Messenger of Truth jw-2 Read online

  “What do you mean?” Georgina’s tone seemed short with Svenson as she joined Maisie.

  “Nick only ever spoke of the sections or pieces. I—we—always assumed it was a triptych given his work in Belgium before the war, and the influence of Bosch in particular. However, as no one but Nick saw the work, as far as we know, it may be some other arrangement of pieces, like a collage or sectional landscape.”

  “Of course, I understand.” Maisie touched Georgina’s arm as she spoke, hoping to neutralize the unbecoming edge demonstrated by her client’s earlier remark. “Mr. Svenson, how many pieces were there in this exhibition, all told?”

  “Counting the sketches and fragments, all of which were included, there were twenty pieces.”

  “And all in the same style?” Maisie wondered whether she was using the correct terminology, but suspected that Svenson was one of those people who could become quite puffed up in his role of expert and would make the most of her naïveté.

  “Oh, no, that was the interesting thing about this exhibit: It comprised works from all stages of Nick’s life as an artist. Some were kept back from previous collections, and together with early experimental efforts and new pieces, they demonstrated the arc of his artistic gift. One could see how the professional accomplished artist was formed from an extraordinary raw talent.”

  “I see. Of course, I know about Nick’s paintings from Georgina’s descriptions, but have never seen any exhibited.” She turned to Georgina. “I do hope this is not too difficult for you, dear.”

  Georgina smiled, understanding that Maisie had spoken with such intimacy so that Svenson would not doubt the authenticity of their friendship. She replied in the same vein. “Oh no, not at all, in fact, it’s all rather lovely, you know, talking about Nick’s work when all I have really thought about is that terrible accident.”

  “So, Mr. Svenson,” Maisie continued. “I’d love to hear more about the work that was on display before the accident.”

  “Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat and directed his full attention to Maisie, though she felt his proximity was rather too close. She took one step backward as he began to detail the artist’s life from his perspective. “First there was his interest in those artists from the Low Countries that he studied in Belgium. What is fascinating was that it was not the technique that interested him as much as the crafting of stories each told in a painting, which then led to another story and another painting. Structure was of great interest to him and his early work was rich with curiosity.”

  “Did he employ the triptych form even then?”

  “No, that came later. What he did, and this was interesting, was to paint fragments of stories on one canvas, so that he achieved a rather avant-garde effect. That phase was youthful, and though it reeked of the novice artist, it was also compelling and caused a stir when first exhibited—at this gallery, I might add, though it was in a collective exhibit.”

  “Interesting…”

  “Then, sadly, the war intervened and—as you know—Nick enlisted and was sent to France. I still believe it was his good fortune to have sustained an injury serious enough to bring him home. However, I was rather upset when I heard that he had accepted the work of war artist at the front. Mind you, it was an offer that was probably not up for discussion.”

  “No…” Maisie said only enough to keep Svenson talking. She would interview Georgina again later, and compare notes against what she had already learned about the dead man.

  “That, of course, was when he grew up, when he became not just a man, but—I am sad to say—an old man.” He sighed, as if genuinely pained. “But his work at that time proved to be more than a record, a moment in time to be placed in an archive. No, it became a…a…mirror. Yes, that is what it became, a mirror, a reflection of the very soul of war, of death, if such a thing exists. He became driven, his work no longer light or colorful, but dark, with heavy use of those colors one associates with the very bleakest period in one’s life. And of course, red. His work from that period was rich with red.”

  “Did his technique change? I have not seen those works, so I am trying to imagine them.” Maisie leaned forward, and though she was aware of Georgina watching her, she paid her no heed.

  “There were elements of the old work, the experimentation. Images superimposed, death a shadow in the background. And that was the thing that was most appealing to both the collector with an artistic sensibility and knowledge, and the rather well-heeled neophyte—Nick’s work needed no explanation. None at all. You could see his message, feel his emotions, see what he had seen. He touched you….” Svenson turned to Georgina and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Just as Georgina re-created what she saw with her words, so Nick could do the same with color and texture. What a family!”

  “What came next, from your perspective?” As she continued to question Svenson, Maisie noticed that Georgina had stepped aside, away from his grasp.

  “As you know, Nick left the country almost as soon as he received his demobilization papers. America was, frankly, the obvious place for Nick.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The space. The sheer enormity of the place.” He held out his arms to emphasize an expanse he could not properly describe. “And the possibilities there.”

  “Possibilities?”

  “Yes, this is most interesting to his collectors, that his techniques became so influenced by the American schools at the time, and influenced too, by the sheer geography of the country. Look at his sketches, and you will see the bold landscapes, the use of muted and vivid colors blended to achieve a quality of light that is seen nowhere else in the world. He went alone to canyons, to valleys, across prairies. His view of the world was cast from the dirt, filth and enclosure of the mud and blood-filled trench, to the clear air of the American West, especially Montana, Colorado, New Mexico, California. And that’s where he began to experiment with the mural, an extension of his interest in the triptych form of earlier years, if you will. Of course, the mural was being used by many of the emerging American artists at the time.”

  “And all these different styles”—once again, Maisie hoped she had chosen the correct term—“were on display here when he died? And the whole collection is now under offer, as good as sold?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Look, I hope you don’t mind me asking—after all, I haven’t seen Georgie in a long time, or Nick, so I am interested—but would you call his work offensive in any way, or controversial?”

  Svenson laughed. “Oh, yes, it was most certainly controversial in the art world, and the world outside, as you know.” His countenance became more serious and Maisie felt him begin to draw back, as if it had only just occurred to him that she should have known all of this if she were as close a friend as Georgina had suggested—and Georgina had hardly said a word for some time. Nevertheless, he continued, though only to bring the conversation to a close. “Nick drew the onlooker into his world with his paintings, then just at the point when you are lulled by a landscape, perhaps sun rising across a mountain lake, he could quickly challenge you with the next piece, a man screaming his way into death, impaled on the bayonet. That was how he presented his work, that was how he wanted to speak of the angelic and that which is evil. He confused people, he threatened.” He shrugged, his hands upturned. “But as you know, Miss Dobbs, that was Nick, and he was an angel when one met him, which is why those who were offended would melt in his company.”

  Maisie looked at her watch, pinned to the lapel of her jacket. “Oh, gosh, we should be getting on, shouldn’t we, Georgina? But I would love to look at the upper galleries before we leave.”

  “Please, be my guest.” Svenson gave a short bow toward Maisie, then turned to Georgina Bassington-Hope. “Georgie, a moment of your time, perhaps?”

  Maisie made her way to the galleried landing, then spent a moment standing alongside the balustrade to consider the wall where Nicholas Bassington-Hope was to have exhibited hi
s masterpiece. Was it a triptych, as everyone assumed, or had the secretive artist something else up his sleeve? She leaned forward, squinting to better see certain parts of the wall in closer detail. Yes, she could identify where anchors had been placed in the plasterwork, anchors that had now been removed and the wall made almost smooth again. Fresh repairs were clearly visible, and Maisie wondered whether the damage had been due to the scaffolding, which must have dented the wall as it collapsed when the artist fell—if he fell. How high might the scaffolding have been, and which level had Nick Bassington-Hope been working from when he crashed down to the stone floor? From ground to ceiling, the wall must be some twenty-five feet high, not a height that would necessarily cause a life to be lost as a result of a fall, unless the victim were unusually unlucky. And if someone had pushed…Maisie now looked at the doors on the main floor below, one exit on either side of the wall, leading, she supposed, to storage and delivery areas and to offices. Could someone have made the scaffolding unstable without being seen by the victim? Might such instability have been accidental? There were clearly several possibilities to consider—not least the possibility that Nicholas Bassington-Hope had taken his own life.

  “Oi, Miss—”

  Maisie looked around. She could hear Billy, but could not see him, and she didn’t want to call out his name.

  “Pssst. Miss!”

  “Where are you?” Maisie kept her voice as low as possible.

  “Over ’ere.”

  Maisie walked toward a painting at the far end of the landing. Much to her surprise, the painting moved.

  “Oh!”

  Billy Beale poked his head around what was, in fact, a door. “Thought you’d like that, Miss! Come in ’ere and ’ave a dekko at this ’ere trick door. I tell you, my three would love this.”

  Maisie followed Billy’s direction, stepping as quietly as she could. “What is this?”

  “I started off in the storeroom—been down there talking to the caretaker, man by the name of Arthur Levitt. Nice enough bloke. Anyway, I found a staircase, came up it and then along this ’ere corridor. They must use this for bringing up the art and what ’ave you from where it’s delivered.” He crooked his finger again, closing the door that led onto the balcony. “Look through ’ere.”

  Maisie leaned forward to the point in the door indicated by Billy. “Oh!” She moved slightly, then stepped back. “You can see a good deal of the gallery from here—as well as having access to the balcony that extends along three sides of the room, right around to the opposite side of the wall where Nicholas Bassington-Hope would have been setting up his main piece.”

  “Do you reckon it’s impor—” Billy stopped speaking when raised voices were heard coming from below. Maisie and Billy both remained perfectly still.

  “I told you, Stig, you were to deal with me only. You were not to agree to anything with Nolly.”

  “But Georgie, Nolly said—”

  “I don’t give a damn what Nolly said. My sister has no business poking her nose into this. She knows nothing about art.”

  “But she does have a right, after all, as joint executor—”

  “I’ll speak to Nolly today. In the meantime, I will not allow the piece to be sold with the rest of the collection. Absolutely not. And if I even think of selling the remaining sketches and incompletes, I will let you know. You can keep your rich buyers hanging on for a day or two if they’re that interested.”

  “But—”

  “That is final, Stig. Now, I had better find my friend.”

  A door below slammed.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” Maisie leaned toward Billy and whispered. “I’ll see you out on Piccadilly in about fifteen minutes. Don’t join me until Miss Bassington-Hope has left.”

  THE TWO WOMEN departed the gallery, Svenson cordially thanking them for visiting, though perhaps not with the theatrical flourish of his greeting.

  “Let’s walk along the street here—I have several requests to make, in order to commence with my investigation.”

  “Of course.” Georgina fell into step with Maisie, unaware that the woman to whom she had turned for help was now gauging her intent and her emotional state of mind simply by observing her physical demeanor.

  “First of all, I want to meet your family, so please arrange for us to visit, using the pretext of our early friendship at Girton.”

  “All right.”

  Maisie cast a glance sideways at Georgina and began mirroring her movement as she walked. She continued listing her requests. “I would like to see—alone, this time—where Nicholas lived in Dungeness. Perhaps you would be so kind as to furnish me with keys and his address—or, knowing Dungeness, perhaps there is no actual address, but simply directions.”

  Georgina nodded, but said nothing. Maisie had noticed her shoulders sag, her manner suggesting a sense of melancholy and, perhaps, a feeling of anger. The melancholy might be easily explained—she had lost a beloved brother, after all—but at whom was the anger directed? At Maisie, for making the request? At her sister for whatever gave rise to the crossed words with Stig Svenson? Or at her dead brother, for abandoning her to a life without her twin?

  “I will need details of all previous purchases of your brother’s paintings. I understand that artists can be rather fickle when it comes to retaining financial records; however, I will need anything that comes to hand. I want to know who was collecting his work.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I want to see his friends, the men he was closest to. Was he courting, as far as you know?”

  Georgina shook her head, and gave a half laugh. “Let’s just say that Nick was better with his finances than with his romantic life—‘fickle’ would suit very well.”

  “I see.” Maisie knew from experience that the more personal aspects of a person’s life were seldom understood by immediate family. Hadn’t her own father thought it strange that she was not anxious to become engaged to Andrew Dene by now? She smiled in return, and continued. “And I want to see his work, in addition to those things I mentioned before: correspondence, journals—in fact, anything you have that belonged to Nick.”

  The women stopped when they reached Piccadilly, where each would go their separate way. “Oh, and one last question for you?”

  “Yes?” Georgina turned to face Maisie directly.

  “When a person close to the victim suspects foul play, they usually have a suspect or two in mind. Would that be true of you, Georgina?”

  She blushed. “I’m afraid it isn’t. As I told you yesterday, it was just that feeling here.” She touched her chest. “That’s all I can say.”

  Maisie nodded, then smiled. “I’d like to go down to Dungeness tomorrow, so perhaps you can let me have keys at your earliest convenience. Then perhaps we can meet in Tenterden on Saturday—probably best if we visit your parents together. Can you arrange it?”

  “Of—of course.” Georgina paused, somewhat flustered. She reached into her handbag and took out an envelope, which she passed to Maisie. “This is a photograph of Nick, taken in the summer at Bassington Place, my parents’ estate.”

  Maisie took the envelope, and removed the photograph halfway, claiming a moment to study the man whom the lens had caught leaning in an easy, almost somnolent manner against a tractor. Using the size of the tractor as a guide, Maisie thought he must have been about six feet in height, with hair that was a barely controlled mop of curls on his head, the “short-back-and-sides” haircut having little effect on his crown and fringe. He wore wide trousers, a collarless shirt with rolled-up sleeves and an unbuttoned waistcoat. His smile was expansive and Maisie thought that, if her father were to see the photograph, he might comment that the man had the look of a lout, rather than the well-bred son of good circumstance. Though Frankie Dobbs was a working man, a costermonger by trade and, since the outbreak of war in 1914, a groom at the Compton estate in Kent, he had strong opinions on being properly turned out.

  Maisie placed the phot
ograph in her bag and nodded to Georgina. “Good. Now then, I must be on my way. Please telephone me as soon as you can so that we can confirm arrangements and your progress with my list. Until then, Georgina.” Maisie held out her hand, which Georgina took in a manner that suggested she was regaining some of the strength and resolve that had propelled her somewhat infamous reputation.

  When they were some three or four yards apart, Maisie turned and called to her client. “Oh, Georgina—I want to meet Harry as well.”

  She had timed her final request perfectly.

  Georgina flushed. “I—I’ll see what I can do, he’s…oh, never mind. I’ll contact him and let you know.” Then she hurried away.

  BILLY JOINED MAISIE as she watched Georgina Bassington-Hope being swallowed into a flurry of passersby.

  “Miss B-H gone then?”

  Maisie nodded, seemingly half dreaming, though Billy knew that the glazed eyes disguised a depth of thought that some might have considered quite unnecessary in the circumstances.

  “Everything all right, Miss?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m very well, thank you.”

  They began to walk toward Piccadilly underground station. “She shot off a bit sharpish, didn’t she?”

  “Hmmm, yes, it was a bit quick. But then it gave us some interesting information.”

  “What’s that, Miss?”

  “That, concerning Harry B-H, the family—or perhaps just Georgina—has something to hide.” Maisie turned to Billy. “Now then, you know what to do this afternoon, don’t you, Billy—usual lines of inquiry with your newspaper friends.” She pulled on her gloves. “I’ll see you back at the office around three. We’ll have a talk about our respective findings, then you can go home early—perhaps Lizzie will be feeling a bit better.”

  Three

  Having already nurtured contacts among the newspapermen who gathered in Fleet Street pubs—and many of those men, reporters, compositors and printers alike, were at the bar by mid-morning following a night shift—the cost of a pint often proved to be a very good investment, as far as Billy was concerned. Following the meeting at Svenson’s Gallery, Billy procured information from newspaper reports pertaining to Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s death. For her part, Maisie returned to the Tate gallery to meet with the helpful curator, Dr. Robert Wicker, with whom she had consulted the previous day. Now they were back at the Fitzroy Square office comparing notes on the day’s work.