Messenger of Truth (26 page)

Maisie continued to consider Georgina as she drove south toward the Romney Marshes. She had succumbed to the same failing that she had warned Billy against, having become resentful of those with greater means, their ability to indulge themselves when so many were vainly clutching at any semblance of hope. As she watched the new suburbs give way to the frost-laden apple orchards of Kent, she recalled the nightclub, the dancing and the home that she returned to each night, and Maisie flushed.
Am I not becoming such a person?
And she wondered, again, whether her chosen service truly amounted to a contribution of some account.

DUSK WAS ON
the verge of night as Maisie drove from Lydd along the road to Dungeness. Though the land was barren, with few houses and a cold wind blowing up from the beach, she managed to park the car on the side of the road, where it was shielded by an overhanging tree. She wrapped her scarf around her neck, pulled her cloche down as far as she could and took her knapsack from the passenger seat, then set off in the direction of the beach. She had taken a small torch from her knapsack but did not use it, preferring to stabilize the night vision she would rather depend upon, along with her memory of the route to Nick Bassington-Hope’s railway carriage home. She walked as quickly as possible, but took care to be as light of step as she could.

Reluctantly, she flicked on the torch every fifty or so yards to get her bearings. Finally, with salt-filled sea air whipping across her face, she came up to the front door of the cottage, having taken care to move into the shadows as the lighthouse beam swung around onto the beach. Her gloved fingertips were numb as she removed the key from her coat pocket. She sniffed against the chill air and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and squinted. Turning against the side of the carriage so that the glow of her torch could not be detected, she flashed the light to illuminate the lock, pressed the key home and gained entrance, extinguishing the torch as she stepped into the carriage. Closing the door behind her, she moved with speed to pull down the black blinds, though she would not use the lamps. Even a sliver of light might give her away.

With the torch, she inspected the cottage to see whether there were any signs that others had been there since her previous visit. The stove was as she had left it, the counterpane seemed untouched. She moved into the studio, directing the beam to the walls, to the chair, the paints, the easel. The greatcoat was still in the closet and as she touched the thick woolen fabric once again, Maisie shivered. She returned to the main living room, this time using her torch to inspect the mural once again. Yes, Nick Bassington-Hope was a talented artist, though she wondered what others had thought when they looked at the mural. Did they note what she had seen, ask themselves the same questions? And what of Amos White—had Nick ever invited him in? Could he have seen the mural? If so, he must have felt threatened. Nick Bassington-Hope told stories with his work, transposing images of those he knew onto his depiction of the myths and legends that inspired him. She touched the faces and thought of the triptych.
But what if the story were true, and the faces known to others as well as to Nick?
That, most definitely, would constitute a risk.

Maisie pushed one of the armchairs close to the window, then pulled the counterpane from the bed. She would have loved to light the fire but could not risk even a wisp of smoke being seen from the beach, so she settled into the chair, wrapping the counterpane around her body as she did so. She reached into the knapsack and took out cheese and pickle sandwiches and a bottle of R. White’s Dandelion and Burdock. The set of the blind allowed the barest snip of a view out to the beach. It was all that she needed, for now. She tucked into her food, stopping to listen between each mouthful. Then she waited.

Fearing the magnetic pull of sleep, Maisie went through the entire case in her mind, from the moment of that first encounter with Georgina Bassington-Hope. Admittedly, she was intrigued by the group of friends—she had never engaged with such people before—though at the same time she felt ill at ease with the company her client kept, and it was not simply a matter of money, upbringing or class. No, these people did not live by the same rules; their behavior both fascinated and intimidated her. The house in Tenterden came to mind. There was none of the familiarity that inspires a sense of security. Everything she touched seemed to challenge the accepted way of living, with color and texture assaulting the senses in a way that she had never before experienced. Had she not felt seduced by the audacity of the family, by the fact that they dared to be different? She sighed. This case resembled Stig Svenson’s Gallery, the exhibition hall designed so that only one piece was truly visible at a time, so the attention of the viewer was not distracted by the next piece or the next. She seemed able to consider only one clue, one item of evidence at any one time.

Feeling the gritty sensation of fatigue in her eyes, Maisie squirmed in the chair, pulling the counterpane around her again to fight the cold. It was then that she heard the crunch of boots on the pathway that led down to the shingle bank and then the beach. Moving to the gap between window and blind, Maisie squinted to see better. The shadowed figures tramped toward the bank, drawn by an ever-brighter light that beamed up from the beach. She heard raised voices, then the heavy rumble of a lorry. It was time for her to make her move.

Replacing the counterpane and chair took barely a minute. She checked both rooms once with her torch, and then left by the back door. Though it seemed as if each footfall reverberated into the night air with an increasingly loud echo, she knew that the men would hear nothing, the sound caught up and carried away by the cold wind. Maisie stepped forward with care, using old barrels, the sides of other cottages and any fixture available to disguise her approach toward the activity, which was now illuminated by lanterns.

Maisie took her chance, leaning around the corner of an old shed to ensure her way was clear. Then, stooping, she ran to cover alongside the remains of an old fishing boat, its clinker-built sides having given way to rot as it languished, spent and broken, until someone deemed it ready for the fire. She caught her breath, the bitterly cold air razor sharp in her throat and chest, then closed her eyes for a second, before she took a chance to look out from her hiding place.

A large fishing boat had made landfall and been winched up the beach. On the boat, the Draper brothers from Hastings, together with Amos White, moved back and forth, easing large wooden containers from the deck onto the shingle, where Duncan and Quentin took the contraband and carried it to the waiting lorry. Barely a word passed between the men, though when a voice was raised, it was invariably that of the fourth man on the boat—the man who had instigated the beating of Harry Bassington-Hope, the man whose face was depicted in the mural on the dead man’s carriage wall. Maisie remained in place for another moment, observing, working out who was who, which man wielded power. Clearly the fishermen were mere puppets, doing what many had done for centuries to augment the meager income of the fisherfolk. The artists seemed confident, knowing exactly what they were doing, and the other man, the man who came from the underworld of London—what was his role? Maisie watched closely.
He isn’t a lackey, and he isn’t the boss either—but he does have power.
It was time to leave, to move on, to be ready for what she anticipated would come next. And as she moved, she knew the dice had just rolled from her cupped hand across the table

Maisie made her way back toward the path that led out onto the Lydd Road. Then she ran to the MG, unlocked the door and took her place in the driver’s seat, her teeth chattering against the bitter cold. She sat in silence for a moment, to ensure she hadn’t been seen or followed, then she rubbed her gloved hands together and started the motor car, setting her course toward the road the lorry had taken when she had observed it before. Only this time, she planned to reach the destination first.

She’d had no time to conduct an initial reconnaissance, depending instead upon her supposition that the route taken by the lorry would lead to a barn, or some other building where goods could be stored until later, when—as the saying goes—the coast was clear. Or perhaps the barn took the role of a clearinghouse, where booty was divided between the man from London and the artists. Again she chose a spot where the MG would be hidden by one of the leaning trees common to the Marshes, and made off on foot. Unlike the beach, this road was muddy underfoot, and even as she walked, Maisie could feel the cold wet earth squelch through her brown leather walking shoes. Her toes were beginning to tingle and, after a brief respite, her fingertips were once more becoming numb. She lifted her hands to her mouth and blew warm air through her gloves. A dog barked in the distance, and she slowed her pace, listening to the quiet of the night as she made her way along the farm road.

Though the night was pitch-black, she could ascertain the outline of a barn set among the fields. She ran the last few yards to the side of the barn and waited for a minute. The upper walls seemed as if they had been constructed of old ships’ timbers centuries before, though Maisie guessed that, once inside, the bones of the building would reveal a medieval beamed structure, wherein each piece of wood would be identifiable with roman numerals scratched into the grain by the original artisans. Panting now, and rubbing her arms for warmth, Maisie knew she had some time before the lorry rumbled along the road. She must find a hiding place.

Though double doors had been added at each end of the barn, Maisie suspected there would be a smaller doorway, designed for a man to enter if he were coming in alone, with no bales on his cart or livestock to herd. Locating such a door, she listened, then pulled it open. Without waiting to survey the surroundings, she closed the door and, flashing the torch once, she saw that an old delivery van was already hidden inside the barn. She stepped quickly toward the rough ladderlike staircase leading into the loft and rafters. Climbing up, she found a cubbyhole space under the eaves, alongside bales of hay from summer’s harvest. From her vantage point she would be able to see any activity at the far end of the barn where she expected the men to enter. The van was clearly parked in such a way as to be ready to have crates transferred from another vehicle.
Yes, it’s all going according to plan.
She breathed a sigh of relief—she had gambled upon there not being anyone waiting for the containers to arrive and was glad to discover that she had been correct. Now she would wait, again.

Silence. Was it a half an hour that passed? An hour? Maisie waited, her heartbeat slowing to a pace that was almost normal. Then, in the distance, the sound of an engine revving, a bump, a rumble, the lorry coming closer along the rutted road. The occasional roar as the driver accelerated to clear a mudhole suggested that the vehicle was being maneuvered in reverse gear. Soon she would have another piece of the puzzle. Soon she would know what Nick had known.

With a shudder the lorry stopped, then after some manipulation of forward and reverse gears, was brought into position, finally scrunching to a halt beyond the doors at the far end of the barn. Men’s voices were raised for a moment, then the double doors were pushed open. The canvas flap at the back of the lorry was drawn back, and Duncan and Quentin jumped out. Though she didn’t recognize the driver when he joined the men, Maisie thought that it might have been one of those she had seen with Harry’s assailant.

The wooden containers were unloaded. As expected, each container resembled those she’d seen at the back of Svenson’s Gallery, where Arthur Levitt unpacked and shipped artwork.

“Right then, you two, we’ll take what’s ours and we’ll be on our way. You know which one our stuff’s in, so get a move on,” instructed the driver.

Quentin pointed to two of the containers, and as he did so, Maisie noticed that the top of each was numbered in black paint and also bore a name. She managed to read only three names:
D
.
ROSENBERG
,
H
.
KATZ
, and another marked
STEIN
. Quentin took the crowbar that Duncan held out to him and ripped the slats of wood apart. She craned her neck as he reached inside and pulled out what was clearly a painting, but wrapped in a light linen cloth, and then a layer of sacking. Duncan helped Quentin to unwrap the work. They both hesitated for a moment as they caught a first glimpse of the painting.

The gang leader prodded Quentin. “Get a bleedin’ move on, for gawd’s sake! You can admire the fancy bits later.”

The artists exchanged glances and together laid first sackcloth, then linen, on the floor to protect the painting, which they placed on top of the cloth, facedown. Maisie leaned forward, trying to see what was happening yet without making a sound.

Duncan took a knife from his pocket and handed it to Quentin. “Be careful, old chap.”

Quentin smiled. “Of course.” Then he leaned down, with his knife piercing the heavy paper at the back of the painting. He laid a hand against the frame to steady the blade, then proceeded to remove the backing.
Ah, it’s false.
Maisie chewed her bottom lip as she watched the scene unfold before her. From the place between the original cover at the back of the painting and the false cover, Quentin pulled out a small pouch. He threw the pouch to the gang leader and then repeated the exercise with the second selected piece.

“There, you can tell your boss that that’s the last one, Williams. There will be no more
deliveries
for a while, if at all. We’ve done all that we can, for now.”

The man shook his head. “Nah, you don’t expect me to believe that, do you, my little artsy-fartsy darlings? Mr. Smith don’t like to be lied to. Anyway, that German fella ain’t finished yet, no, not by a long chalk, so I reckon them heirlooms will keep on coming. Only just started, he has, so there’ll be a lot more where that came from, wanting to be tucked away safely.”