As the music reached a crescendo, a trumpet joined the rag, wheeling in with a high-pitched long note, to the accompaniment of piano, bass, drums and trombone. The dancers roared, applauding as they continued to move around the floor. Harry Bassington-Hope had arrived.
Courtman claimed Maisie for two more dances before, breathless, she held up her hands in mock surrender, and returned to the table, her partner following her.
“I say, you can dance when you like, can’t you?”
Maisie shook her head. “To tell you the truth, apart from Georgina’s party last week, I don’t think I’ve danced since…since…well, since before the war, actually.”
Courtman raised his hand to summon a waiter, then turned back. “Don’t tell me, you danced with the love of your life and he never came home from France.”
The smile left Maisie’s face. “It’s none of your business, Mr. Courtman.”
He touched her hand. “Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just one of those wartime stories, isn’t it?”
Maisie nodded to acknowledge the apology, withdrawing her hand. She changed the subject. “So, are you a regular here?”
“I come occasionally. But especially when I’m owed money.”
“Harry?”
Courtman nodded. “He’s Nick’s brother, after all. He tapped me for a few pounds on Sunday. Said he’d repay it in just two days, so it’s time for me to receive my due from him.”
“Was it just a few pounds?”
He shook his head. “No, a bit more than that—twenty, to tell you the truth. But I’m not exactly flush, so I wanted it back today. And I’ll get it too.”
Maisie looked toward the dance floor, which was still packed, and then at Harry Bassington-Hope, his legs splayed, his bow tie pulled loose, as he leaned back again, his trumpet held high, teasing another impossibly high note from the shining instrument.
“If he looked after his money like he looks after that trumpet, he’d be a rich man.” Courtman reached for the cocktail the waiter had just set before him.
“It’s gleaming,” said Maisie. She turned to Courtman. “When does he stop, or take a break?”
“In about another fifteen minutes. You can leave a message with the waiter—along with the appropriate monetary accompaniment—and he’ll pass it on to Harry, telling him to join you.”
Maisie followed his instruction, slipping a couple of coins into the waiter’s palm as she gave him the folded piece of paper.
“Shall I wait until he comes?” Courtman smiled at Maisie with such sincerity that she could almost forgive his lack of manners just a few moments ago.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Courtman. I am not really accustomed to such places, to tell you the truth.”
“I know. Mind you, I’m only staying on one condition.”
“Condition?”
“Yes. I want to claim the first dance after trumpet boy gets back up there.”
HARRY BASSINGTON-HOPE SWAGGERED off the stage and over to the bar, stopping on the way to receive backslaps, shake hands with customers and to lean over and kiss women on the cheek, receiving a few lipstick prints on his face as he did so. Maisie watched as the waiter approached him and whispered in his ear, whereupon Harry looked around to locate Maisie’s table. He nodded to the waiter, reached for the drink that had already been placed on the bar in front of him and made his way over to Maisie.
“Miss Dobbs, we meet again, though I must say, I would never have pegged you for a night owl.” He pulled out a chair, turned it around and sat down, his arm resting on the chair back as he set his glass down on the table. He saw Maisie look at the clear liquid. “Soda water. Never drink anything stronger while playing, though I try to make up for lost time when I’m off duty.” He turned to Alex Courtman. “Alex, old chap, still taking up room in my sister’s flat? I would have thought the Yankee would have kicked you out by now.”
Alex Courtman stood up. “Moving on next week, Harry, to new digs over in Chelsea.”
Harry Bassington-Hope turned back to Maisie. “What do they call an artist without a girl?”
Maisie shook her head. “I haven’t a clue.”
“Homeless!” He chuckled at the joke, while Maisie smiled and shook her head.
“The old ones are the best, aren’t they, Harry?” Courtman stood up and drained his glass. “I’ll be back to claim that dance when trumpet boy here starts playing again.”
Georgina’s younger brother watched as Courtman strode toward the bar, then brought his attention back to Maisie. “So, what can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie thought Harry Bassington-Hope did not look like a man who had lost his only brother just a month earlier. “As you know, Georgina has been unsettled regarding the police assessment of the circumstances of your brother’s death and believes be may have been the victim of foul play. She asked me to look into the matter, and —”
“And it’s usually someone close to the victim, isn’t it?”
“Not always, Mr. Bassington-Hope. Though, family and friends tend to have a transparent relationship with the victim, in which they are not always consciously aware of anything unusual going in the months and days leading up to death. In asking questions, I find that the memory is ignited, to some extent, and even a small recollection can shed light on a meaningful clue as to the truth of the incident.”
“I suppose it’s no secret, then, that my relationship with my brother—as dear as he was to me—was really
