Read Online Messenger of Truth by Jacqueline Winspear - Free Book Online
Authors: Jacqueline Winspear
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traveled by underground railway this morning instead of driving the MG, so she returned the same way this evening. The cold, the damp and thick yellow smog conspired to nip at her ears, her lips, gloved fingers and even her toes, so she pulled her hat down even lower, navigating her way from the station to the new block of flats by following the flagstones underfoot. Designed with an optimism that was extinguished before construction was complete, the four-story building housed some sixteen flats. Each end of the building was curved to reflect a fascination with ocean travel fashionable in the 1920s, when the architect first sat at his drafting table. Enclosed service stairwells to both the right and left of the building were made brighter by porthole windows, and in the center, a column of glass revealed the inner spiral staircase for use by residents and guests. The accommodation requirements of a well-heeled resident had been in mind, one who would pay a good rent to live in an area that the developer thought “up and coming,” yet the building was still barely half occupied, either by owners who, like Maisie, had seen an opportunity to buy, or by tenants now renting from an absentee landlord who had stretched his resources to acquire four apartments on the top floor.
Turning her key in the lock, Maisie entered the ground-floor flat. Though not a palace, it was deceptively capacious. A corridor gave way to a drawing room with plenty of room for a three-piece suite and, at the far end, a dining table and chairs—if, of course, Maisie had owned a three-piece suite and dining table with chairs. Instead, an old Persian carpet, bought at an executor sale, half-covered the parquet floor, and two Queen Anne chairs with faded chintz covers were positioned in front of a gas fire. There were two bedrooms to the left of the hallway, one larger than the other and separated by a bathroom. A box room to the right was probably meant for storage, as it housed the gas meter. Maisie had set a stack of coins by the meter, so that she never had to grope around in the dark when the power went out.
Only one bedroom had a bed and, fortunately, the flat was already equipped with some new Venetian blinds, the sort that had suddenly become rather popular a few years earlier. Maisie sighed as she felt the radiator in the corridor, then made her way to the living room without taking off her coat. She took a matchbox from the mantelpiece and lit the gas fire, then moved to the windows and pulled down the blinds.
The compact kitchen, which was situated to the left of the area that would one day accommodate the dining table and chairs, was already fitted with a brand-new Main stove and a wooden table, as well as a kitchen cabinet. The deep, white enamel sink had one cupboard underneath and the bottom half of the walls were decorated in black-and-white tiles all the way around the kitchen. Maisie opened the cabinet, took out another box of matches and lit the gas ring under a tin kettle already half full of water. As the heat filtered upward from the kettle, she held her hands open to the warmth for comfort.
“Blast, it’s cold in here!” Though she could single-mindedly rise above many deprivations, as she had in France during the war, there was one thing that Maisie found hard to ignore, and that was the cold. Even as she set about making tea, she would not take off her coat until after she had sipped the first cup. Reaching into the cabinet again, she pulled out a tin of Crosse & Blackwell oxtail soup, which she opened and poured into a saucepan, ready to cook. Admonishing herself for not going to the grocers, she gave thanks for a half loaf of Hovis and wedge of cheddar cheese. And, because it was winter, a half-full bottle of milk set by the back door was not yet sour.
Later, with the drawing room warmer and a hearty supper inside her, Maisie sat back to read before going to bed. She picked up a book borrowed from Boots, where she had
Turning her key in the lock, Maisie entered the ground-floor flat. Though not a palace, it was deceptively capacious. A corridor gave way to a drawing room with plenty of room for a three-piece suite and, at the far end, a dining table and chairs—if, of course, Maisie had owned a three-piece suite and dining table with chairs. Instead, an old Persian carpet, bought at an executor sale, half-covered the parquet floor, and two Queen Anne chairs with faded chintz covers were positioned in front of a gas fire. There were two bedrooms to the left of the hallway, one larger than the other and separated by a bathroom. A box room to the right was probably meant for storage, as it housed the gas meter. Maisie had set a stack of coins by the meter, so that she never had to grope around in the dark when the power went out.
Only one bedroom had a bed and, fortunately, the flat was already equipped with some new Venetian blinds, the sort that had suddenly become rather popular a few years earlier. Maisie sighed as she felt the radiator in the corridor, then made her way to the living room without taking off her coat. She took a matchbox from the mantelpiece and lit the gas fire, then moved to the windows and pulled down the blinds.
The compact kitchen, which was situated to the left of the area that would one day accommodate the dining table and chairs, was already fitted with a brand-new Main stove and a wooden table, as well as a kitchen cabinet. The deep, white enamel sink had one cupboard underneath and the bottom half of the walls were decorated in black-and-white tiles all the way around the kitchen. Maisie opened the cabinet, took out another box of matches and lit the gas ring under a tin kettle already half full of water. As the heat filtered upward from the kettle, she held her hands open to the warmth for comfort.
“Blast, it’s cold in here!” Though she could single-mindedly rise above many deprivations, as she had in France during the war, there was one thing that Maisie found hard to ignore, and that was the cold. Even as she set about making tea, she would not take off her coat until after she had sipped the first cup. Reaching into the cabinet again, she pulled out a tin of Crosse & Blackwell oxtail soup, which she opened and poured into a saucepan, ready to cook. Admonishing herself for not going to the grocers, she gave thanks for a half loaf of Hovis and wedge of cheddar cheese. And, because it was winter, a half-full bottle of milk set by the back door was not yet sour.
Later, with the drawing room warmer and a hearty supper inside her, Maisie sat back to read before going to bed. She picked up a book borrowed from Boots, where she had
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