of us, at least ’e ’ad a way to get it all out, you know, from the inside.” Billy touched his chest. “Onto the paper, or canvas or whatever it is they use.”
Maisie nodded. “That’s why I want to see everything I can that came from his mind’s eye and onto the canvas.” She looked at her watch. “Time to go home to your family, Billy.”
Billy gathered his belongings, then his coat and cap, and left the office with a swift “Thanks, Miss.”
Maisie read over her notes for a moment or two longer, then walked to the window and looked out onto the already dark late-afternoon square. This quiet time was her canvas; her intellect, sensitivity and hard work formed the palette she worked with. Slowly but surely she would use her gifts to re-create Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s life in her mind, so that she could see, think and feel as he might have, and in so doing she would come to know whether, indeed, his death was an accident or a deliberate act, whether it was self-inflicted or the result of an attack.
SOME THREE HOURS later, having seen two more clients, one man and one woman seeking not her skill as an investigator but her psychologist’s compassion and guidance as they spoke of fears, of concerns and despair, she made her way home. Home, to the new flat that was quiet and cold, and that did not have the comforts to which she had become accustomed while living at the London residence of Lord Julian Compton and his wife, Lady Rowan Compton. Lady Rowan had been her employer, the sponsor of her education, her supporter and now, in her senior years, she was something of an ally, despite a chasm in the origin of their respective stations in life.
The flat was in Pimlico, which, despite the proximity of neighboring Belgravia, was considered less than salubrious. However, for Maisie, who was careful with her money and had squirreled away savings for years, the property was affordable, which was the main consideration. A flurry of pamphlets produced by banks for the past decade, extolling the virtues and affordability of home ownership, had allowed her to dream of that important nugget of independence: a home of one’s own. Indeed, the number of young women whose chance of marriage ended with the war—almost two million according to the census in 1921—meant that an adverse attitude toward women and ownership of property had been suspended, just a little, and just for a while.
Certainly, living rent-free at the Belgravia home of Lord and Lady Compton had helped enormously, as had the success of her business. The initial invitation to return to Ebury Place had been inspired by Lady Rowan’s desire for an overseer “upstairs” in whom she could place her trust while she spent more and more time at her estate in Kent. The invitation also stemmed from an affection with which Maisie was held by her former employers, especially since she had played an important part in bringing their son, James, back into the family fold following his postwar troubles. James now lived in Canada, directing the Compton Company’s interests from an office in Toronto. It was thought that, like many of their class in these troublesome times, the Comptons would no longer retain two or more properties, and might therefore sell the large London home. But Maisie, for one, could not imagine Lady Rowan completely closing the house, thereby putting people out of work.
A skeleton staff had lived at 15 Ebury Place, and Maisie knew that she would miss the young women who worked below stairs, though Eric, the footman- cum -chauffeur, had said she should bring her motor car to the mews regularly for him to “have a look at, just to make sure she’s running smoothly.” But for two months now, she had been living at her new flat in Pimlico, chosen not only for price but for its proximity to the water, the river that ran though London and that Maisie loved—despite her friend Priscilla, who referred to the Thames as “swill.”
She had
Maisie nodded. “That’s why I want to see everything I can that came from his mind’s eye and onto the canvas.” She looked at her watch. “Time to go home to your family, Billy.”
Billy gathered his belongings, then his coat and cap, and left the office with a swift “Thanks, Miss.”
Maisie read over her notes for a moment or two longer, then walked to the window and looked out onto the already dark late-afternoon square. This quiet time was her canvas; her intellect, sensitivity and hard work formed the palette she worked with. Slowly but surely she would use her gifts to re-create Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s life in her mind, so that she could see, think and feel as he might have, and in so doing she would come to know whether, indeed, his death was an accident or a deliberate act, whether it was self-inflicted or the result of an attack.
SOME THREE HOURS later, having seen two more clients, one man and one woman seeking not her skill as an investigator but her psychologist’s compassion and guidance as they spoke of fears, of concerns and despair, she made her way home. Home, to the new flat that was quiet and cold, and that did not have the comforts to which she had become accustomed while living at the London residence of Lord Julian Compton and his wife, Lady Rowan Compton. Lady Rowan had been her employer, the sponsor of her education, her supporter and now, in her senior years, she was something of an ally, despite a chasm in the origin of their respective stations in life.
The flat was in Pimlico, which, despite the proximity of neighboring Belgravia, was considered less than salubrious. However, for Maisie, who was careful with her money and had squirreled away savings for years, the property was affordable, which was the main consideration. A flurry of pamphlets produced by banks for the past decade, extolling the virtues and affordability of home ownership, had allowed her to dream of that important nugget of independence: a home of one’s own. Indeed, the number of young women whose chance of marriage ended with the war—almost two million according to the census in 1921—meant that an adverse attitude toward women and ownership of property had been suspended, just a little, and just for a while.
Certainly, living rent-free at the Belgravia home of Lord and Lady Compton had helped enormously, as had the success of her business. The initial invitation to return to Ebury Place had been inspired by Lady Rowan’s desire for an overseer “upstairs” in whom she could place her trust while she spent more and more time at her estate in Kent. The invitation also stemmed from an affection with which Maisie was held by her former employers, especially since she had played an important part in bringing their son, James, back into the family fold following his postwar troubles. James now lived in Canada, directing the Compton Company’s interests from an office in Toronto. It was thought that, like many of their class in these troublesome times, the Comptons would no longer retain two or more properties, and might therefore sell the large London home. But Maisie, for one, could not imagine Lady Rowan completely closing the house, thereby putting people out of work.
A skeleton staff had lived at 15 Ebury Place, and Maisie knew that she would miss the young women who worked below stairs, though Eric, the footman- cum -chauffeur, had said she should bring her motor car to the mews regularly for him to “have a look at, just to make sure she’s running smoothly.” But for two months now, she had been living at her new flat in Pimlico, chosen not only for price but for its proximity to the water, the river that ran though London and that Maisie loved—despite her friend Priscilla, who referred to the Thames as “swill.”
She had
Similar Books
