Messenger of Truth (29 page)

“Got it, Miss?”

She nodded. “Got it!”

Together they pulled back the doors, entered the lock-up and closed the doors behind them again.

“I imagined it would be darker in here.”

Maisie shook her head. “I didn’t. The man needed light, he was an artist. And I doubt if those skylights were there when he rented the place—look, they seem quite new, and raising them up like that would have cost a penny or two. He intended to use this for a long time.”

They spent a moment inspecting the skylight, which ran the full length of the lock-up—a not insignificant thirty-odd feet—and both commented on the way it had been raised first, then constructed into a pointed roofline. Maisie looked around the room, for it certainly seemed more like a room than a glorified shed.

“In fact, I would say he put quite a bit of money into this place.” She pointed to indicate her observations. “Look over there, the way the crates are stacked and held back. And the shelving for canvases and paints. There’s a stove and cupboards, an old chaise, the carpet. This was not only a place where he worked on the larger pieces, but this was his workshop—that’s a drafting table, look, with plans for exhibits. If Dungeness was his coastal retreat, then this was his factory. This is where it was all put together.”

“And everything’s in its place.” Billy’s eyes followed Maisie’s hand. “I tell you, Miss, I bet there’s more room ’ere than in our little ’ouse. In fact, I wonder why ’e didn’t make a bit of a garden out there? Doesn’t seem like ’im to let it stay wild like that.”

She shook her head. “A garden would have attracted attention. I suspect he wanted to come in, go to work, leave again…and all on his own time.” Maisie took off her gloves and surveyed the room again. “Right, I want to search every nook and cranny, and I want to ensure we’re not disturbed. We’ve good light, thanks to those”—she pointed to the skylights—“and I’ve brought my small torch with me. Now then, I’m anxious to see if my suspicions are right about those crates over there.”

They walked over to a series of crates of differing sizes, though each was approximately eight inches wide.

“Let’s see how many there are first.” Maisie nodded to Billy, who already had his notebook in hand. “And keep your ears open for voices. We have to be as quiet as we can.”

“Right you are.” Billy nodded in agreement, then shrugged as he touched a number on the top of a crate. “What d’you reckon these are for?”

Maisie scrutinized the numbers, which were marked 1/6, 2/6 and so on until the final crate, which was marked 6/6. “All right, this looks fairly straightforward, though we won’t know until we get inside. This has to be the main piece for the exhibit and the numerals suggest that it comprises six pieces.”

“So, it’s not a triptych then?”

“We’ll soon find out.”

“Are we going to open all of them?”

“Perhaps. Then we must search this place for anything pertaining to the placement. Nick gave Alex and Duncan a guide to positioning anchors and other fixtures that would secure the works, though he didn’t reveal how many pieces, or in what order they should be put in place. There must be a master plan here somewhere, something he worked on…and there has to be a cache of sketchbooks that contain the preliminary drawings and roughs that he used to create the work.”

“What about all those books you saw down in Dungeness?” Billy asked Maisie while studying a tool rack. “Gawd, even ’is tools’re kept neat and tidy.”

“The sketchbooks were revealing in that I could see his progress, the images that moved him, right from his early days as an artist. But even though they contained his reflections upon the war, I think there are books, somewhere, that definitely pertain to this collection.”

“Crowbar, Miss?”

“That’ll do, but take care.”

“Which one shall I start with?”

Maisie touched the first crate. “This one. It’s one of the largest, and it’s on the outside, so let’s be logical and open it first.”

Billy shimmied the crowbar between two slats of wood, pulling them apart. With each crack as a nail came free, both Maisie and her assistant stopped all movement and listened to ensure they had not drawn unwanted company. Finally, the crate was opened, and Maisie reached to pull out a painting that had been packed in a similar manner to those she had seen unloaded by the smugglers. Billy helped her stand the work against another crate before removing a hopsack covering, followed by a clean linen cloth, which, when pulled back, revealed the painting.

In a plain wooden frame, the piece appeared to be a horizontal panel measuring approximately eight feet by three feet.

“Blimey.”

Maisie said nothing, feeling the breath catch in her throat.

Billy reached to touch the piece, and though she thought it would be better to stop him, Maisie found that she couldn’t, for she understood the action as a reflex of memory.

“It’s got me right ’ere, Miss.” He touched his chest with fingertips that had lingered on the painting.

“Me too, Billy.”

The panoramic scene depicted two armies marching toward each other, with every last detail so clearly visible that Maisie felt that she could focus on the face of a soldier and see into his soul. Across and through the barbed wire they ran forward to meet the enemy, then, to both left and right, men began falling, with wounds to head, to leg, arm and heart taking them down. In the mural, so full of movement that it appeared animated, the two armies were not shown in combat, for instead the foot soldiers had become stretcher-bearers, running to their wounded, caring for the dying, burying their dead. Ants in khaki going about the business of war, the toil expected of them. The work suggested no victor and no vanquished, no right side and no wrong side, just two battalions moving toward each other with the terrible consequence of death. Blending skill with passion, Nick Bassington-Hope had revealed the landscape of war in all its darkness and terror—the sky lit by shellfire, mud dragging down those who remained unfelled and the stretcher-bearers, those brave souls who hurried across no-man’s-land in the service of life.

“If that’s just one of ’em, I’m not sure I can look at the rest.”

Maisie nodded and whispered, as if to speak aloud would dishonor the dead. “I just need to see one or two others, then we’ll pack them all up again.”

“All right, Miss.” He lifted the crowbar and began to open the next crate.

THE TASK COMPLETED,
Maisie and Billy leaned against shelving to rest for a moment.

“Does anyone know what Mr. B-H wanted to call this ’ere masterpiece?”

“Not as far as I know. People don’t even know what to call it, and because he was so interested in the triptych form while in Belgium before the war, they all assumed that’s what it was.”

“I don’t reckon I ever want to ’ear the word
triptych
again, not after this.”

“I don’t think I do, either. Now then, if you search through those shelves over there, I’ll attack this chest of drawers.”

Both began work in silence, as a bladelike shaft of sunlight piercing through the clouds came to their aid with a shimmering beam onto the glass above. Taking up a series of papers and rough sketches, Maisie looked over at her assistant, who was pulling out a collection of completed but unwrapped canvases. “Will your boys be home soon, Billy?”

“Reckon by the weekend. The ’ospital talked about convalescence somewhere on the coast—you know, fresh air to clear the lungs. Of course, if Doreen’s brother-in-law ’adn’t decided to throw in ’is lot to come up to London, we could probably ’ave done it, but not now. Costs money, does that. But the boys will be all right, you’ll see.” He hesitated, just for a second. “Of course, they know about their sister now, that we’ve lost Lizzie.”

“I see,” Maisie said as she pulled a collection of thick sketchbooks from a drawer. Of quarto dimension, they were each numbered in the same manner as the crates in which Nick had identified his masterwork. “Oh, look…one, two, three, four…” She leafed through each one in turn. “These are the sketchbooks where Nick did his preparatory work for the pieces, but—”

“What is it, Miss?”

“Two are missing.”

“P’raps Mr. B-H put them somewhere else, took them down to ’is cottage in Dungeness.”

“Yes, of course, they must be down there.”

“Do you remember seeing them?”

“No, but—”

Billy was silent, then, for his thoughts had kept pace with Maisie’s. She set the sketchbooks to one side.

“Those are coming with us. I think we can go now.”

“Don’t we need to find the diagram thing that shows how all the bits of art are put together on the wall?”

Maisie shook her head. “No. From the pieces I inspected, each segment has a certain shape and will only fit logically in one place, just like a puzzle. It shouldn’t be difficult to work out.”

They ensured that everything in the lock-up was left as they had found it, then secured the doors and walked to the MG. Billy glanced sideways at Maisie and cleared his throat, ready to ask a question.

She responded before he uttered a word, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m all right, Billy. It’s just those paintings…”

It was midafternoon before Maisie and Billy arrived at Svenson’s Gallery, opening the main door to a flurry of activity as the Guthrie collection was in the midst of being taken down and packed for shipping to new owners. Svenson was ever dapper in another well-cut suit set off by a rich-blue cravat and bright-white silk shirt. He called across to Arthur Levitt, instructing him to oversee the movement of one particular piece, and as the visitors stood to one side waiting for him to notice them, he reprimanded a young man for having “fingers like sausages and a grip like a wet fish,” adding that the painting in his hands was worth more than his granny’s portrait over the mantelpiece at home.

“Excuse me, Mr. Svenson!” Maisie raised her hand to attract the gallery owner as he moved on.

“Ah, Miss…er, Miss…” He turned and smiled, giving additional orders as he approached.

“It’s Miss Dobbs, and this is my colleague, Mr. Beale.”

“Charmed to see you again, and to make your acquaintance, Mr. Beale.” He inclined his head toward Billy and brought his attention back to Maisie. “How may I be of service to you, Miss Dobbs? I trust that all is well with our friend Georgina.”

Maisie nodded. “Quite well, though it’s still early days, isn’t it?”

“Yes, poor Nicholas’s death hit Georgie particularly hard.” He paused, then remembering that there was clearly a reason for her visit, spoke again. “Forgive me, Miss Dobbs, but is there something I can assist you with?”

“May we speak in private?”

“Of course.” Svenson held out his hand in the direction of his office, then called to Levitt. “Make sure those gorillas are careful with that portrait!”

The office was, like the gallery, a bright room with white walls and furniture constructed of dark oak and shiny chrome. There was a cocktail cabinet in one corner, a system of filing cabinets in another, and in the center, a large desk with two trays of documents, one on either side of a leather blotting pad. A set of two crystal inkwells was positioned at the top of the pad, along with a matching container with a clutch of fountain pens, each one of a different design. A black telephone was within easy reach. Though there were two chairs in front of the desk, Svenson directed his guests to the right of the door, where a coffee table was surrounded by a matching settee and two chairs in black leather.

“So, what can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”

“First of all, I have to make a confession. My first visit to your gallery was not in the context of my friendship with Georgina. We were, indeed, both at Girton, though her purpose for being in touch with me was in connection with my profession. I am a private inquiry agent, Mr. Svenson, an investigator—”

“But—” The color rose in Svenson’s cheeks as he began to stand.

Maisie smiled. “Let me finish, Mr. Svenson, there is no cause for alarm.” She waited for a second or two, then, satisfied he would not interrupt again, she went on. “Georgina came to me several weeks after Nick’s death, essentially because she felt, in her heart, that his passing was not the result of a simple, unfortunate accident. Given my work, and my reputation, she wanted me to make some inquiries, and to see whether there might be any reason for doubt—she understood that her emotional state might render her unable to see the facts with clarity.” Maisie chose her words with care, so that Svenson felt no undue pressure from the weight they carried—after all, the man in question had died on his premises.

Svenson nodded. “I wish she had confided in me; I could have helped her, poor girl.”

Billy stole a glance at Maisie and raised his eyebrows. Maisie nodded in reply, then continued speaking to Svenson.

“Please, do not take this as an indication of my suspicions or findings, but I do have some questions for you. I understand that you came back to the gallery later in the day that Nick died, to speak to him—is that so?”

Svenson sighed. “Yes, I did. I came back.”

“But you did not tell the police?”

He shrugged, waved his hand to one side as if brushing away a troublesome fly and shook his head. “To tell you the truth, no one asked me. When Mr. Levitt found the body…” He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “I still cannot believe our beloved Nick is gone. I expect to see him walk in that door at any moment, full of some new idea, a piece finished, a complaint about the manner in which another piece is exhibited.” He paused. “Levitt summoned the police first, then placed a telephone call to my home. I reached the gallery shortly after the detective, Inspector Stratton, who seemed rather annoyed that he had been called to a clear-cut accident. The pathologist made an initial examination and away they all went, taking Nick with them. The silence after they had left was extraordinary. So much activity, then nothing.” He held out his arms. “A man dead and his legacy all around us—it was unbearably strange, such a vacuum.”

“So, you weren’t asked when you last saw Nick, that sort of thing?” Maisie was quick to bring the conversation back to her original question.

“Not specifically. To tell you the truth, I can barely remember. It was such a blur. There was much to do, the family had to be informed, the newspapers contacted, an obituary to compose—I was Nick’s agent, after all.”

“But you saw Nick on the evening of his death, didn’t you?”

Svenson sighed again. “Yes, I did. There was something of a contretemps between Mr. Bradley—who as you know was Nick’s most fervent supporter—and Nick, here in the gallery, earlier in the day. It was in connection with the triptych, a piece that Nick’s secrecy suggested would become a work of significant value and import. Nick, as you have no doubt gathered if you’ve been making inquiries, had announced that the piece would not be put up for sale, would not be offered to Bradley first, as it should have been, by rights. No, out of the blue, Nick declared that the piece would be given to the war museum in Lambeth, and if they weren’t interested, then the Tate or some other such national institution. His decision presented something of an anathema to Bradley, and their words were fierce and heated.”

He had been rubbing his hands together as he spoke, but now he looked up at Maisie, then Billy. “I returned with the express purpose of cooling the eruption, so to speak. It was crucial that the two men remained able to do business, that there was respect on both sides, each for the other. If Nick wanted to make a gift of the piece, all well and good, but I was intent that we should take the appropriate steps toward reconciliation, perhaps by allowing Bradley to purchase the piece, then place it with the museum for permanent exhibition, a bequest in his name. I have brokered such arrangements in the past.”

“And Nick didn’t accept your proposal?”

“Dismissed it immediately. Of course, the budding liaison between Georgie and Bradley did not help matters. Nick was furious with her.”

“Did you enter by the front or back door?”

“I entered by the front.”

“Did you lock the door upon leaving?”

“I…I…” Svenson frowned and fell silent.

“Mr. Svenson, do you remember locking the door?”

He shook his head. “That I do not recall turning the key in the lock does not indicate that I didn’t actually secure the door. It is something I do all the time, it is a habit.” A hint of his Scandinavian accent was revealed as he spoke, indicating to Maisie that he was less than sure of his facts.

Maisie pressed on. “Did you see anyone lingering outside, as you departed the gallery?”

Svenson closed his eyes, his words deliberate, as if trying to remember the details. “I closed the door…raised my umbrella to summon a taxi-cab that had just turned into the street. It was a fortuitous arrival and—”

“Mr. Svenson?”

“Oh, dear. Oh, no!”

“What is it?”

“I rushed to the taxi-cab! It had started to rain again. I didn’t take a second glance at the passenger alighting on the other side of the motor car. I remember thinking that I was glad he or she had stepped via the left-hand door so I could just dive in and be on my way, and—I have now recalled—oh, my dear…. I may not have locked the door. The taxi-cab’s arrival just when I needed it distracted me, made me hurry, I—”

Maisie placed a hand on Svenson’s forearm. “Don’t worry, Mr. Svenson. If someone wanted access to the gallery, they would have found it whether the door was open or not. It’s just another piece of information to help me in my work.”

“But, do you think Nick was
murdered
?”

Maisie and Billy exchanged glances again. As Maisie questioned Svenson, Billy had been taking notes. Now it was time to move on to the second reason for their visit.

“Mr. Svenson, I’m also here with some news, news that, for the meantime, we must keep between just we three. In addition, I have a proposal for you, and I need your help.”

Svenson shrugged. “My help? How?”

“I know where the masterwork is, and I want to exhibit here, at your gallery. I—”

“You know where the triptych is?”

“It’s not a triptych. And yes, I know where it is. Let me finish, Mr. Svenson. I want informal invitations sent to a select group of people—Nick’s friends from Dungeness, his family, Mr. Bradley, perhaps a representative from each of the museums. I am sure you will have an opportunity for an open exhibition later, perhaps to show other works found by Georgie and Nolly following Nick’s death—to my untrained eye, it would appear that even his sketchbooks would draw good money—though that would have to be with permission granted by the family and by his sisters, as executors.”

“Oh, my God, my God, we must make arrangements. I must see the work, I must!”

Maisie shook her head. “No, Mr. Svenson. I have to make a request I hope very much that you will grant, for it is crucial to my work, and to the purpose of this special exhibition.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not only do I require you to keep the arrangements confidential, only releasing information in the manner I stipulate, but I will need to have private access to the gallery. I want only men of my choosing to assist with mounting the pieces. There will be a timetable to follow, a specific period during which—to all intents and purposes—the gallery will appear to be unattended. I cannot emphasize enough that my instructions must be followed to the letter.”

“What about Georgie? Will she be told?”

“I will see her this afternoon. As my client she must be kept apprised of my progress, but she also understands that in my work I cannot be expected to account for or inform her of every decision, if I am to be successful.”

“You ask much of me, Miss Dobbs.”

“I know. But you, in turn, asked much of Nick, and though he could be fractious at times, your reputation has increased a thousandfold as a result of that relationship. I think you owe him this, don’t you?”

The man was silent for a few moments, then regarded Maisie again. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

GEORGINA BASSINGTON-HOPE WAS,
fortuitously, at home when Maisie arrived. When informed by the housekeeper that Miss Dobbs was waiting in the drawing room, Georgina emerged from her study with the now-familiar ink-stained fingers.

“My apologies if I have disturbed you while working, Georgina.”

“It’s the curse of the writer, Maisie: I am both annoyed and relieved upon being interrupted. I can spend much time cleaning the keys on my typewriter or rinsing the nib and barrel of my fountain pen—in fact, anything that constitutes a writer’s work without actually stringing two words together.” She smiled, pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and rubbed the stains. “Tell me, have you news?”

“I think we should sit down.”

Georgina sat down on the armchair, continuing to clean her fingers with a handkerchief, though now her hands shook. She looked at Maisie, who had taken a seat on the chesterfield at the end closest to her. “Go on.”

“First of all, Georgina, I want to ask you about the painting above your cocktail cabinet, the one that belongs to Mr. Stein.”

“Maisie, I told you, I don’t know a—”

“Georgina! Please do not lie to me. You must have known that my work on your behalf, would lead me to unearth the truth of what has been going on down in Dungeness.”

Georgina stood up and began to pace. “I didn’t think it had anything to do with the investigation.”

“Didn’t think it had anything to do with the investigation? Have you lost all grip, Georgina?”

The woman shook her head. “I just knew Nick’s involvement had no link to—”

Maisie stood up to face her client. “That is as may be, Georgina, but I had to follow the lead I discovered and that has taken valuable time—it was a distraction that had to be explored before I was able to conclude that it was of no import regarding Nick’s death.”

“I—I’m terribly sorry. But what they’re doing
is
all in a good cause.”

“Yes, I know that. But you realize that Harry is in deep water, and Nick must have been at risk too.”

“And you don’t think it had anything to do with his death?”

“No, Georgina, I don’t.” Maisie sighed. “But if you wish to help Harry, as well as Duncan and Quentin, then you must locate them soonest and tell them I want to speak to them as a matter of urgency. I have advice that I think will help them, though they have taken enormous risks.”