The man shrugged his shoulders. “I wasn’t his keeper, you know. Despite the fact that we all lived in the same place, I think I can count the times on one hand when we were there together in the past year, so, no, I cannot give you any information about his social life, I’m afraid.”
“Did Harry visit, as far as you know? Even if you didn’t see him, did Nick mention it?”
“He came down a few times.”
“When was the first time?”
He shook his head. “Can’t remember.”
“Did Harry’s London friends ever come to the coast?”
“Now why would they do that? Far too uncomfortable for the club crowd, you know. Strange people, they spend their evenings in sooty, sordid clubs, then go back to their palatial surroundings.”
Maisie did not take her eyes off him, but kept up the pace of her questioning. “Do you know the Old Town, in Hastings?”
“Been there. All jellied eels, whelks, Londoners on their days off and slums down on Bourne Street.”
“Have you ever spoken to the fishermen?”
“What?”
“The Draper brothers, perhaps?” Maisie pressed, before he had time to conceal the shock his widened eyes revealed.
“I—I, well I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Maisie checked her momentum. “Tell me what you know about the mural in Nick’s carriage.”
He shrugged again. “Dr. Syn. He loved the myths and legends of the Marshes, loved the stories of smuggling gangs, of devil riders, and of course he’d met Thorndike, the author.”
“What about the Draper boys?”
“What about them?”
“In the mural.”
Another shrug. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
Maisie paused before speaking. “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind explaining something else to me.” She leaned forward. “At Georgina’s party, when Oswald Mosley came into the room, he was almost immediately surrounded by admirers, yet you, Alex and Quentin all but turned your backs. Now, I am no follower, but I’m curious to know what you think of him.”
Haywood lost no time in replying. “God, that man makes me sick. Look at the way he postures, the rhetoric— and the fools can’t see through him, any more than people can see through that tyrant in Germany—Herr Hitler. If you ask me, they are cut of the same cloth—and we should all keep an eye on them. I cannot believe Georgina invited him or even thinks he can do half of what he says—the man’s power hungry.”
“I see. That’s a strong opinion.”
“I have friends in Heidelberg, Munich and Dresden, and to a man they have the same opinions about their leader—we must watch his type, Miss Dobbs.”
She smiled. “Mr. Haywood, thank you so much for your time, you have been most accommodating.”
“But—”
“But?”
“I thought you would have some more questions, that’s all.”
She shook her head. “Not at all. I only ask questions when I am still seeking the answers—and you’ve been an invaluable help to me. Thank you.”
Maisie wound the scarf around her neck once again and stood to warm her hands by the fire for a moment before plunging them into her gloves. “Now, I had best be off. I’m hoping to catch Quentin at the Chelsea Arts Club.”
Duncan had risen to his feet as Maisie stood in front of the fire. “Yes, quite.” Without adding further comment, he led her to the front door and bid her farewell. As the MG’s engine rumbled to life, Maisie watched his silhouette move with haste to the telephone table.
For her part, Maisie was in no hurry. Of course, she would go to the club, just in case, though she knew the purpose for her visit would have departed before her arrival. In fact, she knew that, even as she drove toward Chelsea, Quentin would be apologizing to his companions for deserting such a cracking game of snooker. He would rush into the cloakroom, take his coat and, upon leaving, hail a taxi-cab to take him to the home of his mistress. And in a curt manner, he would probably instruct the driver not to dawdle.
AS SHE TURNED the corner into Fitzroy Square, she was surprised to see Sandra, one of the maids at the Belgravia mansion of Lord and Lady Compton, waiting on the doorstep.
“Sandra, whatever are you doing here?” Maisie had always straddled a fine line when it came to addressing the staff at Ebury Place. None of the skeleton staff now retained there had worked at the house when she herself was in service as a girl before the war, but they knew of her early days. Through trial and error she had forged a relationship blending respect with amiability, with Sandra being the one who was the most forthcoming, always ready to engage in a “chat” with Maisie. But now, with Sandra’s ready smile gone, it seemed that something was amiss. “Is everything all right?”
“I wondered if I could have a word with you, miss.” She was twisting her fingers around the handle of the
