Messenger of Truth (24 page)

“Yes, miss, that’s right, but apparently he’d left early to go to his lock-up, where he loaded up, then came here. He reckoned he’d go back again later to pick up the final piece, what everyone’s been calling a triptych.”

“How did he spend the day?”

“First of all they all got stuck in and put up the main part of the exhibition, which was easy, to a point. I reckon it would’ve been a very good show, but there was nothing there for anyone to purchase, on account of Mr. Bradley buying up the lot.”

“So I understand. Tell me about the scaffolding and what happened next.”

“Well, as soon as they had put up the works that had been brought over in the van, Mr. Bassington-Hope went back to his lock-up to collect more paintings, and the other two went out for a bit of something to eat. Mr. Courtman did ask if he needed help, but he said that he didn’t. There was more preparation, and then the wood and so on for the scaffolding was delivered, and they all worked for the rest of the day on that.”

“Were there visitors?”

“Well, yes. There was family dropping in throughout the day, and, of course, Mr. Svenson was flapping a bit, giving everyone directions. Mind you, he always drew his neck in a bit with Mr. Bassington-Hope. Could be sparky, he could—you know, get touchy if he was told to do something he didn’t want to do, and he wasn’t shy when it came to telling Mr. Svenson off. Saw him do it in company once, which was a bit strong. Between us, it embarrassed Mr. Svenson—made him fume, to tell you the truth. I thought to myself at the time that one day he would push Mr. Svenson too far. No, Mr. Bassington-Hope never pulled back from anything. He was a bit like his brother in that regard. And those two sisters of his, come to that.”

“You knew his brother?”

“I’ve been here years, miss. Seen all the family paintings one way or another. The mother is very talented, of course. I think it’s only that older sister who can’t wield a brush to save her life.” He scratched his head, remembering the question of Harry. “As far as the brother goes, I’d seen him come and go a couple of times when Mr. Bassington-Hope was here for an opening or when his work was exhibited.” He pressed his lips together, as if weighing how much to reveal. “What you’ve got to remember, Miss Dobbs, is that Mr. Svenson holds the purse strings, so if that younger one wanted some money from his brother, he’d be more likely to get it if he was standing in his bank, if you know what I mean.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, I do. So, tell us about the scaffolding, about what they did next.”

“Meticulous, I would say. Mr. Bassington-Hope was very careful, measuring, testing the strength of the trestle. He knew that, once it was up, he’d be here on his own working on placing and securing the pieces. He said to me, ‘Last thing I want is to break my painting arm, Arthur.’ Mind you”—he looked at Maisie to ensure she was listening carefully—“mind you, he also knew the scaffolding was temporary, that it would probably only be used again to dismantle the exhibit, so it’s not as if it were made like you were building a house underneath. You couldn’t go jumping all over it with a hod of bricks or anything. But it was sturdy enough for the job, and with a barrier along the back, so he could lean—lightly, mind—and check the placing of the anchors and, of course, the paintings.”

“When did everyone leave?”

“Well, there was that dust-up in the afternoon, and I’m sure you’ve heard all about that, what with Mr. Bradley doing his nut because Mr. Bassington-Hope wouldn’t sell that main piece. Then they left, and the men worked on until, oh, must’ve been eight o’clock.”

“And do you know when Mr. Bassington-Hope intended to collect the main pieces?”

“Now, I leave at nine, as a rule, only I stayed a bit, but Mr. Bassington-Hope said he’d lock up and I should get home, because the next day would be a long one. I asked if he was sure, what with having to lug the pieces up the stairs on his own, and what have you—”

“Lug the pieces up the stairs?”

“You see these here staircases?” He pointed to a staircase at either side of the storage room, in the center of which was a tunnel-like corridor that snaked through to the main gallery. “They lead out onto the balconied landings in the gallery. There’s a door at either side. He would have had to carry the pieces up these stairs, then lift them over the balcony to the scaffolding. Then he’d either hop on over or climb up from below, but this would definitely have been the easiest way to do the job. And he wanted the downstairs door to the gallery locked, didn’t want anyone coming in to disturb him.”

“What time did Haywood and Courtman leave again?”

“Reckon about eight. Courtman wanted to get going, had a ladyfriend waiting somewhere, and so Haywood asked for a lift on his motorbike.”

“And no one else came to visit between eight and the time you left?”

“Mr. Svenson came in again, but eventually he left before me. He was very anxious, but he’s also very good with his clients, you know. He works with their temperaments, I think you would say. And he trusted Mr. Bassington-Hope.”

“Could anyone have entered the gallery?”

“The downstairs door was locked, definitely, but the upstairs door was unlocked—but you’d’ve expected that, what with him having to go back and forth.”

“Did he pull the van in?”

“The van was on the street. And of course he hadn’t collected the main pieces. I can only think he was running behind a bit, though he would have wanted to bring them in late, I would have thought, on account of him wanting to keep them a secret.”

Maisie paced back and forth. “Mr. Levitt, tell me about the morning when you found Mr. Bassington-Hope.”

“It was long before seven, and I expected him to be here to make sure that no one could eyeball the exhibition before the opening. The van was parked on the street here and the outside door was unlocked, so that’s when I thought he was already in. I put the kettle on”—he pointed to a small gas stove—“and I went down the corridor here, where the door was still locked, with the key in it on the other side. I banged on the door to let him know it was me, only there was no answer. So I went upstairs, hoping he’d left that door unlocked, and he had. But when I opened it and went out onto the balcony, that’s when I saw him. The scaffolding had broken where the poor man had lost his balance and fallen back.” Levitt choked. Maisie and Billy were silent, waiting for him to settle into the story again. “I ran downstairs as quick as I could to get to him. He was stone cold. I could see straightaway that it was a broken neck. I opened the door to the back—keys in the lock as I thought—and I ran into Mr. Svenson’s office, it’s off the corridor there, I have a spare key—and telephoned the police. That’s when Detective Inspector Stratton came to the gallery.”

Maisie cleared her throat. “Do you know what happened to the van?”

“The chap he borrowed it from found out what had happened and claimed it from the police. They released it after a day or two. Nothing in it but a few tools, though.”

“And what about a key or set of keys? Mr. Bassington-Hope must have had a key to his lock-up.”

Levitt shook his head. “You’d probably be best to ask Miss Bassington-Hope. But to tell you the truth, I don’t know if there was anything.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, I was standing there, talking to Detective Inspector Stratton while two other policemen were going through Mr. Bassington-Hope’s belongings, you know, patting down his body. And there was no key there or I would have heard them. You see, I was listening for that. I’m a caretaker, Miss Dobbs. You’d sometimes think I’m the chief jailer, with a key for this and a key for that. And, apart from a key to the van, which he’d put on that shelf over there, there was no other key found that morning, or since then.”

“Does that strike you as strange?”

The man sighed. “To tell you the truth, Miss Dobbs—and I haven’t said as much to anyone else—I thought the whole thing was strange, something about it just didn’t sit right with me. But there again, if you were there, you’d’ve probably thought it was an accident too.”

Maisie inclined her head. “Would I, Mr. Levitt?”

MAISIE AND BILLY
took a brief sojourn in a pie and mash shop, where a hearty helping of eel pie, mashed potato and parsley “likker” brought some color back to Billy’s hollow cheeks. As they stood on the street ready to part company, he declared himself “well up” for the afternoon ahead.

As soon as she was back in the office, Maisie set about catching up with her work. There were some bills to prepare, and planning for the following week to complete. The post had to be dealt with, and she was pleased to see two letters of interest with regard to her services.

With about another half hour before she needed to leave for Dungeness, she moved to the table but did not remove the case map from its hiding place. She took a seat and doodled with a pen on a blank index card. She thought there might be something going on in Dungeness—based more upon her understanding of Nick’s mural, than anything else—that suggested knowledge on his part of some underhanded dealing. But how deep was his personal involvement? She felt that Haywood and Trayner had something to hide, but Courtman seemed on the periphery of the group, probably not part of an inner circle.

Harry Bassington-Hope?
Her mind drifted back to the dilettante musician, and the words came into her mind:
He knew what was going on
. But Maisie considered Harry to be someone caught in a web of his own making. She knew his type, had seen it before. Harry’s actions had led him to the slippery slope, and she knew he would not draw back from dragging someone else down with him—be it a friend, a brother or sister. His addiction was to the highs and lows of the gamble, that intoxicating thrill of risk blended with chance—and those who had something to gain from his weakness had lost no time in using him to their advantage.
But how did they do it?
Maisie shook her head and ran her hands through her hair.
No, they weren’t after just family money alone.
She scraped back her chair and wandered to the window.
What did Harry get from his brother that someone else wanted?
She ran her finger across the condensation on the window pane, then watched a rivulet of water drizzle down to the wooden frame.
And did Nick die as a result of it?

Maisie turned, ready to collect her belongings, to prepare herself to leave. She had always spoken with Maurice at times such as this, when she was about to move ahead into the darkness. She depended upon his counsel at that point in the case where she, too, was playing with risk, leaving so much to chance.
Am I as much of an addict to the thrill my work sometimes brings?
Was it the thought of possibly giving up that
edge,
that contributed to dissatisfaction in her courtship with Andrew Dene? Maisie put her hand to her mouth. She had always told herself that she did this job because she wanted to help others; after all, hadn’t Maurice told her once that the most important question any individual could ask was, “How might I serve?” If her response to that question had been pure, surely she would have continued with the calling to be a nurse—and perhaps help children such as Lizzie Beale in the bargain. But that role hadn’t been quite enough for her. She would have missed the excitement, the thrill—and it was a thrill—when she embarked on the work of collecting clues to support a case.

Hadn’t she felt that fountain of expectation rise within her at the nightclub, while waiting, ever watchful, for Harry Bassington-Hope? There was the prickle across her skin when she saw the man at the bar leave, perhaps to follow Svenson and Bradley. Then at the gallery, that familiar excitement building as she questioned Arthur Levitt. Or outside Georgina’s flat, when she arrived for the party, there was that compulsion to wait, to watch, to remain alert, to uncover a truth that had hitherto been hidden. Of course, Georgina was the same, though in her case, the urge to seek adventure played out in capturing the fabric of truth she would fashion for her stories. And she was involved with a married man.
There’s a gamble
. And Nick too—didn’t he sail close to the winds of disapproval with his work? Didn’t he risk losing his supporters?

Truth.
Wasn’t that why she took on the case? That bolt of recognition when Georgina placed her hand over her heart and said,
“A feeling, here,”
even though she did not know the woman well, had not established an acquaintance; she was drawn by her declaration. She had stepped forward, laid her hand on the woman’s shoulder, the voice in her head saying,
Yes, this I understand
. That was the thrill, and that was the quest for which she took her risks.
The search for truth.
But what if she were wrong? What if all the supposed clues were simply unimportant connections: the wayward brother, the wealthy sponsor, friends who appeared to have something to hide. Heavens, didn’t everyone have something to hide? Maisie sighed, knowing her thoughts had taken her along a less than welcome path, the way of doubt. She had never been blind to the reality of her obsession with her work, but she had certainly been less than honest with those who deserved more from her—Andrew Dene for one.

Almost instinctively, she reached for the telephone receiver, then drew back. No, she would not place a call to Maurice. She had forged her independence from him. The business was her own now, there was no need to seek his counsel, his voice, his opinion of her reasoning, before setting off.

Checking that she had everything she needed, Maisie put on her coat, hat and gloves, and took up the black document case, along with her shoulder bag. She reached the door, and as she held out her hand to grasp the brass handle, the telephone began to ring. She was determined to ignore the ring, but it occurred to her that it might be Billy trying to contact her before she departed for Dungeness, so she reconsidered and lifted the receiver.

“Fitzroy—”

“Maisie.”

“Maurice.” She closed her eyes, and sighed. “I thought it might be you.”