Messenger of Truth (3 page)

“Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stick to your proper name.” He looked at Maisie for guidance, then turned to the woman again. “But you can call me Billy if you like, Miss Bassington-’ope.”

Georgina smiled, understanding the predicament she had placed them in. “All right, then, Billy—and how about just ‘Miss B-H’ for me.”

“Right you are. Miss B-H it is.”

Maisie cleared her throat. “Well, now that we have that little conundrum out of the way, let’s get on. Georgina, first I want you to tell me as much as you know about the circumstances of your brother’s death.”

The woman nodded. “Nick has—had—been preparing for this exhibition for some time, over a year, in fact. His work was becoming very well known, especially in America—there are still a fair few millionaires and they are buying up everything from poor old Europe, it seems. Anyway, Stig Svenson of Svenson’s Gallery on Albemarle Street—he’s more or less Nick’s regular dealer—offered him a special exhibition that comprised both earlier and new works. Nick jumped at the chance, especially as he thought the gallery would be the ideal place to unveil a piece he has been working on, one way or another, for years.”

Maisie and Billy exchanged glances, and Maisie interjected with a question. “Why was it perfect for his work? What did the gallery have that made him so excited?”

“Stig had just had the whole place ripped apart and painted—and Nick had already made it clear that he needed a certain amount of room for the new pieces.” Georgina held out her arms to help describe the gallery. “Essentially, there are two sort of square bay windows at the front—they’re huge—with a door in between, so you can clearly see in from the street, though you cannot view each individual piece. Svenson has—as you might imagine—a very modern, Scandinavian idea of how to use room. It’s very bright, every inch of his gallery modeled to display a piece to its advantage. He’s had the latest electric lighting installed, and fittings that direct beams in such a way as to create shadows and light to draw buyers in.” She paused, to see if her audience of two were keeping up. “So, at the far end there is one huge blank wall almost two floors high for larger pieces, then on both sides a galleried landing, so that you walk in as if you are walking into a theater, only there are no seats and you are not on a gradient—and it’s
completely
white. You can go to either side, up stairs to the landings, but there are screens to divide the room in sections so that you never actually see the whole pièce de résistance—if there is one—until the end. All very clever.”

“Yes, I see.” Maisie paused, tapped her pen against the palm of her left hand, then spoke again. “Would you describe his ‘pièce de résistance’ for us?”

Georgina shook her head. “Actually, I can’t. As far as I know, no one had seen it in its entirety. He was very secretive about it. That was why he was at the gallery until late—he wanted to construct it himself.” She paused thoughtfully, her hand on her mouth, then she looked up. “The only thing I know about it is that it was in several pieces.”

“But I thought you said he was working on it when he died. Wouldn’t it still be at the gallery?”

“Sorry, what I meant was that he was working on scaffolding, placing the many anchors that would secure the pieces when he brought them in. He had them in storage in London—frankly, I have no idea where.”

“Who would know where? Svenson?”

She shook her head. “That’s a bit of a mystery at the moment. No one can find the key, and no one knows the address. We just knew he had a lock-up or something somewhere. I know he wanted it all to be kept under wraps until the last moment so that it would draw even more attention—I think he imagined the gasps, if you know what I mean.”

“I see, and—”

“The trouble is,” Georgina interrupted, “he had already promised most of the collection—except that main piece—to a collector of his work, sight unseen.”

“You mean, someone made an offer without first viewing the collection?”

“They’d seen preliminary sketches, but not of the centerpiece.”

“Was it a significant offer?”

The woman nodded. “Some tens of thousands of pounds, to my knowledge.”

Maisie’s eyes grew large and, glancing at Billy, she thought he might pass out.

“…For a painting?”

Georgina Bassington-Hope shrugged. “It’s what people will pay if they think the work will dramatically increase in value. And the buyer has the money, had already paid a deposit, which Svenson retains until delivery.”

“Who was the buyer?”

“A man called Randolph Bradley. He’s an American living in Paris, though he also has a home in New York. One of those back-and-forth people.” She ran her fingers through her hair and looked away.

Billy rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll put the kettle on again.” He stood up and left the room, taking the tea tray with him. Maisie said nothing. Though she understood his annoyance at such amounts of money passing hands in such troubled times, she was dismayed that he had felt it necessary to leave the room. Maisie made small talk, a series of barely consequential questions, until he returned.

“Several pieces? So, was this ‘piece’ like a jigsaw puzzle, Miss B-H?” Billy set a cup of hot tea in front of Georgina and the customary tin mug in front of Maisie. He placed his own cup on the table and took up his notes again. Maisie was relieved that he had been thinking as he made tea, and not just fuming with resentment.

Georgina nodded. “Well, yes, you could say that. Before the war, Nick was studying art in Europe. He was in Belgium when war was declared, and he returned home very quickly.” She shook her head. “Anyway, in Belgium he became very interested in the triptych form.”

“Triptych?” Maisie and Billy spoke in unison.

“Yes,” continued Georgina. “A triptych comprises three parts, a center main panel with smaller panels on either side. The stories depicted on the smaller panels give more detail to the scene in the main panel, or augment it in some way.”

“Bit like the mirror on a dressing table, eh, Miss B-H?”

The woman smiled. “Yes, that’s right—though a stained-glass window in a church might be a better description. Triptychs are often religious in nature, though many are quite gory, with scenes of war, or execution of someone important at the time—a king, perhaps, or a warrior.”

“Yes, I’ve seen some in the museums. I know what you’re talking about.” Maisie paused, making a note to come back to Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s background as soon as she had a sense of the circumstances of his death. “So, let’s continue with his death—he was at the gallery—what happened, as far as the inquest revealed?”

“There was scaffolding against the main wall. All of the smaller, less important pieces had been placed, and Nick was working on the main wall, as I told you. The scaffolding was there so that he could situate the pieces correctly.”

“And would he do this alone?”

“Yes, that was his plan. Though he had help with the scaffolding.”

“Wouldn’t Svenson have arranged for workers to set up the scaffolding?”

“No.” Georgina paused. “Well—yes, usually he probably would, but this time he didn’t.”

“Why?”

She shook her head. “You don’t know Nick. Has to do it all himself, wanted to ensure that his scaffolding was in the right place, that it was strong and that there was nowhere the work could be compromised by the structure.”

“And he had help?”

“Yes, his friends Alex and Duncan helped.”

“Alex and Duncan?” Maisie glanced at Billy to ensure that he remained attentive. If they both took notes, then nothing would be missed as they studied the cache of information later.

“Alex Courtman and Duncan Haywood. Both artists, Nick’s neighbors in Dungeness, where he lived. His other friend, Quentin Trayner, had a twisted ankle and couldn’t help. He’d fallen while bringing a boat ashore.” She paused briefly. “The three of them always helped one another out. They were all artists, you see.”

“And they all lived at Dungeness—in Kent? It’s a bit bleak and isolated, isn’t it?”

“And freezing cold at this time of year, I shouldn’t wonder!” Billy interjected.

“There’s quite an artists’ haven there, you know. Has been for a few years now. In fact, when the Rye to Dungeness railway closed down—I think in ’26 or ’27—they sold off the railway carriages for ten pounds apiece, and a few artists bought them to set up as houses and studios on the beach.” Georgina paused and her voice cracked, just slightly, so that both Maisie and Billy had to lean forward to better hear her. “I called it the ‘place where lost souls were beached.’” Georgina leaned back in her chair. “They were men of an artistic sensibility who had been drafted by the government to do its dirty work, and afterward all four of them were left feeling sick about it for years.”

“What do you mean?” asked Maisie.

Georgina leaned forward. “Nick, Quentin, Duncan and Alex met at the Slade, that’s how they forged such a strong friendship. And they had all seen service in France. Nick was wounded at the Somme and was sent to work in propaganda after he’d healed—he was no longer fit for active duty. Alex worked there too. Then Nick was sent back over to Flanders as a war artist.” She shook her head. “It changed him forever, that’s why he had to get away after the war, to America.”

“America?”

“Yes, he said he needed lots of space around him.”

Maisie nodded and flicked back through her notes. “Look, Miss—Georgina—I suggest we complete our notes on the actual events of your brother’s death today, then let us make another appointment to talk about his history. That will give you time to gather other items that might be of interest to us—journals, sketchbooks, letters, photographs, that sort of thing.”

“All right.”

“So…” Maisie stood up, placed her index cards next to her teacup and walked to the other side of the table to look across at the snow-covered square. “Your brother, Nick, was working late, preparing the gallery’s main wall to hang a piece—pieces—of his art, which no one had seen yet. At what time did he arrive to do this work? Who else was with him? And what time, according to the pathologist, did he die—and how?”

Georgina gave a single nod as she sipped her tea, set her cup down again and began to answer Maisie’s questions as directly as they were asked. “He had been there all day, since dawn, hanging the pieces. They had set up the scaffolding later in the day, according to Duncan and Alex, who said he told them to return to my flat around half past eight—it wasn’t unusual for Nick to bring friends to stay at my flat and they had turned up the night before with their knapsacks. My home is a convenient London bolt-hole for all sorts of people.” She paused, took another sip of tea, and went on. “The gallery caretaker, Arthur Levitt, said that he looked in on Nick around nine and told him he was ready to go home. Nick replied that he had a key and would lock up.”

There was silence for a moment, a hiatus that Maisie allowed to linger in the air as the narrator sought strength to recount the loss of her brother. Georgina Bassington-Hope pulled at the handkerchief Maisie had passed to her earlier and shifted in her chair.

“Detective Richard Stratton from Scotland Yard was on my doorstep at eight the following morning, with news that there had been an accident. I don’t think he usually deals with accidents, but came out all the same as he was on duty when the alarm was raised by Mr. Levitt when he came in and found Nick….”

Maisie spoke softly. “Can you tell me how he described finding your brother?”

“On the floor below the scaffolding. Part of the rail was broken and it looked as if Nick had leaned back a bit too far while checking the position of some anchors against a guide that he had already drafted on paper. His neck had been broken and it is thought that he died instantly when he hit the stone floor, probably around ten-ish, according to the pathologist.” She shook her head. “Damn him for being so secretive! It was all this business of wanting there to be a big ooh-ahh when the triptych was revealed to the world that killed him. If he hadn’t been there alone…”

“Georgina, let’s summon a taxi-cab to take you home.” Sensing a weariness in her client that was not physical but rooted in her soul, Maisie leaned across and placed her hand on Georgina’s shoulder. “We’ll speak again tomorrow—and perhaps we should meet at the gallery, if it isn’t too difficult for you. Would ten be convenient?”

Georgina nodded, feeling the now familiar warmth flood her body again as Maisie touched her. Billy stood up and pulled on his overcoat before making his way out to Tottenham Court Road to hail a taxi-cab. Maisie helped Georgina into her coat and picked up the collection of index cards to pen some additional notes.

“Everything you’ve described points to an accident. The intensity of your sense that it was not a misstep by your brother that caused his death is compelling to me, which is why I am taking on this case. However, when we meet tomorrow, and in our future meetings—for there will be a few—I would like to know if you are aware of anyone who might harbor an intensity of feeling about your brother, or his work, which might have led to a desire to see him dead, either by accident or a deliberate act.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that, I—”

“Good. Now then. One final question today—may I have details of your family? I will need to meet them.”

“Of course, though don’t expect to make too much headway—they do not share my feelings and would be horrified if they knew I had come to an inquiry agent.” She buttoned her coat as they heard the door slam and Billy make his way back up the stairs. “My parents live on an impossibly large estate just outside Tenterden in Kent. Noelle—‘Nolly’—my older sister, lives with them. She’s forty now, lost her husband in the war. She’s nothing like the rest of us, very proper, very county, if you know what I mean. She’s a justice of the peace at the local magistrates’ courts, sits on all sorts of local committees and gets involved in politics; you’ve met the sort—bit of a know-all. And she heartily disapproves of me. My brother Harry is the baby, the child who came along when everyone least expected it, according to Emsy—that’s Emma, my mother. Harry is twenty-nine now and a musician. Not classical, no, much to Nolly’s dismay he plays the trumpet in dark places where people have fun and enjoy themselves.”