Messenger of Truth

“No, of course not.” Maisie held out her hand to Courtman. “I have one more question for you, if you don’t mind?”

“Yes?”

“Were Georgina and Nick on good terms when he died?”

“Oh, lummy, here we go.” He sighed before answering. “They had been having some spats before the opening. Nick was upset about the affair with Bradley—the American’s married, you know, has a wife in New York who doesn’t like coming over to Europe—and said as much to Georgie. I think there were some other things going on in the family as well. Harry played them off against each other a bit, to tell you the truth. Then on the day we left to go set up the scaffolding, I was in the guest room with Duncan and I heard Georgie and Nick at loggerheads. Yelling at each other—you this and you that, back and forth.” He shrugged. “I feel sorry for Georgie, actually. Must feel awful, now that Nick has gone. In fact, it’s a wonder she came to you, really, isn’t it?”

“Why?” Maisie had reached the door, and Courtman leaned past her to grasp the handle.

“Well, if I were a detective, I’d wonder about that temper of Georgie’s.”

Maisie smiled. “That’s the interesting thing about detection, Mr. Courtman. Things are rarely as they seem, and when they are, we tend to overlook them. I will keep our conversation in confidence and trust that you will do the same.”

“Absolutely! No problem there, Miss Dobbs. Let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help.”

“Oh, before I forget”—she turned back—“will Duncan and Quentin be here later?”

Courtman shook his head. “No, they both went back down to Dungeness, actually. I think Duncan has a buyer for his carriage, probably another forlorn artist, eh? And Quentin is still packing up. They said they both had a lot to do down there, so off they went.”

Maisie thanked Courtman again, waved, and was soon on her way. Now there were even more threads for her to gather up and spin onto bobbins. It was as if she were herself an artisan, standing before a giant loom with her skeins of wool, each one held ready to form part of the finished scene, the picture that would reveal the circumstances of Nick Bassington-Hope’s death. All she had to do was create the warp and then the weft, her shuttle flying in and out, up and down through the threads, laying her hands across the panel, her fingertips testing for tautness and give, the comb pushing the weft down to ensure close weaving without the hint of a space.

The thing that intrigued her, as she walked down the street, was that if Alex Courtman was as tethered to the roots of the case as she thought he was, why had he been so forthcoming during their meeting? Even more interesting was the fact that the two other friends had returned to Dungeness, a move that underlined the need for her to keep to her plan to drive down the following day—and to ensure that she was doubly careful.

Twelve

Maisie passed the parked Austin Swallow upon her return to the flat that evening. Oh dear, she thought, as she maneuvered the MG into its customary place. She locked the motor car, then turned to face Andrew Dene, who was walking toward her, his overcoat flapping and his hair swept up by a sudden whip of cold wind. To smile was his way, and he did so as Maisie greeted him, though she could see tension revealed in his hunched shoulders. He placed a hand on her arm and kissed her on the cheek. An onlooker might have thought them cousins or friends and would never have guessed at the intimacies shared in the now-floundering courtship.

“This is a surprise, Andrew.” Maisie searched for her keys, her hands shaking in anticipation of the looming confrontation, then walked to the main entrance of the block of flats. “Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.”

Andrew Dene followed her into the foyer, then to her flat, where she selected a second key to enter. “I thought it was about time we sorted things out,” he said, as she pressed the key into the lock.

Opening the door, Maisie turned and nodded, then automatically reached to feel the radiator before placing her hat and gloves on a small table. She took off her mackintosh. “Yes, of course, you’re right. Here, let me take your coat. Go and make yourself comfortable.” She waited as Dene removed his overcoat and scarf, then placed both coats over a chair in the box room.

“Shall I make a pot of tea?”

Dene, already seated in one of the two armchairs, shook his head. “No, thank you. I doubt I shall be staying long, Maisie.”

Maisie nodded as she made herself comfortable on the second armchair. At first, she thought better of removing her shoes, then, silently reminding herself that she could do as she pleased in her own home, she kicked off the shoes and tucked her legs up, rubbing her ever-cold feet as she did so.

“I thought we ought to talk about us, Maisie.”

She said nothing, allowing him to speak uninterrupted. She had learned early, from Maurice, that it was always best to allow a person who had something important to say—perhaps a declaration, or a complaint—the courtesy of an uninterrupted statement. To interject might only inspire the person to begin again, thus repeating themselves. And as she had already observed signs that Dene was unsettled, she would not give reason for the conversation to become inflammatory, for she wanted him to think well of her, if that were possible.

“I had hoped, when we first began seeing each other, that you might one day become my wife.” Dene swallowed deeply, causing Maisie to think that he would have done well to accept refreshment before embarking upon the conversation. “Despite appearances to the contrary, Maisie, I have not been lucky in love and am not the Lothario that some have thought me to be. I’ve just been waiting for the right girl, someone who would have an understanding of my background, what it takes to move up, so to speak, from one’s given station in life. And I thought that girl might be you.” His voice wavered briefly as he pushed back the hair that had fallen forward, and went on. “I know your work is so very important to you, but I trusted that it might, in time, take a second place to our courtship. Now, I don’t know.” Dene turned to her, his eyes glistening. “I have to say, Maisie, that I was flummoxed by your manner when we last spoke on the telephone. But even before that, buying this flat”—he swept his hand around, indicating the room—“it sort of put me in my place, even though I held out hope.”

Still Maisie said nothing, instead keeping her attention focused on the man in front of her. She was not without emotion, cradling in her heart a melancholy that it had come to this. But she knew well that another sensation lingered inside her: the bittersweet ache of relief. And she was sadder for knowing it.

“So, before I say anything else, I want to know, Maisie, if there’s any hope for me—for us, as a couple—if I proposed?”

She said nothing for some seconds. Even though she had practiced this conversation at night, tossing and turning, wondering how she might reveal herself and be understood, she felt incompetent with words where