Free Messenger of Truth by Jacqueline Winspear Page B

several occasions, there was a mutual respect that had led Maisie to be called to Scotland Yard to consult on cases where her particular skill and insight was thought to be of use in the investigation of a case.
    “Keeps you going on a day like this, though. It’s been very chilly this past week, hasn’t it?”
    Their eyes met. Maisie sipped her tea and nodded. “Gosh, that’s better.”
    Stratton looked at his watch. “You wanted to see me, Miss Dobbs?”
    “Yes.” She placed her plain white cup in the saucer, then paused as she reached for another slice of toast and jam, to which she added an additional half teaspoon of jam.
    “Good Lord, would you like some toast with that dollop of jam?” Stratton leaned back in his chair and caught Maisie’s eye.
    “I’m starving, Inspector.” She smiled again, then continued with her explanation. “I wanted to speak to you about the death of Nicholas Bassington-Hope. Of course, I must thank you for supporting his sister’s plan to engage my services so that certain doubts in her heart might be put to rest; however, I hope that you can tell me more about the event, from your perspective.” Maisie inclined her head, then proceeded to bite into the toast, reaching for her tea as she did so.
    Stratton allowed a few seconds to elapse, seconds in which Maisie was sure he was composing a response that would have been acceptable to his superiors, had he been called to account for his actions. And despite the delay in answering, during which she appeared to make herself busy with another slice of toast, she knew that he had likely anticipated the reason for her request that they meet and was therefore ready to share only the barest minimum of information.
    “There was—is—no doubt in my mind that Mr. Bassington-Hope fell from the scaffolding he had constructed. It hadn’t been put up by a builder or other person used to such a task, though he’d obviously had help. It was quite amateurish—in fact, he was asking for trouble.” He sipped from his cup. “Terrible waste—it’s not as if there aren’t builders out of work who would have jumped at the chance of making a shilling or two to give him a hand.”
    Maisie placed a half-eaten crust on her plate. “I have seen the wall against which the scaffolding was positioned and it appeared that there were anchors in place. I’m not an expert at this sort of thing, but I would have thought that, being an artist, he would have been used to setting up all sorts of exhibits, and, seeing as he worked on fairly large pieces, of actually getting at the canvas to paint. I mean, the man wasn’t a fool, he’d been a soldier, had a certain dexterity—”
    Stratton shook his head. “That artistic temperament—seen it a lot in my time. He was a soldier over thirteen years ago now, so I am dubious about any lingering practicality that might have been drilled into him at the time. And he was fiercely secretive about his work—as you probably know, they can’t even find half of it! No, for his own reasons, he wanted to do everything himself, which led to his death.”
    “And that brings me back to my original purpose for wanting to see you: Do you think there might be even the merest scrap of merit in Miss Bassington-Hope’s belief that her brother was the victim of a crime?”
    Stratton sipped again from his cup. Maisie smiled, knowingly. He’s playing for time.
    “To tell you the truth, I’m only too glad she came to you, otherwise she would be nipping at my heels. That woman is one of those terrierlike people who, once they have something to chew on, simply do not let go. I should never have been assigned to go to the scene of the accident in the first place, as it was—to me—clearly not a place where a crime had taken place.” Stratton sighed. “She did not accept that her brother was the victim of his own ineptitude and seemed set to make a nuisance of herself, just like she did in the war.”
    “But I thought she