Maisie made no sudden move toward the desk; instead she leaned back in the hard wooden chair, just enough to underscore her detachment from the outcome of the questioning. She didn’t want this man to think she was concerned.
“I was thinking, while being brought here, that I might see that particular item again today.”
“So, what is it?” The man snapped.
Maisie cleared her throat.
The man was silent for a moment or two. “And what does this map tell you—what have your little patterns led you to?”
“I haven’t finished yet,” she countered with an edge to her voice, which led to more fidgeting on the man’s part. Her interrogator clearly wasn’t used to the sense that control of a conversation was slipping from his grasp.
“Right then, what about the boys down in Dungeness?”
“What about them?”
“What do you know, Miss Dobbs, about their activities on dark and windless nights?”
“I should say you know more than I, Mr. Tucker.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I was merely interested in the two men, given their relationship with Mr. Bassington-Hope—Nicholas, not Harry, that is. You know that I was retained by his sister simply to corroborate the police findings, that his death was an accident.”
“Are you aware what was going on in Dungeness?”
“Smuggling.”
“Of course it’s smuggling—don’t be deliberately obtuse with me, Miss Dobbs.”
“Far from being obtuse, I am as in the dark as you, Mr. Tucker. If you must know, I think Duncan Haywood and Quentin Trayner are a long way from being seasoned smugglers, and embarked upon the operation with only the best of intentions. However, the underworld element clearly found a means of using the situation to their advantage.”
“You know about the diamonds, then?”
“I guessed.” Maisie leaned forward. “Now, how long have you been watching them?”
Tucker threw his pen onto the desk, splattering ink across the edge of the manila folder. “About three months —and you keep this under your hat, mind. I’ve looked into who you are, and I know which side you’re on, though I wish you’d keep your nose out of it. I’m not interested in these little bits and pieces of art coming across. For crying out loud, they might as well have sent them via any aboveboard carterage firm, though I am sure the French and German authorities would have their noses put well out of joint if they knew.” He gave a cynical half laugh. “No, we’re after what you call the ‘underworld element,’ though we’re waiting to catch the blighters red-handed. But we’ve been too slow about it.” He closed the file.
“So, what do you know about the paintings?”
Tucker smiled. “Now it’s my turn, Miss Dobbs—you know very well what the importation of the paintings is all about. You don’t need me to tell you.”
Now calmer, he explained that his interest was not in the artists, but in those who had taken advantage of the wayward Harry and his brother. For her part, Maisie explained that Nick would have done anything to keep Harry safe—even if it meant submitting to the demands of criminals. Tucker agreed, nodding as she spoke, whereupon Maisie shared her knowledge of the diamond smuggling operation. When it was clear that there was nothing more to be gained by detaining her, she was allowed to leave.
Collecting her motor car, she returned to Dungeness. It was all falling into place. Soon every single clue would be set on the case map she carried in her head, the one that no one could steal. She often thought it was like a child’s game in a coloring book, where tracing a line between dots on a page would reveal a picture to be filled in with crayons or paint. But one had to be careful to ensure that each dot was connected in the correct sequence, or the completed image might bring to mind something else altogether.
MAISIE HAD NO fear of lighting the fire and warming water on the stove in Nick’s cottage. If she were seen, it was of little import now. The former railway carriage was soon warm, and as the kettle came to the boil, Maisie used a fork to toast her remaining sandwiches in front of the open stove. Once she had eaten, soothed by food and hot tea, fatigue enveloped her again, and she knew that, before she embarked upon the several tasks she wanted to complete prior to leaving the cottage for the last time, she must sleep. The blinds had remained closed against a winter sun just beginning its climb into the now clear coastal sky, so all Maisie had to do was draw back the counterpane and curl into Nick Bassington-Hope’s bed.
It was past ten when she awoke, rested and ready to set out on her quest to discover the location of the lock- up, for she was convinced that she would find the information she wanted here, in the artist’s home. Using the china jug from Nick’s dressing room, she brought water from the barrel outside the back door, shivering as she splashed her face and washed her body. The change of clothes in her leather case was welcome and would be more appropriate than her current attire for the return visit to Bassington Place. Refreshed, she was ready for her search, and stepped back into the studio.
The image that had presented itself to her on the previous visit, a slip of paper hidden somewhere in the recesses of the chair, had nagged at Maisie. From her earliest lessons with Maurice she had been taught to trust her intuition. She was blessed—and sometimes, she thought, cursed—with a keenness of insight. Trust and skill had enhanced her ability to see where others were blind, and confidence in herself and others had led her time and time again to that which she was seeking.
Removing cushions from the chair, she pushed her hands deep into the edges of the upholstered seat. Her fingers scraped against the wooden frame and, though she felt her knuckles grow raw, still she searched with her fingers. Another coin, some crumbs, a pen and a cork.
