Messenger of Truth

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Resurrection? Rebirth?” Maisie offered, almost absentmindedly, for her mind had wandered, thinking about Nick Bassington-Hope and the work that had caused his death.

  “Yeah, that sounds about right. I like that. Yeah. It was there, to some extent, in his American period. But even that seemed to show an exploration, a journey, not an arrival.” He nodded again, and looked around the room, now filled with guests taking luncheon. He looked at his watch. “Any more questions, Miss Dobbs?”

  “Oh, yes, just one or two if you don’t mind. I’d like to know how long you’ve been doing business with Stig Svenson, and—I promise this is confidential—what he’s like to deal with.”

  “I’ve known Svenson since before the war, when we were both starting out. I’d made some money and I wanted to indulge myself. When I was a boy, an English fellow”—he grinned, checking that Maisie had caught the quip—“lived on our street. He wasn’t rich, none of us were in that neighborhood, but every day he left that house dressed as if he were going to the Bank of England. His clothes weren’t new, but they were good. I didn’t know anything about him, except that he was dapper, as you would say. Dapper. I wanted to be like him, and when he died his family—turns out he had kids in the city—came out and sold up everything. And you know what? He worked in a factory. Not a fancy office, but a factory. And he spent money on art, all sorts of pictures from artists you’d never even heard of. I was only young, but I bought a couple I liked, cheap. So, that set me on my path, my love of art. I came to see Svenson in ’19, when I was in London before shipping back home. I bought a couple of pieces from him—cut price, you guys weren’t in any position to haggle then—and we kept in touch. My business boomed and I was over here as much as I was at home.” He paused, once again reaching for a cigarette, then reconsidering before he continued talking, looking directly at Maisie. “Now, even though I’ve known Svenson awhile now, I believe he’d take the shirt off my back if he could. We respect each other, but I know what he’s about. He’s sharp, understands what sells—and right now, that’s European art, all your rich dukes and counts and princes selling off the family heirlooms. God only knows where he’s getting it from—and he knows who wants to buy. Make no mistake, if there is a pie with money anywhere in London, Paris, Rome, Ghent or Amsterdam, Stig Svenson’s finger is in it.” He stood up and came around to pull out Maisie’s chair for her. “And Nick had his number. Knew Svenson could pull a buyer, but watched him like a hawk all the same.”

  Bradley accompanied Maisie into the foyer of the hotel.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Bradley. You have been most helpful, most kind to allow me so much of your valuable time.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Dobbs.” He handed her a calling card. “Call me if you need any more information.” He laughed. “In fact, call me if you find that darn painting. I want it and I’ll pay the family whatever they want for it—Nolly Bassington-Hope knows that—in fact, she can’t wait to get it out of the country!”

  Maisie drew a breath to put another question to the American, but he had turned and walked away. And though he appeared to move in an easy fashion, he walked with some speed, for in an instant he was gone.

  MAISIE KNEW SHE was struggling with the case. Already the loose threads threatened to unravel before she could even distinguish a pattern. There were points she was missing and she understood that all the thinking in the world wouldn’t make the task any easier. She had to continue working away, trusting that each step taken would be like another drop of water on stone, gradually wearing down the hard shell that time and circumstance had wrapped around clarity. Except that she didn’t have time for gradually. Of course, it would have helped had she been able to set out right from the start with a letter of introduction from Georgina to the effect that she was investigating Nick Bassington-Hope’s death with her permission. But Georgina had not initially wanted her to reveal the nature of her inquiry, thus she had left the first interview with the caretaker to Billy, rather than question him herself. However, that might have been a good strategy, though she must speak to the man personally tomorrow, with Billy there to ease the path of conversation.

  Nick’s three closest friends, according to Georgina, were still in London and, as far as she knew, Alex Courtman would be at Georgina’s flat this afternoon. As she traveled to Kensington, Maisie was struck by the fact that all three men were moving on, with two of them appearing to have recently become financially better heeled, which was interesting if one considered that an artist created something to be acquired on the basis of sheer desire, not need. On the other hand, thought Maisie, she had already seen that there were plenty of people who could still afford such luxuries and perhaps those people who bought art were viewing this as a time to build their collections at a lower cost than might otherwise be the case. She shook her head as she walked, wishing she understood the art world a little better.

  The places where Nick Bassington-Hope chose to live were desolate. His past was desolate, as were the natural landscapes that drew him. There were women—girls, as Georgina described them, but his work was his life, his true love. And he too seemed to be financially secure, to have enough money to help Harry with his debts. Georgina said that Nick’s art was selling well, and of course Maisie knew that Bradley had spent a considerable amount feathering Nick’s nest. But could there be another source of revenue? And what was the relationship between Nick, Harry and the man who drove the motor car that followed the younger brother to the party? She knew the man by appearance already, and suspected—though she had no hard evidence—that Stratton was wrong when he assumed that the underworld known to Harry Bassington-Hope had not beaten a path to Nick’s door.

  She parked the MG, walked to Georgina’s flat and rang the bell. A housekeeper answered, then showed her into the drawing room and went to summon Alex Courtman.

  “Ah, Miss Dobbs, the dancer. How charming to see you again.” Alex Courtman held out his hand. He appeared even more youthful today, dressed in gabardine trousers, a white collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a reddish-brown cable-knit pullover. He did not wear a tie and did not seem unduly concerned about his casual appearance, which was exaggerated by unruly dark hair that appeared not to have had the benefit of a comb that morning.

  “I wonder if you would be so kind as to oblige me with a moment or two of your time, Mr. Courtman?”

  “Of course.” He extended his hand toward an armchair, then sat down on the end seat of the chesterfield, close to Maisie, who glanced around before turning to face him. There had been so many people at Georgina’s party, she had hardly looked at the room, which now seemed quintessentially bohemian, though perhaps not as outlandish as the Bassington-Hope family seat. There were antique pieces that immediately suggested a connection to old money, but instead of the gravity an ill-lit room might inspire, this interior was bright with windows flanked by heavy swags of pale gold silk. In one corner a carved screen was draped with fabrics from Asia, and a collection of masks from around the world were displayed on a wall.

  Maisie felt comfortable in the room, now that she was able to pay attention to the details. The walls were painted a pale yellow, the picture rails and mantelpiece white; nondescript colors chosen to provide an accommodating backdrop for the works of art. There were three paintings by Georgina’s brother, and several others by artists unknown to Maisie.

  “How may I help you, Miss Dobbs?”

  “As you know, I am working on behalf of Miss Bassington-Hope to discover more about the circumstances of her brother’s death. To that end, I must find out more about his life. You were one of his dearest friends, so I thought you might be able to”—she smiled—“paint a picture of him for me, by answering some questions?”

  “Fire away!” He leaned back into the chesterfield, a move that caught Maisie’s attention. It occurred to her that she felt as if she were on a stage with Alex Courtman, who, having just read his words from a script, was now waiting for her to play her
part. Instinctively she wanted to unsettle him.

  “You’re all moving on now. Nick’s dead, of course, but Duncan has his house in Hythe, Quentin’s bought a flat ‘with his thrice-wed paramour,’ and you’re spending more time here than in Dungeness. It couldn’t have all been planned since the accident.”

  Courtman answered calmly. “Well, these things tend to happen all at once, don’t they? It just takes one to step off the boat and everyone else gets itchy feet. Duncan was courting for ages, poor girl must have wondered if he was ever going to make an honest woman of her. Then Quentin grasped his opportunity to make a dishonest woman of someone else—the woman’s still married to husband number three—and I found myself up here more and more.” He looked out the window, then back at Maisie. “I’ll probably get my own flat soon.”

  “You’ve all done very well with your work, haven’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Nick’s work sold very well, and I do believe we were affected simply by being associated with him, as if some of that stardust flaked off onto us. And, frankly, Svenson makes the most of the friendships. If you stick around him long enough, you’ll hear him talk about the ‘Bassington-Hope school’ and how our work was influenced by Nick.”

  “And was it?”

  “Not at all. We’re all quite different, but if I can go up the ladder hanging on to Nick’s coattails, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  Maisie paused before continuing. “You said at the party that you met some years ago.”

  He nodded. “Yes, as I told you, we all met at the Slade, though I knew Duncan better than I knew Nick and Quentin, to tell you the truth. Not that you would guess, but I’m a bit younger than the others, a latecomer to the group. It doesn’t make much difference now, but in those days I was definitely the new boy. Then we joined the Artists’ Rifles together, more or less, which sealed the friendships, though Nick, Duncan and Quentin are—were—something of an exclusive trio. But when it comes to a move such as the one to Dungeness and away again—it only takes one and we all fall in.”

  “And who was the one?”

  “Nick. He’s the one who said that we ought to do our bit in the war. Seemed as if that’s all people said then, you know, do your bit. Trouble was, it was a bit too much to have bitten off, if you ask me. Old men always tell the young to do their bit, and half the time it isn’t anything they’d want to do themselves.”

  “Indeed.” Maisie nodded, familiar with the stream of disillusion that formed an undercurrent to conversations concerning the war. Sometimes the emotion came from angry defense of the war, but more often, she realized, it was inspired by an inability to understand how and why the war happened, and why so many who fought were now all but abandoned, or so it appeared. Hadn’t Mosley exploited the situation at Georgina’s party? And hadn’t so many been drawn to his words, as if he could provide answers to their own deepest questions? She continued. “Perhaps you can tell me about the Rifles. Was this where you got to know each other really well?”

  “In training, not over in France. We were all assigned to different regiments. Nick ended up in the same regiment as his brother-in-law, much to his dismay, though I understand he came to rather like the old chap.” Courtman stared out the window, his eyes blankly focused across chimney pots and into the distance. “He said in a letter that he’d always thought the man was a bit wet, but came to regard him as simply kind. Nick was quite shattered when he was killed.”

  “Do you know the circumstances, specifically?” Maisie had not expected the conversation to take this turn and was intrigued enough to allow the man to reminisce.

  Courtman turned to Maisie. “Circumstances? You mean other than two lines of men with guns pointed at each other?”

  “I meant—”

  “Yes, I know what you meant. I was being facetious. Talking about the war does that to me. How did Godfrey Grant die? As far as I know it was during a cease-fire.”

  “Cease-fire?”

  “Yes. I mean, you’ve heard about the Christmas truce and all that? Well, there wasn’t just one truce, you know. It happened fairly often. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for there to be a quick truce for both sides to whip out, collect their wounded and bury their dead. Imagine it, men like ants scurrying back and forth, trying to honor their own before some smart-aleck officer calls them all back to their own side for another round.”

  “Nolly’s husband was killed in a truce?”

  “Yes, as far as I know. Not sure what happened, of course. Probably didn’t get back to his trench before they were under starter’s orders again, something like that.”

  “I see.” Maisie made note of the conversation on an index card, shuffled a fresh one into place and looked up. “So, back to Nick. What was your training like? Did he continue with his work?”

  “Never saw him without a sketchbook. Mind you, we’re artists, we all had our sketchbooks, even though it was Nick who was on a quest to render those drawings into something more substantial.”

  “You’ve never sold your war paintings?”

  “Miss Dobbs, I have never completed any war paintings. Even though Svenson might like to say that my work is of the Bassington-Hope school, I would rather draw everyday life here and now than bring those scenes to mind every time I put brush to canvas. In any case, I’ve just got a new job. Commercial artist, that’s the place to be now….” He paused, choosing his words with care. “Nick’s art was his exorcism, in a way. He painted the war out of his soul and into the open. Every time a picture was born of his memory, it was as if something dark was laid to rest. And if that darkness made one of the higher-ups hot under the collar, it was icing on the cake for Nick.”

  “What do you know about the triptych?”

  He shook his head. “If you know it’s a triptych, then I know about as much as you.”

  “Do you think it was the last of his war paintings?” Maisie leaned forward.

  Courtman was quiet for some moments, then he looked up at Maisie. “You know, I think it was. I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but when I consider his work and the way he spoke of that piece—he never said anything specific about it, by the way—I do believe it was the last of his war paintings.” He paused once more, just for a moment. “Yes, very intuitive of you, Miss Dobbs. How very astute you are.”

  “No, not me. It was something suggested by Randolph Bradley, actually.”

  “Hmmph! The American moneybags, eh? Well, he should know, shouldn’t he? He all but bought Nick himself, the way he snapped up his work. He was furious about that triptych, or whatever it is. Furious! He came to the gallery when we were setting up Nick’s scaffolding—and, let me tell you, we knew what we were doing, that scaffolding was solid, absolutely solid.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He called Nick aside. They started talking quietly, you know, backslapping from Bradley, lots of congratulatory comments, that sort of thing. Then there was a pause and the next thing you know, Bradley is saying, ‘I’ll have that painting if it’s the last thing I do—and if I don’t, your career is dead, pal!’ Makes you wonder, now that I think of it. Not that he would have done anything really. In fact, that’s what surprised me, you know, he’s always such a gentleman, as if he set out to show us how being British should be done. Bit of a cheek, for a bloody colonial.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Oh, Svenson came out in a bit of a lather and everyone calmed down. Bradley apologized to Nick, to Duncan and me. He said that it just showed the sort of emotion Nick’s work inspired.”

  “Did Nick say anything?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s when he really let the cat out of the bag.”

  “Yes?” Maisie inclined her head, in a manner that suggested simple curiosity, rather than the excited energy Alex’s words had inspired.

  “He smiled, as if he’d really got the upper hand now. Then he said, quite calmly—you know, I’m surprised Georgie didn’t tell you this—”

  “She knows the
story?”

  “For heaven’s sake—she was there! Anyway—”

  “She was at the gallery, when this was going on?”

  “Well, she came with Bradley.” He grinned. “Come on, you must have known about Georgie and Bradley?”

  Maisie shook her head. “No. I didn’t.” She paused a moment, then was quick to go back to the conversation. She’d consider Georgie and the American later. “But, Mr. Courtman, how did Nick let the cat out of the bag?”

  “He announced his intention for the piece—we’re all assuming it’s a triptych, but I don’t know, could have been more pieces—”

  “And?”

  “He said that this piece would not grace a private home, but instead he was going to give it to the nation, to the Tate or the National or even the war museum at the old Bethlem Lunatic Asylum in Lambeth—rather an appropriate place for a museum of war, don’t you think? A disused lunatic asylum? Anyway, Nick said, to everyone there, that it was his gift to the dead of war and those who would have us go to war in the future, so that we may never forget who we are.”

  “Never forget who we are? Did he say what he meant?”

  “Yes, in fact, Bradley asked him. ‘And who the hell are we, god-damn it?’ Bit embarrassing, to tell you the truth, but Nick wasn’t at all unnerved by it, even though the man spent a fortune, a fortune, on his work. He didn’t smile—his face said nothing about his mood—but he said, quite simply, “We are humanity.” And then he turned back to the scaffolding, and Duncan and I looked at each other and did the same, just carried on with our work, you know, shuffling Nick’s map of where the anchors for the painting—or paintings—should go, and getting down to it. Everyone went on their way with a bit of muttering here and there, as you can imagine. But Svenson never came back to tackle Nick, as far as I know, to give him a lecture about the purse strings. At the time I assumed he’d wait until everyone had calmed down before playing the diplomat, but…”