Messenger of Truth

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “And whose idea was it to deliver Doris to her place of surveillance without regard for who might be watching?”

  Stratton sighed. “All right, so you know there’s been an interest in young Harry.”

  “You’re going to have to tell me more than that, Inspector. I seem to have become enmeshed in your work without being asked if I minded!”

  Stratton shook his head, and took a sip of tea. “Harry Bassington-Hope, as you probably already know, has got himself involved with some rather undesirable people. In fact, undesirable is an understatement. Typical story, the odd flutter on the gee-gees or seat at the card table became something of a regular pastime, and the gambling habit, together with some of the types he meets in those clubs, led him deeper into debt with people one should never be indebted to.”

  “How does this all connect to his brother?”

  “I’m getting to that, though we doubt if there’s a direct connection, apart from the elder Bassington-Hope bailing out the younger from time to time. No, the reason why there was a collaboration between departments, between myself and Vance, is that a small-time punter one step shy of crooked—another Harry Bassington-Hope type—was found dead a couple of months ago, we believe murdered by the very same men that Harry is indebted to.”

  “Harry’s the mouse to catch the big cat, is that it?”

  “Yes. We are simply watching and waiting.”

  “So, again, Inspector, the connection—or not—to the death of the artist?”

  “Nick Bassington-Hope tripped over his feet on scaffolding, as we know. However, the timing was dreadful as far as our investigation was concerned. The last thing we wanted was that hot-headed sister—with her connections in Parliament, and unable to believe her beloved perfect brother could be so clumsy as to kill himself—running amok in search of a killer, ruining months of solid police work in the process.”

  “I see. But what if there was no accident?”

  “You mean our criminal element? No, they would have no interest in Nick Bassington-Hope. As far as we know the men at the top would not have even made a connection. Art isn’t their game.”

  “What is?”

  “They make a lot from the clubs—protection, that sort of thing. They’re fencing jewelry—diamonds, gold. They are involved with bank robberies. The crime barons of London, you could call them. It’s like a pyramid, from the little weasels on the ground tucking away a pound or two here and there, right up to the top, the men who run the show.”

  “I see…”

  “You see what?”

  “Oh, you know…it’s clearer to me why you kept things quiet, though I do wish you had told me more a week ago.”

  Stratton sighed. “Well, I must say, you’re doing a good job of keeping that woman quiet.”

  “Am I, Inspector?”

  “Yes. I’m sure we’ll have the string-pullers behind bars soon enough. We just have to keep very close to young Harry, and at some point we will nab them in the process of committing a crime.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Miss Dobbs?”

  “Nothing, Inspector. Nothing at all.” Maisie took one last sip of tea, finished the toast, then set her cup on the saucer and reached behind her for her scarf. “By the way, how is Doris?”

  “Well, I don’t think we’ll be using women in detection for a while. Wasn’t quite up to the job.”

  Maisie stood up, her chair scraping against the bare floorboards. “Oh, I wouldn’t write off the likes of Doris just like that, Inspector. You never know what a woman might be able to uncover that you’ve completely missed.”

  MAISIE FOUND BILLY and Doreen Beale in the waiting room of the fever hospital. “What news of the children? And Lizzie?” She had hurried into the building and was unwrapping her scarf and removing her gloves as she spoke.

  Billy had his arm around Doreen, comforting her. Their faces bore the signs of strain, the skin around their eyes lined and drawn. Billy shook his head. “We’ve been waiting all night again, what with one thing and another. The eldest is at ’ome, with Doreen’s sister, and right as ninepence, and the other nippers—our Bobby, and Jim and Ada’s two—are all doin’ all right. But Lizzie…it’s still touch and go, like I said before. And we was just about to go in to see the little lass again, and they turfed us out, said there was an emergency.”

  Maisie nodded, then looked around for a nurse or doctor to speak to. “Have they told you what the emergency was?”

  “The poor little mite is in trouble all over ’er body. I reckon they’ve shoved some more of that antiwhatsit into ’er.” Billy faltered. “And it’s not just ’er breathin’, no, it’s ’er ’eart, her kidneys, it’s everything. She’s fighting though, by God she’s fighting.”

  “I’ll see if I can find out anything more for you.” Maisie placed a hand on Doreen Beale’s shoulder, nodded at Billy, and went in search of a nurse. She had barely reached the door when a doctor came into the waiting area.

  “Are you Mrs. Beale?”

  “No,” replied Maisie, “I am Mr. Beale’s employer, and I have come to see if I might be of assistance to them. I was a nurse, so I have an understanding of the situation, and I brought their daughter in.”

  “Good, it’s quite troublesome talking to the parents at times, especially from the East End, you know—words of one syllable, if you know what I mean.”

  Maisie glowered. “No, I don’t know what you mean. The parents are perfectly capable people, but they are distraught—and they depend upon your compassion and honesty, if I may say so. Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to give me the details, and I will talk to them.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…we’ve just had a lot of children brought in overnight. Half the time the poor souls haven’t had a good meal because the father can’t get work, and the whole situation isn’t getting any better. They haven’t the heart for the fight.”

  Noting his waxen skin and the way he rubbed a hand across his forehead, Maisie softened her tone, which she realized had been rather too harsh, still bearing some residue from the earlier conversation with Stratton. She had seen such strain years ago, in France, though the frontline fight was against the weaponry of war, not diseases left to flourish amid decay and want. “How is Lizzie Beale?”

  The doctor sighed. “I wish I had better news. How that child is still alive beggars belief. She clearly didn’t present early signs of diphtheria, and of course it progressed until it came down hard on the poor little wretch, like a wall of bricks. As you know, we proceeded with an immediate tracheotomy, tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy, so the risk of infection is terribly high. Antitoxin was administered, but she’s fighting to keep vital organs functioning. There’s little more we can do except watch, wait and keep her as comfortable as possible.”

  “And your prognosis?”

  “Well, every minute she’s alive is like money in the bank. I can’t promise she’ll still be with us by this time tomorrow, though.”

  Maisie felt the lump in her throat grow. “And the other Beale children?”

  “Got it in time; early stages, so they are expected to make a full recovery.”

  “Can the parents see Lizzie?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Strict rules, you know. Matron would have my entrails for garters if she thought I’d let family in at this time.”

  “Doctor, I know all about matrons. You have cause to feel as you do. However, the child is clinging to life, and the parents in turn are grasping for a shred of hope. Why not allow them to be together, just for a few minutes?”

  He sighed again. “Good Lord, you will have me shot! But…oh, all right. Go and get them, then come with me.”

  Nurses shook their heads as the doctor led the Beales along the corridor, first into a small anteroom where they were instructed to wash their hands and put on masks, then into a ward where the most serious cases were quarantined. Austere, iron-framed cots were lined up, each with just a sheet and ro
ugh blanket to cover the feverish body of a child. The vapor of disinfectant barely masked another lingering smell, the foul breath of death waiting for another victim to weaken.

  “I’ll wait outside, just in case Matron comes along,” said Maisie. “I can bear the brunt of her temper if she finds the rules have been broken.”

  The doctor nodded and was about to take the Beales to their child when Maisie spoke to the couple. “Don’t be afraid to touch her. Hold her hands, tell her you’re there, rub her feet. Let her feel you. It’s important. She’ll know…”

  Maisie departed the hospital a half hour later, leaving the Beales to wait for an opportunity to see young Bobby before returning home. Billy maintained he would be at the office the following morning. Rearranging her plans as she drove to the Ritz, where she would call on Randolph Bradley, Maisie decided that a visit to Stig Svenson would be more effective tomorrow, before her visit to Dungeness. If Billy were with her at the gallery, it would provide an introduction to conversation with the caretaker. And she didn’t want to arrive at the coast too early. No, she needed to be there at dusk. To wait.

  Eleven

  The clerk, with perfectly oiled, swept-back hair, pushed a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles to the bridge of his nose and peered at Maisie’s calling card. “And Mr. Bradley is not expecting you?”

  “No, but I am sure he will see me as soon as he knows I am here.” She reached for the card. “Look, let me scribble a quick note for him on the back. Do you have an envelope?”

  Maisie wrote on the card and slipped it into the envelope, then passed it back to the clerk, along with a coin. “I’m sure you can arrange for him to receive this directly.”

  The man executed a short bow, then turned to another clerk, who nodded, then went on his way. Twenty minutes later, as Maisie stood waiting in the foyer, a tall, distinguished man walked toward her. She estimated him to be about six feet two inches and probably forty-five years old. His suit was impeccably tailored and indubitably English. A royal-blue kerchief had been placed in his breast pocket with a flourish and matched his tie. His shoes shone. He had one hand in his trouser pocket as he walked across the foyer and waved to the clerk with his free hand. His smile was engaging, his blue eyes sparkled. This was a very successful man, a man who seemed to excel at cultivating Englishness, though in his ease of manner, it was clear that the British Isles was not his home.

  “Miss Dobbs?” The man had taken the hand from his pocket, and now held it out to her. “Randolph Bradley.”

  Maisie smiled. She had only ever met one American, and that was Charles Hayden, Simon’s doctor friend, in the war. She remembered that same relaxed style, despite the gravity of his work. “It’s very good of you to see me, Mr. Bradley.”

  The man looked around, clearly searching for a place conducive to private conversation. “We’ll have coffee in there.” He pointed to the dining room, where it appeared the waiters were preparing for lunch. Undeterred, Bradley simply strode to a table, stood as a waiter pulled out a chair for Maisie, then took a seat, ordering a large pot of fresh coffee as he did so.

  “So, Miss Dobbs. You want to know more about my interest in Nick Bassington-Hope’s work?”

  “Yes. When did he—and his work—first come to your attention, as a collector?”

  Bradley reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “Let me ask a question before I say anything. Are you helping the boys in blue?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The police?”

  “No, I am not. I work privately, as I said in my note, and as you can see from my card.”

  “So, who’re you working for? Who’s paying you?”

  “I have been asked by Georgina Bassington-Hope to conduct a limited investigation into her brother’s death. She felt that there were a few unanswered questions. In order for her to put the family’s loss behind them, Miss Bassington-Hope retained my services.”

  “So are you investigating me?”

  Maisie smiled. “Mr. Bradley, you are an avid collector of Mr. Bassington-Hope’s work, so he obviously spent time with you—any artist would be anxious to keep the buyer happy, is that not so?”

  Bradley nodded. “Yep, you’ve knocked the nail on the head there. Nick was nobody’s fool, and knew where his bread and butter came from. He may have had his garret on the beach—I never went there, but heard all about it—but he knew how to sell his work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The American acknowledged a waiter who came bearing a silver coffee pot, setting it on the table with a matching jug and sugar-bowl. He did not speak until the waiter had left the table after pouring coffee for Maisie and himself.

  “Cream?”

  Maisie declined. “You were talking about Nick, his understanding of the business of art.”

  Bradley took a sip of coffee, and went on. “A lot of these folks, artists, have no idea when it comes to selling their work. They have an agent, a guy like Svenson, and that’s it, they leave it all up to him. But Nick was interested—interested in my interest in his work. He wanted to meet me, and we talked a lot, got to know each other.”

  “I see.” Maisie nodded as she spoke, setting her cup in its saucer.

  “You see what?”

  She cleared her throat, not quite used to conversing with someone so forthright, and embarrassed to recall that Stratton had challenged her with exactly the same words. “It’s a figure of speech. I’ve been trying to build a picture of who Nick Bassington-Hope was, and I find that he was something of a chameleon. He was an artist, and people sometimes jump to conclusions about artists, that they don’t have their feet on the ground, that sort of thing. Yet Nick was a most sensible person, someone who had seen unspeakable things in the war, and yet who did not draw back from depicting them. And he wasn’t afraid to use real people in his work either. So, when I say ‘I see,’ I am simply seeing more of the man than I did before. And seeing the man Nick Bassington-Hope was is essential if I am to submit a comprehensive report to my client.” Maisie did not miss a beat before putting another question to Bradley. “So, when did you first learn of his work? How did you go about building the collection?”

  Bradley stubbed out his cigarette, went to reach for another, and changed his mind. “Remind me to hire you next time I want to check into the background of someone I’m about to do a deal with.” He paused and continued. “First let me tell you that I served in the war, Miss Dobbs. I’d already built a business by then, but was drafted in by our government to advise on supply of, well, you name it, anything and everything, before the first doughboys went over in ’17. I could’ve stayed in the States, but I shipped over to France myself, to make sure the job was done right. Didn’t come back until after the Armistice. So I saw the war, Miss Dobbs, saw what the boys went through. And your boys went through it all for a lot longer.”

  Maisie said nothing, knowing that at this point in the meeting it was best to simply allow the man to speak. He had leaned back in his chair, not too far, but enough to indicate that he was letting down his guard. He reached for that second cigarette, poured more coffee for both Maisie and himself, and continued as he put away a silver monogrammed lighter, half closing one eye against a lingering wisp of smoke. “Svenson came to see me, oh, must have been in ’22. Nick had a few pieces in an exhibition at the gallery—of course, it was a much smaller outfit then. I reckon Svenson has made a mint off Nick Bassington-Hope, and those old masters he buys from Europeans on the brink of ruin. Anyway, he tipped me off early, so I came along—I was in England anyway—and saw, right there and then, that this was an artist I could appreciate. I’m not the kind of collector who will buy anything just for the heck of it, Miss Dobbs. No, I have to like the piece I’m buying. But…” he paused and looked at her directly, “I go all out for something I want. And I wanted this boy’s work.”

  “Why?”

  “It was just darn amazing! So simple, so—Lor
d, what did Svenson say? Measured, that’s it, measured. Nick didn’t just serve up blood and guts, no, he could touch the…the…essence of the scene. And he didn’t draw back from the horror of it all, in his war work, and that’s what I saw, at first. But he added something else, something…”

  “Truth?”

  “Right. He could touch the truth.”

  “So you started buying.”

  “There and then, like I said. And I wanted to see what he’d done before, and I wanted everything he painted that was for sale later. His American period is a departure, but has all the hallmarks that he’s known for—and remember, I know the place, done business all over.”

  “So what about his latest collection? You’ve bought all but the main piece, I understand.”

  “Yeah. Bought it all, didn’t even have to see it. I know what I’m buying with this boy—and it’s worth a heck of a lot more now that he’s dead. Not that I’ll sell.”

  “But you didn’t procure the main piece?”

  “Nick didn’t want to sell. But I’ll get it, you’ll see. When they find it, I’ll get it.”

  “I understand there was another bidder.”

  Bradley shrugged. “Small fry. I’ll get it, like I said.”

  “Do you know anything about it, apart from the fact that it’s supposed to be more than one piece?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told, Nick said as much to me, and it’s what I would have expected.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you look at his other work; it has a serial quality to it. So I’m pretty sure this one is a triptych. And I’m sure the subject is the war. That’s why I want it.”

  Maisie made no immediate response, whereupon Bradley stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

  “I believe that this piece, whatever it is, will distill—yeah, I reckon that’s a good word—distill everything he thought and felt about that war. Remember, I’ve collected him for years, watched him grow, change, sort out his life with his art. I think that once it was finished, this final piece, he was ready to let the past be the past, you know, step forward to whatever was next. I predict that whatever he moved on to would be an example of…of…”