“Fitzroy Square means work.”
“Not anymore—you’re a woman of leisure now.” Priscilla sipped from her glass and regarded Maisie. She began to tap one manicured red nail against the crystal. “Don’t tell me you’re going back to work in Fitzroy Square. Oh, Maisie, give yourself some breathing room, for heaven’s sake.”
“Don’t worry, Pris, I’m not—as yet—returning to work. Mind you, I am leaving your clutches soon, but probably only for a week or two.”
Priscilla leaned toward the low table in front of them, picked up her silver cigarette case, and began to press a cigarette into the long holder she favored. “Where are you off to? Pray tell.”
“Paris. It’s to do with Maurice’s estate—the property there, and—”
“Excellent! I shall come too—we can trip along to see a wonderful dressmaker I know near Montmartre. She can copy that costume—”
“Oh dear, Pris, I’m so sorry . . . but Mr. Klein is accompanying me. I won’t have a moment to myself.” Maisie felt herself panic—Priscilla was not easily fobbed off. “But how about closer to the end of my visit? We can stay in a hotel—you choose.”
Priscilla tapped the glass again and lifted the cigarette holder to her lips. Only after she’d exhaled a single smoke ring into the air did she speak again. “You’re up to something, Maisie. I can tell.”
“Pris, I promise you I am up to nothing more than looking after Maurice’s estate and ensuring that his wishes for his medical clinics for the poor are followed to the letter. I have things to do in Paris, and when they’re done, then you can take me to your little dressmaker.”
“She’s five foot ten.”
“Your big dressmaker, then.”
Priscilla sighed. “Well, if you say you’re not up to something, I’ll take your word for it.” She rattled the ice cubes in her almost empty glass. “Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you—well, it might have been a deliberate omission. You probably don’t want to hear it. Lorraine Otterburn telephoned today, wanting to know if you were in town. She said she and John would love to see you, and could they come here soonest?”
Maisie held out her glass to Priscilla. “You can make me a proper one this time.”
Priscilla took the glass. “Well?”
“No, the Otterburns can’t come anywhere to see me.”
CHAPTER 3
The estate agent, Hugo Watson, fumbled with a set of keys until he found one that fit the door of the house overlooking Primrose Hill. Maisie had known from the moment she met Watson on the pavement alongside the Georgian building that the property wasn’t quite for her. She was about to tell him that she did not want to waste his time when she realized how crestfallen he would be if she didn’t at least view the first-floor flat—a recent conversion, and therefore in good order. According to the description she’d received via post, the flat comprised two large bedrooms and a bathroom, plus drawing room, dining room, and kitchen, with a maid’s scullery beyond. A further small bedroom would be suitable for a live-in housekeeper. At time of reading, Maisie had smiled. “I’ll be my own maid—fully trained and experienced!”
“This way, Miss Dobbs.” Watson ushered her into the entrance hall, its red tiles polished to a shine, with a matching red runner of carpet leading toward the wide staircase giving access to the upper floors. “Up the stairs we go.”
Maisie glanced at Watson and smiled. Up the stairs we go? She assumed he must be quite new to the work, and thus was endeavoring to be seen as more adult by speaking to her as if she were a child. She could not wait to leave.
“This is it, Miss Dobbs. I am sure you will agree that it is a beautifully appointed residence. Fresh decoration and a new kitchen—the owner has made a significant investment to attract the right tenant.”
“I was really thinking of making a purchase, Mr. Watson.”
“Keep an open mind until you’ve seen this property, Miss Dobbs.” Watson inserted a second key, turned the handle, and pushed open the door into a small entrance hall flooded with light. The drawing room windows before her, which looked out onto the street. The smell of fresh paint and new carpet was strong, and for a second Maisie held her hand to her nose.
“Note the small but airy entrance, leading straight into the drawing room. A warm welcome for guests—and the view is a pleasing one.”
Maisie felt a chill in the air around her, and wondered why estate agents didn’t ensure a property was at least warm when a potential resident entered. She felt unsettled. What might have come to pass in this flat; what past sadnesses lingered in the fabric of the building? The sensation that she and Hugo Watson were not alone rendered the very air around them heavy. Her chest tightened, and she coughed.
She turned to Watson. “Is there someone else here?”
“I—I—beg your pardon?”