Messenger of Truth

Before leaving the office, Maisie completed an overdue task, that of writing a letter of thanks to Dame Constance Charteris at Camden Abbey. She acknowledged the referral that had brought Georgina Bassington-Hope to her door and gave a brief description of the outcome. The Bassington-Hope family had been through a tumultuous time: shock, sorrow, regret and anger—at both Piers and Nick. There had been arguments and compassion, alliances had swung back and forth, then the family had come together to support the patriarch, even though true forgiveness eluded them, for now. She described the way in which the trial had brought Noelle and Georgina together, perhaps with more understanding than before. In her letter, Maisie suggested that Dame Constance might be seeing Georgina again soon, and added that she herself would love to visit in due course.

She drove home at a low speed, taking special care in the nighttime smog. Making her way past Victoria, she turned, on a whim, toward Belgravia. She was soon parked outside 15 Ebury Place. Houses on either side of the Comptons’ mansion showed signs of life, with lights in upper windows, perhaps a door opening to reveal a butler showing a visitor out into the night. But the house that had once been her home reminded her of an old, old woman gone to bed early because even a short day was long. There were no lights, no signs that a family was in residence. Without closing her eyes, Maisie thought she could hear the voices that echoed back and forth when she was young, of Enid cursing, of James gamely stealing biscuits when he came back to England to go to war. She could hear Mrs. Crawford, Mr. Carter and, as the years sped by in her mind’s eye, she imagined the staff who were new to the house and to her when she had come back, this time to live upstairs. It occurred to her that the ritual of her final accounting was rather like closing up a house, for wasn’t she checking each room before securing the door, looking out of a window to recall the view and then moving on? And wasn’t there always a new case, a new challenge, something fresh to ignite her appetite for excitement, just as there was now the flat in Pimlico? She smiled, took one last look at the mansion, pushed the MG into gear and began to slip away, back toward her new home.

MAISIE TRAVELED TO Dungeness the following day, parking the motor car close to the railway carriages that had been Nick Bassington-Hope’s home. Already a FOR SALE sign had been set up, nailed into a thick stake that had been hammered into the ground. She walked alongside the carriage and cupped her hands around her eyes so that she could see inside. Just a few pieces of furniture remained, enough to make the property seem welcoming when another soul came looking for a windswept retreat.

The sun shone, though the air was crisp, and as she was dressed for a meander along the beach, with a woolen thigh-length coat atop walking skirt and boots, gloved hands and a cloche set well down to protect her ears, she set off, pulling up her collar as she turned away from the carriages. On toward the lighthouse she tramped along, pebbles scrunching underfoot as she made her way past fishing boats pulled up onto the shingle. Nets had been emptied and left in neat piles, and gulls wheeled down from overhead as fishermen gathered in twos and threes to gut the fish or mend their nets. There was no sign of Amos White, and though the men raised their heads, then muttered together as she passed, she smiled and continued on her way. With the sting of salt on her cheeks, her eyes smarting against the chill wind, Maisie was glad she had decided to walk, for she loved the water, loved to be here, at the boundary of sea and land. What had her friend Priscilla called her just a few months ago? A mudlark! Yes, a mudlark who found treasure on the beach, though the banks of the Thames were a far cry from this. She stopped, drawn to the edge of the water, so that waves almost, though not quite, reached her shoes as they crashed into the shore.

The sea lapped even closer, though Maisie remained in place, her hands holding her collar to protect her neck. It’s because it’s the beginning, and also the end. That was what she loved about the place where the water met the land—the promise of something fresh, a suggestion that, even if what is happening now is to be suffered, there is an end and a beginning. I could sail away on that beginning, thought Maisie, as she turned to leave.

Driving through Hastings Old Town, she knew she risked seeing Andrew Dene, but knew too that it was important to bid her own farewell. The MG was too conspicuous to drive down the street where he lived, so she parked close to the pier, then walked back toward Rock-a-Nore. She watched day-trippers and even stopped for a cup of strong tea served by a fisherman’s wife at a beach-side hut. It was when she turned, ready to go back to her motor car, that she saw them, a couple running across the road toward the East Hill funicular railway. They were laughing, hand in hand. Though her breath caught in her throat, Maisie was not saddened to see Dene with a woman, a woman who seemed so at ease in his company, no shred of doubt upon her face. Knowing they had eyes only for each other, she watched the funicular ascend to the top of the hill, then whispered “good-bye” as she walked slowly back toward the pier.

She drove through Winchelsea, and then Rye, and reached Tenterden by lunchtime, though she did not stop to see Noelle or Emma but simply decelerated the car as she passed the gates that led to the estate. There had been a healing of familial wounds at the preview of No Man’s Land, though it would be some time before Piers would be home again. It was as if, in some way, Nick were still with them, living on through the body of work he left behind. Maisie looked through the gates and thought that, one day, she might be back, perhaps with Georgina. Or she might be invited to tea on a Saturday afternoon, drawn in, once again, to the Bassington- Hope web. Something had been ignited within her in that house. If her soul were a room, it was as if light were now shining in a corner that had been dark. And she’d been touched by something less tangible, something she’d found among people who saw nothing unusual in painting trees on walls. Perhaps it was the freedom to strike out on one’s own path, seeing not a risk in that which was new, only opportunity.

A night at her father’s house provided a brief respite from the pressures of recent weeks. With the memory of her breakdown still uppermost in her father’s mind, Maisie took care not to concern him further, keeping conversation light. They spoke of horses, especially new foals expected, and of the closing of the Comptons’ Belgravia house. Then, after they had enjoyed a supper of rabbit stew, with dumplings and fresh crusty bread to mop up the broth, they sat by the fire, where Frankie slipped into sleep, his daughter looking on before fatigue claimed her. It was past twelve when she felt an eiderdown envelop her and was aware of the lamps being extinguished so that she could dream on undisturbed.

Maisie left early the following morning, going directly to the office, where she began to read, once again, the final report she would soon deliver to Georgina Bassington-Hope. Billy had left a note with a list of the tasks he hoped to complete by the end of the day, mainly jobs that would bring other cases up-to-date, especially as the duo’s attention had been elsewhere in recent weeks. The funeral had been a turning point for the Beale family. Jim had several sources of steady work, a day here, a day there, but it all helped, all added up, according to Billy. There was talk that the visitors might return to Sussex, seeing as the situation was no better in London than anywhere else. According to Billy, he and Doreen had weighed up leaving the East End, talked about getting out of the Smoke.

“But when it comes down to it, it’s me roots, ain’t it? O’course, they ain’t Doreen’s roots, but, well, you never know, do you? We’re still thinking about goin’ over there, when we’ve got a bit put by.” He paused, looking at Maisie for encouragement. “What d’you reckon, Miss?”

“I reckon, Billy, that there’s such a thing as serendipity, that if you are meant to move on, you will. And I believe that if you imagine, and keep on imagining, a better life for your family, then events will conspire to present the opportunity to you. And when that time comes, you will make your decision, one way or another.”

“Bit of a gamble, though, ain’t it?”

“So is staying in one spot.”

Epilogue

It was late February before Maisie made an appointment to visit Georgina Bassington-Hope at her home in Kensington. Arriving at the flat, she was surprised to see Nick’s Scott motorcycle standing outside, now with panniers