Messenger of Truth

yes—sort of piqued my interest.”

“Yes?”

Billy caught his breath and held his hand to his chest. “Gaw, I thought I’d miss you there. ’old on a minute.” He coughed, wheezing and looking around him as he did so. “Right then. This is what my mate down Fleet Street ’ad to say today. There ain’t nothing on our ’arry B-H to report, nothing on Nick, or the sisters. So, generally, it’s all clean, nothing to report. So, I says to ’im, ‘So, what else ’as been comin’ down the blower this week, mate?’ and ’e says that the only thing ’e’s got a lead on, though it ain’t much, is that these ’ere villains that ’arry’s been in cahoots with, ’ave been suspected of getting into the minin’ business.”

“Mining? What on earth do you mean?”

“Manner of talking, Miss.” Billy grinned. “Now, what do you think minin’ means?”

“Coal?”

“Close. Very close. Turns out that my mate is following a lead that they’re into diamonds, as in the moving around of the same.”

“But aren’t these criminals always into whatever can be stolen?”

“No, not stolen as in a ‘rotten little tea-leaf ’aving it away with ’er Ladyship’s tiara.’ No, we’re talking raw diamonds, brought in from somewhere else and fenced over ’ere.”

Maisie was silent for a moment or two. “Yes, yes, that’s very interesting, Billy. I’m not sure how that might have anything to do with Harry and this case, but…”

“What, Miss?”

“Just a thought. Anything else?”

Billy shook his head. “Nah, nothing much. My mate says ’e’s been keeping an eye on what’s going on over there on the Continent, says that it’s a bit more interestin’ at the moment, so there ain’t much that can affect the B- Hs.”

Maisie settled into the MG, winding down the window as the engine grumbled to life. “And what has been happening in Europe, then?”

“Well, my mate says, all the usual stuff. Been a few burglaries, old money’s ’eirlooms bein’ pinched, that sort of thing.”

“Good work, Billy—I’ll consider everything you’ve said on my drive to the coast. Hold the fort until tomorrow afternoon, won’t you?”

“Right you are, Miss. You can depend on me.”

Maisie looked into Billy’s almost lifeless gray-blue eyes and smiled. “I know I can, Billy. Just you take care of yourself—and your family.”

BILLY STOOD WATCHING as Maisie drove off toward Tottenham Court Road. She hadn’t confided in him regarding her plans for the evening, and what, exactly, she wanted to accomplish in Dungeness. He knew she hadn’t wanted to worry him, which worried him even more. In fact, he knew her well enough by now to know that she had—as near as damn it —worked out what had happened to Nick Bassington-Hope on the night of his death even if she might not know who else was involved. She probably had two or three possible suspects lined up, and if he was right about it, she was just waiting for someone, somewhere, to put a foot wrong.

Fifteen

Maisie made a snap decision that there was no need to begin her journey to Dungeness for another hour or two—she certainly didn’t want to arrive too early. Much of the planning was based on supposition anyway. She had no firm evidence that this evening, under cover of darkness, she would find out if her suspicions concerning the activities of a few residents in the small coastal community were well- founded; all she had to go on, truly, was a tale of derring-do, a colorful mural on a former railway carriage and the history of a desolate place—the case was all loose ends and no skein of yarn. But she could confirm one or two facts, and those facts might indicate that the time was indeed right for her to go to Dungeness today, especially as it would be a clear, moonless night.

Maisie parked alongside the entrance to Georgina’s flat and checked her appearance before making her way to the front door. She rang the bell and the housekeeper came within seconds, smiling when she recognized Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs. I’ll tell Miss Bassington-Hope that you’re here.” She showed Maisie into the drawing room as she spoke.

“Thank you.” Maisie removed her gloves and scarf and waited without taking a seat.

“Maisie, what a surprise. Have you news?” Georgina entered the room several minutes later. Her hair was drawn back in a loose chignon, which exposed her pale skin, the almost juvenile freckles on her nose and gray circles under her eyes.

“No, but I wanted to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind. I’d like to clarify my understanding of certain events leading up to the death of your brother.”

“Of course.” As she held out her hand toward the chesterfield, Maisie noticed a circular ink stain against the upper joint of the middle finger of her right hand.

“I see you’ve been writing, Georgina. Have I disturbed you at an inopportune moment?”

The journalist shook her head. “I wish I could say that you had. In fact, I welcome any disturbance, to tell you the truth—it saves me sweating over a blank page for the rest of the day.”

“Blank page?”

Georgina sighed, shaking her head. “The call to write hasn’t been answered by words yet. I usually compose with my typewriting machine these days, but I thought that if I took up the fountain pen again, it might ignite inspiration’s touchpaper.”

“Is there something specific you want to write?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been assigned to write something about Oswald Mosley for an American journal, but