

“Andrew, I—”

“We can talk about this when we meet. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, there’s much to be laid on the table.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right.”

“Well, I’d better go, Maisie. You’re busy—and I know from experience that this is not the time to extend our conversation. I’ll be in touch.”

There was a click on the line. Maisie slammed the telephone down in frustration and pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. It was not how she had intended to end her courtship. She knew that she had been curt, her manner unforgivable. She had allowed her sadness regarding the sick child to become anger, which didn’t help anyone. But she had to put the exchange to the back of her mind—there was a morning of work to get through.

Another woman might have waited by the telephone, expecting the ring that would herald the start of a conversation where contrition was expressed on both sides. Or she might have picked up the receiver, poised to utter I’m sorry. But Maisie was already considering the comment she had made. A murdered artist. Though she had wanted to keep an open mind for as long as possible, and despite the fact that she had suggested to Billy that to accept the Bassington-Hope case as a murder investigation would move their work along, she had not until this moment made a declaration of her personal feelings about the matter. And now she had. Burdened by emotion, had her intuition spoken? Andrew Dene was almost forgotten as Maisie leaned over the case map and prepared to meet Georgina Bassington-Hope, who, she thought, was not quite above suspicion herself, despite the feelings expressed, hand on heart, when they first met.

Maisie was about to make a notation on the map when the telephone rang again. She was inclined not to answer it—she wasn’t ready to speak to Dene yet; she didn’t really know what to say—but when the caller did not give up, she relented.

“Maisie, I am glad I’ve caught you.” Lady Rowan spoke before Maisie could give her number.

“Lady Rowan, how good to hear from you. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Well, no, not really, that’s why I’ve taken the liberty of telephoning you at your office.”

Maisie sat down at her desk. “It’s not a liberty, Lady Rowan. Is there something I can help you with?” She ran the telephone cord through her fingers.

Lady Rowan continued. “Actually, I hope I am about to help you. Look, I know this is none of my business, and I did think that perhaps I ought not place the call, but—you know me—I have to speak as I find.” She paused, and when Maisie did not respond, went on. “It was seeing you with the Bassington-Hope woman, I just wanted to know—are you good friends?”