Messenger of Truth by Jacqueline Winspear Page A

was I a nurse, but I served a lengthy apprenticeship with Dr. Maurice Blanche. I am used to questioning the examiner; it is what I am trained to do.”
    “The bruises are not severe enough to indicate an alternative cause of death and were, as the pathologist concluded, in keeping with the nature of the accident.”
    “Hmmm, that’s two ‘in keepings’—I wonder what else they might be ‘in keeping’ with?”
    “Miss Dobbs, you appear to be suggesting a lack of attention to detail, or perhaps ineptitude. I would not have closed the case had I any doubt—”
    “Wouldn’t you?” Maisie did not allow the question to linger, and ensured only that it had been voiced. “If I seem confrontational, it is only because my brief from my client—thanks to you supporting the referral—requires me to ask such questions. Indeed, I do believe I could point out several anomalies, but at the same time, I can see why such a conclusion was reached by the attending physician.”
    “May I?” Stratton reached for the document. “Now, I can’t help with anything else, I’m afraid. I am sure you have more questions, but if I had the time to answer—or saw reason to answer—then I wouldn’t have closed the case.” Stratton returned the report to the envelope, and then to his pocket. “I’ve got to leave now. Busy day as I’m leaving work early today.”
    Maisie knotted her scarf and stood up as Stratton pulled out her chair. “Going away for the weekend, Inspector?”
    Stratton shook his head. “No, just an evening out. A banquet, actually. Rather looking forward to it.”
    They left the café, shaking hands before they went their separate ways. Maisie felt compelled to turn and look back as she walked toward her motor car, and as she did so, she saw Stratton crossing the road in the direction of the waiting black Invicta and the police driver who held open the door for him. It was at that moment that she noticed another motor car parked behind Stratton’s, and though she could not be sure, she thought that the second motor was a faster, newer model, and of the sort used by the Flying Squad. A man wearing a black hat and black overcoat who had been leaning on the door of the motor car threw a cigarette stub on the ground, then pressed into it with the sole of his shoe. He walked over to Stratton. Leaning toward each other, they spoke briefly, before turning to look in her direction. Maisie feigned interest in the window of an adjacent shop, then when she felt it was safe to do so, cast her eyes once again in the direction of Stratton’s motor, just in time to see the two men shake hands and climb into their respective vehicles.
    Reaching the MG, Maisie checked her watch. Yes, she would be in Kent before half past two. As she drove, confidently, despite sleet that caused the London streets to become increasingly hazardous, she replayed the meeting with Stratton so that it was like watching a moving picture show in her mind’s eye. There were questions to be asked, but if she rushed to answer them at this stage, she might bring to a halt the possibility of reaching a full and complete conclusion to the case in a timely fashion. Her first questions—for Maisie’s curiosity rarely seemed to grow without more questions attached, as if it were a giant root with subsidiary tubers feeding—centered around Stratton’s delight that she was working for Georgina Bassington-Hope. Did he really want the woman occupied lest she pen some controversial piece regarding police procedure for a newspaper or one of the political journals? Had he reason to continue his investigation into the artist’s death without the knowledge of either Maisie or the next-of-kin?
    Maisie used the back of her hand to wipe condensation from the inside of the MG’s windscreen while thinking about the second motor car and the meeting between Stratton and the man in the black hat and coat. Of course, collaboration between men with different police