Messenger of Truth

As soon as she was back in the office, Maisie set about catching up with her work. There were some bills to prepare, and planning for the following week to complete. The post had to be dealt with, and she was pleased to see two letters of interest with regard to her services.

With about another half hour before she needed to leave for Dungeness, she moved to the table but did not remove the case map from its hiding place. She took a seat and doodled with a pen on a blank index card. She thought there might be something going on in Dungeness—based more upon her understanding of Nick’s mural, than anything else—that suggested knowledge on his part of some underhanded dealing. But how deep was his personal involvement? She felt that Haywood and Trayner had something to hide, but Courtman seemed on the periphery of the group, probably not part of an inner circle.

Harry Bassington-Hope? Her mind drifted back to the dilettante musician, and the words came into her mind: He knew what was going on. But Maisie considered Harry to be someone caught in a web of his own making. She knew his type, had seen it before. Harry’s actions had led him to the slippery slope, and she knew he would not draw back from dragging someone else down with him—be it a friend, a brother or sister. His addiction was to the highs and lows of the gamble, that intoxicating thrill of risk blended with chance—and those who had something to gain from his weakness had lost no time in using him to their advantage. But how did they do it? Maisie shook her head and ran her hands through her hair. No, they weren’t after just family money alone. She scraped back her chair and wandered to the window. What did Harry get from his brother that someone else wanted? She ran her finger across the condensation on the window pane, then watched a rivulet of water drizzle down to the wooden frame. And did Nick die as a result of it?

Maisie turned, ready to collect her belongings, to prepare herself to leave. She had always spoken with Maurice at times such as this, when she was about to move ahead into the darkness. She depended upon his counsel at that point in the case where she, too, was playing with risk, leaving so much to chance. Am I as much of an addict to the thrill my work sometimes brings? Was it the thought of possibly giving up that edge, that contributed to dissatisfaction in her courtship with Andrew Dene? Maisie put her hand to her mouth. She had always told herself that she did this job because she wanted to help others; after all, hadn’t Maurice told her once that the most important question any individual could ask was, “How might I serve?” If her response to that question had been pure, surely she would have continued with the calling to be a nurse—and perhaps help children such as Lizzie Beale in the bargain. But that role hadn’t been quite enough for her. She would have missed the excitement, the thrill—and it was a thrill—when she embarked on the work of collecting clues to support a case.

Hadn’t she felt that fountain of expectation rise within her at the nightclub, while waiting, ever watchful, for Harry Bassington-Hope? There was the prickle across her skin when she saw the man at the bar leave, perhaps to follow Svenson and Bradley. Then at the gallery, that familiar excitement building as she questioned Arthur Levitt. Or outside Georgina’s flat, when she arrived for the party, there was that compulsion to wait, to watch, to remain alert, to uncover a truth that had hitherto been hidden. Of course, Georgina was the same, though in her case, the urge to seek adventure played out in capturing the fabric of truth she would fashion for her stories. And she was involved with a married man. There’s a gamble. And Nick too—didn’t he sail close to the winds of disapproval with his work? Didn’t he risk losing his supporters?

Truth. Wasn’t that why she took on the case? That bolt of recognition when Georgina placed her hand over her heart and said, “A feeling, here,” even though she did not know the woman well, had not established an acquaintance; she was drawn by her declaration. She had stepped forward, laid her hand on the woman’s shoulder, the voice in her head saying, Yes, this I understand. That was the thrill, and that was the quest for which she took her risks. The search for truth. But what if she were wrong? What if all the supposed clues were simply unimportant connections: the wayward brother, the wealthy sponsor, friends who appeared to have something to hide. Heavens, didn’t everyone have something to hide? Maisie sighed, knowing her thoughts had taken her along a less than welcome path, the way of doubt. She had never been blind to the reality of her obsession with her work, but she had certainly been less than honest with those who deserved more from her—Andrew Dene for one.

Almost instinctively, she reached for the telephone receiver, then drew back. No, she would not place a call to Maurice. She had forged her independence from him. The business was her own now, there was no need to seek his counsel, his voice, his opinion of her reasoning, before setting off.

Checking that she had everything she needed, Maisie put on her coat, hat and gloves, and took up the black document case, along with her shoulder bag. She reached the door, and as she held out her hand to grasp the brass handle, the telephone began to ring. She was determined to ignore the ring, but it occurred to her that it might be Billy trying to contact her before she departed for Dungeness, so she reconsidered and lifted the receiver.

“Fitzroy—”

“Maisie.”

“Maurice.” She closed her eyes, and sighed. “I thought it might be you.”

“Were you about to leave your office?”

“Yes. I’m off to Dungeness.”

There was a pause. “I sense you’ve reached that point in a case where you must take a risk or two. Am I correct?”

Maisie closed her eyes and sighed. “Yes, as always, Maurice.”

“Ah, I hear just a hint of impatience, Maisie.”

“No, not at all. I was just leaving, my hands are full.”

Another pause. “I see. Then I will not detain you. Take care, remember all you have learned.”

She nodded. “Of course. I will be in touch soon, Maurice.”

The click as the receiver met the cradle seemed to echo against the walls, the short finality of the conversation reverberating across the silent room. Maisie stood by the desk for just a few seconds, nursing a regret that she had not been kinder. Then she left the office, double-checked the lock and made her way to the MG.

It was as she was about to slip into the driver’s seat that Maisie saw Billy running along Warren Street toward her.

“Miss! Miss! Wait a minute!”

Maisie smiled. “You’ve built up a head of steam there, Billy. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing wrong, Miss, but there’s something come up, you know, that sort of—what is it you always say? Oh,