Messenger of Truth (31 page)

MAISIE, BILLY, ERIC,
Jim and Sandra entered the gallery as the men put final touches to the construction of wooden struts, trestles and ladders that would be used to position the pieces of Nick Bassington-Hope’s creation.

“That’s all for now, Mr. Levitt. We can manage from here.”

Levitt nodded. “You’ll need the keys.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as they heard the caretaker leave, Billy ensured the back entrance was secure and the front door was locked. Together Eric and Jim pulled screens across so that the back wall could not be seen from the street, while Maisie and Sandra covered the floor with heavy cotton dust-sheets of the type used by housepainters.

“Ready for us to unload the van, Miss?”

“Ready, Billy.”

Maisie and Sandra opened a box they had brought in with them and took out tools they would need for the next part of the plan. The men returned with six panels, which they laid on top of the dust-sheets, before returning to the van for more equipment. In the meantime, the women set to work, each taking care to don a pair of overalls and cover her hair with a top-knotted scarf before commencing.

Some three hours later, Maisie checked her watch and caught Billy’s eye.

“Time to let Stratton in, Miss?”

“Yes, it’s time. Then you go up to the landing.”

“You’ll be all right?”

“Of course.”

As Maisie took up her place behind a screen, she felt a churning in her stomach. There was always the chance that she would be wrong. She swallowed. Yes, this was her gamble.

AT HALF PAST
nine, according to Maisie’s watch, illuminated for just a second with her torch, she heard the rumble of a motor car in the alley, followed by the sound of a latch at the back of the gallery being rattled. Any sense of movement was suspended as she raised her head to listen. Deliberate steps echoed, as if the person entering the gallery were carrying a heavy load. Soon there was a distinct creaking noise as the door leading into the gallery was opened, and the steps came ever closer. Then a pause. The intruder’s breath came heavy and fast. There was a whine, a mournful aching sound that came from someone clearly struggling with a burdensome weight.

There was a deep sigh and a metallic sound echoed into the air. And something else, a distinct smell. Maisie almost choked.
Oil. Paraffin
. Back and forth, the footsteps moved faster now, the sound of the inflammable liquid slopping across the floor beneath the pieces that Maisie and her helpers had worked so hard to install on the wall. The scaffolding would ignite in a second, though she could not make her move yet. She knew she had to wait, had to linger long enough to hear the interloper speak. There would be a declaration—at least she hoped she was correct in her sense that such destruction would be accompanied by words spoken to Nick Bassington-Hope, as if the artist were in the room himself. Finally, as the fuel’s vapor became overwhelming, a voice spoke loud and clear. Maisie pulled the kerchief from her head and held it across her nose and mouth, all the time listening.

“You disappointed me, Nick. You just didn’t know when to stop, did you? I pleaded with you, dear boy. I did all I could to prevent this, but you couldn’t draw back, eh?” The can rattled with the dregs of paraffin, and Maisie heard a second can being opened. “Couldn’t believe you wouldn’t listen. Couldn’t believe you just stood there. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Nick, didn’t mean for this…but you couldn’t be allowed to do it, couldn’t be allowed to dishonor your own flesh and blood….” The soliloquy drifted into a whisper, as the man upended the can, then fumbled with a matchbox drawn from his coat pocket.

“Damn!” The match failed to ignite, and as he tried to take out another match, the box fell to the ground, its contents scattered in the pungent liquid. “Damn you, Nick. Even dead you’re trying to save that monstrosity, even dead I cannot stop you.”

Maisie stood up and began to walk toward the man who had come to destroy the work of his beloved son.

“Piers…”

Now partially illuminated in a half shaft of light from the street-lamp outside, the man frowned, as if not quite able to comprehend what was taking place. “What the hell—?”

She could wait no longer; the risk was too great. “Billy, Stratton!”

Soon the gallery was filled with movement as Stratton’s men rushed in with sand-filled fire buckets, and Piers Bassington-Hope searched for anything that could be used to ignite the flammable liquid.

“It was his fault, you know, it was Nick. I didn’t mean it to happen, I didn’t want—”

“You can save that for the station, sir,” instructed Stratton. He nodded to a sergeant, who pulled the older man’s arms behind him, the loud click of a handcuff lock echoing in Maisie’s ears as the killer of Nick Bassington-Hope was led away.

“I—I wanted to talk to him, I—” Maisie looked around. The fire brigade had been summoned to secure the gallery.

“It’s too dangerous here and there’s no need for you to remain anyway, Miss Dobbs. You’ll have to come down to the station, of course.”

“Yes, indeed—but I’ll have to telephone Svenson first, and I want to wait until the gallery is safe before I leave. I don’t think either of us expected this sort of damage.”

Stratton looked up at the painting. “Pity he didn’t get rid of that thing, if you ask me.”

Billy, who had been talking to both the police and fire brigade, joined them at that moment.

“You talking about that valuable work of art there, Inspector?”

“I am indeed.”

Maisie rolled her eyes. “Let us just say, gentlemen, that my endeavors with paint might have saved a great work of art this evening.”

They all turned to look at the six pieces of plywood that Sandra had whitewashed earlier, and that Maisie had proceeded to use as a background for her own masterpiece.

“Thank heavens he came without a torch!”

MAISIE FELT HEAVY
in body and soul as she drove slowly back to her flat in Pimlico in the early hours of the morning. Piers Bassington-Hope had trusted that one beloved child would understand the plea he’d made on behalf of another; his actions, borne of a deep disillusionment, had caused the death of his eldest son. Yet he had not considered, as Maisie had, that the child he cared for so deeply might be strong enough to endure any depiction of life or death created by her brother.

As if angels had conspired to clear the heavens for Lizzie Beale, a low, bright winter sun managed to sear through morning fog on the day her body was committed to earth. A service in the local church, its buttresses soiled by smoke and green lichen growing upon damp sandstone, moved all who came. It seemed that the whole neighborhood had turned out to say good-bye to the child whose smile would never be forgotten. Maisie looked on as Billy and Doreen, bearing their daughter’s weight between them, carried the small white coffin topped with a posy of snowdrops into the church.

Later, at the graveside, Billy’s quiet stoicism provided strength for Doreen as she leaned against him for fear her legs would not support her during the final farewell. And cradling her newborn child swaddled in blankets, Ada stood alongside her sister, knowing the warmth of their sisterhood would be sustenance on grief’s barren journey. A clutch of relatives gathered around the Beale family, so Maisie stood to one side, though Billy had beckoned her to come closer. She watched the coffin as it was lowered into the ground and pressed a hand to her mouth as the minister, with a gentleness that can only be borne of strength, said the words, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” and followed with another prayer for the dead child. Then Billy reached down to lift a fistful of cold brown earth. He looked at the dirt in his hand, then took the rose from his lapel and threw it into the chasm that would soon be filled. It was only when the rose sat between the pure white snowdrops that he threw down the first clod to signal his good-bye. Doreen followed, then others stepped forward. Having waited until last, respectful of those closest to the Beale family, Maisie walked slowly to the edge of the grave, remembering, once again, the softness of Lizzie’s head, of the curls that brushed against her chin, and the small dimpled hand that grasped her button. She, too, took up a handful of earth and heard the thud as it splashed across the coffin. Then she bid Godspeed to dear Lizzie Beale.

ON THE PREVIOUS
day, instead of driving straight to Scotland Yard following the arrest, Maisie had gone immediately to Georgina Bassington-Hope’s flat, where she broke the news that her father had been taken into police custody in connection with the death of her brother.

“Georgina, I am sure you want to be with him. I will take you now, if you wish.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Georgina placed a hand on her brow, as if not sure what to do next.

“I’ll get your coat, Georgina.” Maisie summoned the housekeeper, who left, then returned with her employer’s coat, hat, gloves and handbag.

“Do you need to inform anyone before we leave?”

“I—I think I will…no, I’ll see him first. No good talking to anyone before I’ve seen Daddy, and Inspector Stratton. Nolly will have a fit if I don’t have every last detail at my fingertips. I think that’s what made me a journalist, you know, having Nolly for a sister!” Georgina gave a half laugh, then looked at Maisie, her eyes dark, her skin ashen. “Fine mess I’ve got the family into, eh? I should have left well enough alone.”

Maisie silently opened the door for her client, steadying her as she descended the steps to the waiting car. She said nothing to Georgina about truth, about the instinct that had inspired her to seek Maisie’s help. It was not the right moment to speak of the inner voice that instructs us to move in a given direction, even though we know—even though we know and might never admit to such intuition—that to continue on our path is to risk the happiness of those we hold dear.

GEORGINA BASSINGTON-HOPE ALL
but fell into her father’s embrace upon entering the interview room at Scotland Yard, her sobs matching his own as they held each other. Having escorted her to the room, along with a woman police auxiliary, Maisie turned to leave, only to hear Georgina call to her.

“No, please, Maisie—stay!”

Maisie looked to Stratton standing behind Piers Bassington-Hope, who gave a single nod. She could remain in the room.

Sitting close enough to see Georgina’s hands shaking, Maisie was silent as they spoke, Piers repeatedly clearing his throat and running his hands back through his silver hair as he recounted the events that led to his son’s death.

“I’d gone along to Nick’s cottage, must have been early in November. We hadn’t had much time to…to talk, as father and son, alone, for ages. You know what your mother’s like, always fussing around Nick, so that I hardly had time with him when he came to the house.” He swallowed, then cleared his throat again. “Nick had gone to fill the kettle with water from the barrel, so I sat down—next to a pile of sketchbooks. I began leafing through them—as always, stunned by your brother’s work.” He paused. “I was so proud of him.”

Georgina reached out to her father, then withdrew her hands to pull a handkerchief from her pocket, with which she rubbed her eyes.

Piers continued. “Nick was taking his time, so I continued—ready to put them down when he came in, you know how secretive he could be, and I wouldn’t want him to think I was snooping. And that’s when I found them, the sketchbooks….” He held a hand tohis chest, heaving a sob, then coughed, so much so that the woman auxiliary left the room to bring a cup of water.

“I—I recognized the subject of the work immediately, no mistaking it. And I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. How could he do that, how could my son…do that? He told me that the piece was the most ambitious undertaking of his life, that he could not compromise. Georgina, I begged him to choose an unknown model, but Nick declined, saying that in his work he must honor truth, and that he had thought long and hard about his decision, and felt it only right. I tried to make him understand, tried to make him see—but he just waved me away, told me I was an old man who didn’t understand what art was all about these days, that I should stick to ivy-clad walls.” Piers clenched his teeth, trying to stem the tears. “My son thought I was spent as an artist, and my pleas were met with disdain—there’s no other word for it.” He held out his hand to Georgina. “You know how Nick could be, Georgie; you know how stubborn he could be, how intractable.” He leaned back in his chair. “I came again over the following weeks, came to ask him to reconsider, to petition him to stop, to think again, to…to be kind in his work. But he wouldn’t give an inch.”

Piers sipped from the cup of water, then began to describe the final bid to change his son’s mind. He had come to the gallery on the eve of the exhibition when everyone had left, knowing that he was the only person who had any knowledge of the paintings and knowing that success in his plea was imperative. Entering by the front door—left open by Stig Svenson—Piers saw his son was on the trestle and, wanting to face him, rather than look up at him—a desire that Maisie understood immediately, though Piers would not have been able to explain his motivation—he went to the stairs leading to the landing and was soon on a level with his son. Still agile, Piers had climbed over the railing and onto the scaffolding so that he could press home the importance of his request. Nick began to turn his back on his father, going about his work as if he were not there.

Piers Bassington-Hope sobbed as he continued. “I had seen, then, the cold refusal in Nick’s eyes. He infuriated me. After all, how could he be so indifferent, so oblivious to what he was doing? I could not help myself, I could not—”

Georgina handed her father a fresh handkerchief, which he pressed to his eyes. “I am so terribly sorry.” He shook his head, then went on. “I—I could not help myself. I raised my hand and struck him across the cheek, then again with the back of my hand. I struck my own son.” He swallowed deeply, placing a hand on his chest once more in a bid to control his emotions. “Then the trestle began to move. We both became unsteady, barely able to stand upright, then…then…Nick turned around and swore at me, and I—I lost control of my senses. It was as if I were blind. I could not see, could only feel this…this welter of anger that rose up from my feet and exploded in my head. I felt my hand connect with the side of Nick’s face, then I reached out to grab hold of the scaffolding, anything to steady myself. Then Nick was gone. It happened before I could stop it. One second he was there, a look of complete disbelief on his face.” Piers looked directly at Stratton. “I had never raised a hand to any of my children, Inspector. Never.” He was silent for a moment. “Then Nick was gone. Before I could reach out, before he could gain a foothold, he was gone, the barrier broken as he fell. And I heard a terrible, terrible thud as he hit the stone floor.” Piers Bassington-Hope leaned sideways, moaning, as if he would collapse. A police constable stepped forward to support him.

“When did you know your son was dead, Mr. Bassington-Hope?” Stratton spoke with a steady voice, neither soft nor confrontational.

Piers shook his head. “I thought he might cry out, might get up and begin to berate me for challenging him. I wanted him to shout at me, to argue, to yell—anything but that silence.”

“So, you left the gallery?”

Piers looked up, indignation evident in his eyes. “Oh, no, no. I rushed to his side and I…I knew he was dead, could see the life gone from his eyes. So I held my son in my arms until…until his body was cold.” He explained that it was only as dawn broke that he panicked, his thoughts now of his wife and daughters and the anguish they would feel upon learning that Nick was dead. The last words he spoke before Stratton brought the meeting between Georgina and her father to an end were, “He was my son, Inspector,
my son
. And I loved him.”

NICK BASSINGTON-HOPE’S FINAL
exhibition at Svenson’s Gallery took place in early February 1931, with a select group of family and friends invited to preview an event that was also a memorial to the artist, who—as Svenson made a point of telling everyone who came—would be remembered as an interpreter of both the human and natural landscape. There were those who were surprised to see Piers Bassington-Hope escort his wife from the Invicta motor car that drew up outside the gallery, and as guests entered, Harry Bassington-Hope, at first tentatively, then with more confidence, lift his trumpet to play the heartrending lament he’d composed after first seeing the work his brother had named
No Man’s Land
.

Duncan and Quentin arrived together, furtively nodding an acknowledgment toward Maisie, who had helped broker their freedom with a full description of the events she had witnessed at the barn on Romney Marsh and a statement to the effect that she considered them “tea boys” in the diamond smuggling operation. Alex Courtman stepped into the gallery and joined his two friends, then looked around the room as if searching for someone. He saw Maisie, raised his hand to greet her, only to have his attention drawn to the door: Randolph Bradley had arrived, his shining American Du Pont Merrimac Town Car eliciting gasps from onlookers as it pulled alongside the entrance to the gallery. Bradley made an entrance wearing a stylish English double-breasted suit, and Maisie saw just a hint of disapproval from Nolly when he approached her sister, who gave a half smile as she raised a cheek to be kissed by her lover. Soon Harry leaned back, pressing his lips into a piercing final note and the low murmur of those gathered ceased as Stig Svenson climbed the steps onto a plinth, beside which was the cord that, when pulled, would open the thick, blood-red velvet drapes to reveal the completed
No Man’s Land
.

Svenson pressed a white handkerchief to his eyes as he stood behind the lectern to address the guests, who edged forward to hear him speak.

“Thank you, all of you, for coming today. As those closest to Nick, I know you would not have missed this opportunity to view
No Man’s Land
before the work is available to a broader audience, as it most surely will be in the future. It was no secret that Nick’s most fervent wish was for a bequest to a public institution, and I am proud to announce that Mr. Randolph Bradley has most generously purchased
No Man’s Land
as a gift to the Imperial War Museum, in perpetuity.” There was a round of applause during which Svenson cleared his throat, holding a hand to his mouth for a second before speaking again.

“We all knew Nick. We all knew that he journeyed to the very edge of convention in his quest to tell the truth of what he saw, of what he felt in his very soul, with his skill as an artist. You’ve seen his early work, seen the Flemish villages, abundant landscapes, the murals, works of utmost complexity, and every one marked by an acute sense of place, or perhaps an appreciation of love, of hatred, of war, of peace. He was a man of and beyond his time, a man of sensitivity almost crushed by the weight of his experience in the years 1914 to 1918. This piece is, perhaps, his most telling. It is a work of art that will leave not one of you with an opinion steeped in the gray mist of ambiguity. Be prepared to hate it, be prepared to love it, but do not expect to leave untouched by the message of Nicholas Bassington-Hope.”

It seemed as if everyone in the room held their breath at the moment when Svenson turned to the pulley and drew back the drapes concealing the masterpiece sought since the night of the artist’s death. As silence followed the collective gasp, Maisie opened her eyes, for she had closed them when Svenson reached for the cord. No one uttered a sound. She had seen the complete work in the days leading up to the opening, yet none of the impact was lost with familiarity, in fact, as the artist intended, at every viewing another scene seemed to come to the fore, giving rise to a new emotion.