Messenger of Truth (20 page)

Chelsea for two of the clubs, Soho for another two, and one in Mayfair were on her list. By the time she arrived at Stanislav’s, an establishment in Soho, Maisie thought she was becoming more accomplished in the act of nonchalantly walking into a club, sweet-talking the man or woman at the door, and then leaving when the reply was to the effect that Harry was expected later, or on another evening. Clearly he had several engagements each night, and worked at different places, though she certainly had no intention of lingering unless he was without doubt expected shortly at a club.

She had finally put the black dress aside, settling instead on a pair of black trousers and a long sleeveless blouse with a boat neckline and a matching sash at the hip. The outfit had been a castoff from Priscilla, who had bundled it up and sent it along with several other items in a brown paper parcel. It had arrived just before Christmas, with a message that read, “Having children has ruined, simply ruined my waistline. These are a bit old-fashioned but am sure you can use them.” The trousers had barely been worn, and seeing as women who donned trousers were still in the minority, they were not as old-fashioned as Priscilla had suggested. Maisie thought the blouse was made with room to spare, though she would concede that, had Priscilla not sent the clothes to her, they would probably have languished at the back of her wardrobe. Now she was grateful for the ensemble, which she thought did not suit her at all well, though it was perfect for the evening’s subterfuge.

She took a deep breath and pushed against the door of Stanislav’s, whereupon a well-built man stepped forward to hold it open. A young woman smiled from behind a black and silver counter framed by a series of square silver lampshades, the lights providing the only illumination in the foyer. Maisie blinked, then smiled in return at the young woman, who was wearing a long black velvet dress with sequins along the hem, hipline, collar and cuffs. Her blond hair was tied back into a small chignon, and her eyes were accentuated by kohl, her lips blood-red.

The woman greeted her cordially. “Are you a member?”

“Oh, no—but I am a guest of Harry Bassington-Hope. Is he here yet?”

The woman inclined her head. “I’ll find out. Just a moment, please.”

The woman opened a door behind her, poked her head into a room that Maisie couldn’t see, and said, “Oi, is ’arry ’ere yet?” There was a delay of several seconds before she closed the door and addressed Maisie again, the cut-glass accent restored. “He should be here at any moment, madam. Please follow me. We have a small table where you can wait.”

Maisie was relieved to see that the table was situated in the corner of the room, close to the back wall, a perfect position from which to observe the comings and goings of people in the club. A waiter came to the table, and Maisie ordered a ginger beer with lime cordial. Someone had once told her that it was a popular drink in American cities, where prohibition required one to banish all evidence of alcohol from the breath, so Maisie ordered it, not because she intended to drink, but because it might give the impression that she was a seasoned club goer who would order something stronger later. The harmless cocktail was delivered and Maisie settled back to observe the room.

A series of tables of varying sizes, seating from two to eight people, were placed several tables deep around three sides of a small parquet dance floor. On the fourth and farthest side, a quartet had just started to play and already a few couples were dancing. Maisie tapped her foot and sipped her drink. Though she was tired when she first set out, she had since picked up and decided that it would be quite fun to come with friends to such a place. If one
had
a clutch of friends to come with, that is.

Her eyes scanned the room, looking for any faces she recognized. It wasn’t long before she noticed Randolph Bradley and Stig Svenson at a table close to the bar, the Swede leaning forward, intent upon the conversation, while the American relaxed against the back of his chair, his gray silk suit with even darker gray tie and kerchief punctuating his wealth. Maisie wondered if Georgina would appear and moved her chair farther back into the shadows. She watched as the American raised an index finger to the waiter, who came to his table in haste. Bradley stood up, pressed a note into the man’s hand, slapped him on the back. He shook hands with Svenson and left. Stig Svenson stared into his cocktail for a few moments, then raised the glass and finished the drink in one mouthful, leaning his head back as he did so. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief pulled from his trouser pocket, then he, too, left the club.

As she scanned the room a second time, Maisie noticed another man, a man she had never seen before, watching Svenson leave the club. She closed her eyes and, in her mind, replayed the scene when she had first glanced around the room. She knew he had been there when she came in and that he had been carefully watching Svenson and Bradley. Who was he? She squinted into the dark as the man stood up, pulled a note from his trouser pocket and checked it against a wall light before placing it on the bar. He took his hat from the seat next to him and left the club.

“Care to dance, Miss Dobbs?”

“Oh, my goodness, you made me jump!”

Alex Courtman pulled back a chair and sat down at the table. “Now, I can’t for a moment believe that you are here for anything but business. I must say, you look ravishing, by the way.”

Maisie raised an eyebrow. “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Courtman. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m waiting for a friend.”

“Oh, a friend? Then I am sure your friend won’t mind if I steal you away for a dance, will he?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Courtman. I’d rather not.”

“Come on! You don’t go to a club unless you are up for a dance or two.” Courtman reached over, took Maisie’s hand and led her, blushing and protesting, to the dance floor. The popular tune had drawn many more couples from their tables, so there was hardly room to move, but that didn’t stop Courtman from swinging his arms from side to side with the beat and, embracing the music, and occasionally Maisie, with gusto. Maisie, too, began to swing her arms, following her partner’s lead. Seeing her enthusiasm, Courtman took her by the waist and swirled her around. As the music reached a crescendo, a trumpet joined the rag, wheeling in with a high-pitched long note, to the accompaniment of piano, bass, drums and trombone. The dancers roared, applauding as they continued to move around the floor. Harry Bassington-Hope had arrived.

Courtman claimed Maisie for two more dances before, breathless, she held up her hands in mock surrender, and returned to the table, her partner following her.

“I say, you can dance when you like, can’t you?”

Maisie shook her head. “To tell you the truth, apart from Georgina’s party last week, I don’t think I’ve danced since…since…well, since before the war, actually.”

Courtman raised his hand to summon a waiter, then turned back. “Don’t tell me, you danced with the love of your life and he never came home from France.”

The smile left Maisie’s face. “It’s none of your business, Mr. Courtman.”

He touched her hand. “Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just one of those wartime stories, isn’t it?”

Maisie nodded to acknowledge the apology, withdrawing her hand. She changed the subject. “So, are you a regular here?”

“I come occasionally. But especially when I’m owed money.”

“Harry?”

Courtman nodded. “He’s Nick’s brother, after all. He tapped me for a few pounds on Sunday. Said he’d repay it in just two days, so it’s time for me to receive my due from him.”

“Was it just a few pounds?”

He shook his head. “No, a bit more than that—twenty, to tell you the truth. But I’m not exactly flush, so I wanted it back today. And I’ll get it too.”

Maisie looked toward the dance floor, which was still packed, and then at Harry Bassington-Hope, his legs splayed, his bow tie pulled loose, as he leaned back again, his trumpet held high, teasing another impossibly high note from the shining instrument.

“If he looked after his money like he looks after that trumpet, he’d be a rich man.” Courtman reached for the cocktail the waiter had just set before him.

“It’s gleaming,” said Maisie. She turned to Courtman. “When does he stop, or take a break?”

“In about another fifteen minutes. You can leave a message with the waiter—along with the appropriate monetary accompaniment—and he’ll pass it on to Harry, telling him to join you.”

Maisie followed his instruction, slipping a couple of coins into the waiter’s palm as she gave him the folded piece of paper.

“Shall I wait until he comes?” Courtman smiled at Maisie with such sincerity that she could almost forgive his lack of manners just a few moments ago.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Courtman. I am not really accustomed to such places, to tell you the truth.”

“I know. Mind you, I’m only staying on one condition.”

“Condition?”

“Yes. I want to claim the first dance after trumpet boy gets back up there.”

HARRY BASSINGTON-HOPE SWAGGERED
off the stage and over to the bar, stopping on the way to receive backslaps, shake hands with customers and to lean over and kiss women on the cheek, receiving a few lipstick prints on his face as he did so. Maisie watched as the waiter approached him and whispered in his ear, whereupon Harry looked around to locate Maisie’s table. He nodded to the waiter, reached for the drink that had already been placed on the bar in front of him and made his way over to Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs, we meet again, though I must say, I would never have pegged you for a night owl.” He pulled out a chair, turned it around and sat down, his arm resting on the chair back as he set his glass down on the table. He saw Maisie look at the clear liquid. “Soda water. Never drink anything stronger while playing, though I try to make up for lost time when I’m off duty.” He turned to Alex Courtman. “Alex, old chap, still taking up room in my sister’s flat? I would have thought the Yankee would have kicked you out by now.”

Alex Courtman stood up. “Moving on next week, Harry, to new digs over in Chelsea.”

Harry Bassington-Hope turned back to Maisie. “What do they call an artist without a girl?”

Maisie shook her head. “I haven’t a clue.”

“Homeless!” He chuckled at the joke, while Maisie smiled and shook her head.

“The old ones are the best, aren’t they, Harry?” Courtman stood up and drained his glass. “I’ll be back to claim that dance when trumpet boy here starts playing again.”

Georgina’s younger brother watched as Courtman strode toward the bar, then brought his attention back to Maisie. “So, what can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie thought Harry Bassington-Hope did not look like a man who had lost his only brother just a month earlier. “As you know, Georgina has been unsettled regarding the police assessment of the circumstances of your brother’s death and believes be may have been the victim of foul play. She asked me to look into the matter, and—”

“And it’s usually someone close to the victim, isn’t it?”

“Not always, Mr. Bassington-Hope. Though, family and friends tend to have a transparent relationship with the victim, in which they are not always consciously aware of anything unusual going in the months and days leading up to death. In asking questions, I find that the memory is ignited, to some extent, and even a small recollection can shed light on a meaningful clue as to the truth of the incident.”

“I suppose it’s no secret, then, that my relationship with my brother—as dear as he was to me—was really rather poor.”

“Was it?” Maisie said only enough to keep Bassington-Hope speaking.

“I was still in school when he went into the army, so he was very much the big brother, and as for the girls, Georgie and Nolly, well, Georgie was off on her own adventure anyway, and Nolly barely noticed me. I was a sort of fly in the sibling ointment. Mind you, I rather liked Godfrey, Nolly’s husband. He was always up for a game of cricket, you know, much more of a big brother type than Nick, actually.”

“And what about when Nick died?”

“Stupid accident, very stupid accident, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?”

“Of course. Now if he’d just let his pals help him a bit more and hadn’t been so secretive, then it wouldn’t have happened.” He shook his head. “No, I can’t imagine anything but an accident, and it could have been avoided.”

“Hadn’t you and Nick argued over money?”

“Hmmph! I suppose that must be common knowledge.” He paused, checked his watch, then went on. “My brother and I lived different lives. Yes, I had hit a spot of trouble financially, and Nick helped me out, but you know, with Nick there always had to be a bit of a lecture. God knows why, it’s not as if his halo wasn’t a bit tarnished.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing really. He just wasn’t the blue-eyed boy that Georgina would have you believe. Didn’t think twice about who he’d upset with his work, you know, and believe me, he could upset people.”

“Who did he upset?”

He looked away, toward the stage, where the other musicians were taking their places, stood up and drained his drink before replying. “You could start with the family. Had a habit of upsetting everyone at some time or another. Father had to calm Nolly down a couple of times—to think he could upset her so much after all she’d done for him.”

“How did he upset—”

“Sorry, Miss Dobbs. I really have to go, the boys are waiting for me.” He turned and hurried around the perimeter of the room so as not to be waylaid by admirers and was up on the stage with a single leap, taking up his trumpet and coaxing another wail into the rafters, the band joining him as the note changed mid-climb for a slide down the scale. The dancers were up and moving, and as Maisie collected her bag, she felt a pressure on her elbow.

“Oh, no you don’t! You promised one more dance.” Alex Courtman had loosened his tie while sitting at the bar, waiting for Harry Bassington-Hope to depart.

“But—”

“No ‘buts’—come on.”

IT WAS ANOTHER
hour before Maisie left the club to make her way through cold, smog-filled streets to her flat. She parked the MG, checked the lock and walked toward the main door of the building. It was as she opened the door that she looked around behind her. A shiver had slithered along her spine, and she closed the door behind her with haste, then hurried to her ground-floor flat. Once inside, she locked the door and, without turning on the lights, went to the window and looked out at the small front lawn and surrounding trees that separated the flats from the street. She stood there for some time, but there was no one there, though she felt, instinctively, that she had been watched.