Messenger of Truth (30 page)

“Of course. I—”

“And I do have some news for you.”

“About Nick’s death?”

“Not exactly. I have located the lock-up where Nick kept much of his art, including the missing work.”

Georgina reached out to touch Maisie’s arm. “You’ve found the triptych?”

“There are six pieces, actually.”

Georgina faced Maisie squarely. “Then let’s go then, I want to see it.”

Maisie shook her head. “Please sit down, Georgina. There are other plans already in motion, plans that I request you follow.”

Georgina took her seat once again, though her tone was short. “What do you mean? What gives you the right to execute ‘other plans’ without first requesting my express permission? If anyone should be making plans, it should be—”

“Georgina, please!” Maisie raised her voice, then reached out and clasped both the woman’s hands in her own. “Be calm, and listen.”

Georgina nodded, snatching back her hands and crossing her arms.

“You are absolutely right to be put out, and right to want to see your brother’s work,” continued Maisie. “However, in the interests of developments in my investigation, I had to move with some speed.”

“But I’m your bloody client! I’m the one paying your fees, and a pretty penny they are too!” Georgina leaned forward, her body tense.

“Quite right, but there are times in my work when my allegiance has to be to the dead, and this is one of them. I have thought long and hard about what to do in this case, and I must ask for your trust and your blessing.”

There was silence in the room. Georgina Bassington-Hope tapped her right foot several times, then gave a final deep sigh.

“Maisie, I don’t know why you are acting in this manner, or what has inspired your ‘plan,’ but…but, against my better judgment, I trust you. At the same time, I am extremely annoyed.” She reached out to Maisie, who held her hand once again.

“Thank you, for your trust.” Maisie smiled at Georgina. “My work does not end when a solution to a given case is found, or the grain of information sought is discovered. It ends only when those affected by my work are at peace with the outcome.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“What I mean is something that my clients can never really understand until I have achieved the aim of the investigation.”

Georgina stared into the fire for some moments, then turned to Maisie. “You’d better tell me your plans.”

MAISIE LEFT THE
flat just as it was getting dark, a wintry smog swirling around outside. By the time she reached the MG, a dark sense of sadness had enveloped her, a feeling that she had anticipated and knew presaged the devastation that awaited Georgina Bassington-Hope and her family. She wondered if she had another choice, whether she could turn back the clock and lie to protect others. She had made such decisions before, but…She rested in the driver’s seat for some moments, considering her position. There it was again, the game of risk and chance, only this time her loyalty was to the dead artist, and to the truths that moved him. Would it have been different had the paintings not touched her so? She would never know now, though she understood that even from beyond the grave, it was as if Nick Bassington-Hope’s dream of his work being viewed by the widest possible audience had caught her imagination, and now she was a conspirator, a speculator with the lives of others, in the quest to make that wish come true.

HAVING STOPPED AT
a telephone kiosk to leave a message at Scotland Yard for Detective Inspector Stratton, it was no surprise to see his Invicta motor car waiting upon her return, parked on the flagstones in Fitzroy Square. She tapped on the window as she passed, whereupon Stratton stepped from the motor and followed her up to her office.

“I do hope you have something I can use, Miss Dobbs.”

“I’ve some more information for you, Inspector; however, I need some assistance in return. I think you’ll find it a fair exchange.”

Stratton sighed. “I know I won’t hear a word unless I agree, so—against my better judgment, and in the hope that your request will not compromise my position—you have my word.”

“Far from compromising your position, I think you might expect some congratulatory comments later on. Now, here’s what I’ve learned about the smuggling operation in Kent.” Maisie pulled two chairs in front of the gas fire and ignited the jets. When they were both settled, she began.

“Let me start at the beginning. The artists, Nick Bassington-Hope, Duncan Haywood and Quentin Trayner, have all been involved in the smuggling operation on the coast. They were helped in their quest by three fishermen—two from Hastings, men with a boat large enough for their purposes, and one from Dungeness, an older man with, I am sure, a knowledge both deep and broad when it comes to the coves, caves and other secret places along the coast. And of course he was the linchpin, the go-between who recruited just the right locals for the job.”

“Go on.” Stratton did not take his gaze from Maisie.

“Now, the thing about this operation is that there was nothing strictly illegal, so to speak—not in the way you may think. Of course, this is conjecture on my part, gleaned from various sources and a sense of the mission—and I mean exactly that—taken on by the artists.” Maisie paused to see how her words were being received. “As you may know, the most valued art collections here in Britain and across the Continent are being plundered by a select group of American buyers, those who still have money, and who are keen to take advantage of an aristocracy weakened by war, by economic disaster and by the fact that lines of succession were effectively cut off for so many of the families that owned those collections. And investment in art is currently looking a good deal safer than stocks and shares, so a lot of valuable and beloved works of art are making their way across the Atlantic, and our museums can only afford to save so many. Then you have the artists, people like Bassington-Hope, like Trayner, like Haywood, artists who have seen an exodus of the paintings that inspired them as young men. Nick, especially, was touched by the power that the wealthy wielded in the art market. Of course, he did well from such expenditure, but was also angered by what was happening. And that’s not all.” She paused, assessing Stratton’s interest. “There are others who have good reason to fear for the future of their property. I am not sure, to tell you the truth, which group came first for the artists, but it is of no great consequence.” Maisie pressed her lips together, choosing her words with care. “As you know, politics in Germany have become increasingly influenced by the new party, the one led by Adolf Hitler. There are those who have become fearful, who have, to all intents and purposes, seen the writing on the wall. They predict that their property will be taken from them. And there are others who want to help. I have discovered that valuable works of art are being distributed throughout Europe, taken to safety until such a time as they can be returned in confidence to their owners. And the owners know it may be years, possibly decades, before that sense of safety returns once more. The artists have two contacts, one in France, one in Germany, and possibly more, who receive and prepare the items for evacuation. Once in safe hands, the valuables are then placed with sympathizers who will keep them hidden until claimed by their rightful owners when this unsettled time has passed. There is no law against that, but they obviously do not want the departure of the paintings to be observed by those who might want them, whether that person is an investor intent upon ownership against the wishes of an extended family or a political party set upon disenfranchisement of a segment of the population.”

“That’s all very well, Miss Dobbs, but the men we’re after aren’t interested in paintings.” Stratton leaned forward, holding out his hands toward the fire.

“I know, but they are interested in diamonds, aren’t they?” Maisie replied as she leaned down to turn up the jets.

Stratton was silent.

“As I said, much of what I have gleaned came from a comment here, an overheard conversation there, perhaps an observation that led to a lucky guess, but here’s what I think happened to interest the men you’re looking for.”

“Go on.” Stratton pulled his hands back, and pushed them into his coat pockets.

“Harry Bassington-Hope was in trouble—”

“For goodness sake, we know that!”

“Bear with me, Inspector,” continued Maisie. “Harry was in trouble—a not uncommon occurrence. His back against the wall, he revealed a secret that, at some point, his brother must have confided in him: that the artists were moving paintings and other artworks from the Continent across the Channel for safekeeping. Such things are of little consequence to criminals who prefer to trade in what they already know, and who deal only with that which can be handled easily via contacts who can move the goods and make money on them. One thing they know is the market in precious stones, particularly diamonds. Bringing in the gems from their own overseas contacts therefore became a much easier proposition—lean on Nick Bassington-Hope, make it clear that his brother will suffer if he doesn’t play the game and you have a leader who will see that his partners acquiesce. In short, Nick had already created the means to traffic valuables, he had the system in place, so your criminal element simply piggybacked on the scheme—and the threat to Harry Bassington-Hope’s life ensured that mouths remained shut. And once the system was proven to work, steady payments from the men pulling Harry’s strings ensured that everyone was well and truly ensnared in the net.”

“Assuming you’re right, Miss Dobbs—and that remains to be proven—how the hell did you discover all this?”

“I paid close attention, and of course, I was lucky in places—being in Dungeness at the right time, seeing the operation first-hand. And my assistant and I have spent hours at the Tate, learning about art. Ultimately, though, one has to take that leap of faith, that risk. It’s a bit like placing a bet.” Maisie paused, smiling. “And of course, I saw the diamonds being removed from the back of a painting, and handed over, so I knew what was happening. And so did the Excise, yet—as far as I know—they haven’t yet caught your criminals. But they will soon be there first with the bracelets. I should add that I was questioned in some detail by your fellow government servants, and I think I may have told them just about everything I’ve told you.”

Stratton was silent for a moment, then he turned to Maisie. “Anything else, Miss Dobbs?”

“One more thing.” She paused. “I have left word for Nick Bassington-Hope’s friends to be in touch with me. When I speak to them, I will press them to see you as soon as possible. I trust that their willingness to assist you will result in a tempered view of their activities.”

“Dealing with me is one thing. When the villains get wind of this, those men will likely need some sort of protection.”

“I’ve thought about that. They were pressured into collaboration, Harry Bassington-Hope’s life being the bartering point. With Nick dead and Harry owing money right, left and center, both Haywood and Trayner were ready to throw in the towel.”

“The gang made sure they were in it up to their necks though, by giving them money—and, as high and mighty as their intentions were, they didn’t turn it down, did they?”

“Who would, in the current circumstances?” Maisie shook her head. “I know it’s a stumbling block, but surely if they assist you with your inquiries and help you to make arrests…”

Strattton sighed. “I’ll do what I can.” He paused, shrugging his shoulders and looking down at his hands, then brought his attention back to Maisie. “Now—how do you want me to help you?’

“I think what I have in mind will help you too.” Maisie spoke quietly. “This must be handled with the utmost care, Inspector.”

SVENSON ARRANGED FOR
scaffolding to be erected at the far end of the gallery on Saturday, while, for her part, Maisie gathered the men—and one woman—who would assist her on Sunday afternoon when construction had been completed. Though the original layout plans were not available, and Maisie did not want to request assistance from Duncan Haywood and Alex Courtman, Arthur Levitt acted as foreman, instructing the men to position trestles at a certain height from the ground to facilitate correct positioning of each piece. From her inspection of Nick Bassington-Hope’s masterwork, Maisie had been able to sketch a layout for her helpers to follow, though she did not share its contents with either Svenson or Levitt.

In the meantime, per her instructions, Svenson had prepared letters bearing news that the “triptych” had been discovered and that, following work on the exhibition throughout Sunday, a preliminary viewing would take place during the following week. Formal notification of the reception would be sent shortly. The letter acknowledged the unusual nature of the invitation, which, he surmised, would no doubt be understood by all who knew Nick. The decision to have a reception for a limited, select group to honor the artist was impromptu and presented an opportunity for the gallery to pay respects to a man of uncommon depth. It was also noted that, in accordance with the known wishes of Nicholas Bassington-Hope, representatives would be invited from London’s leading museums.

At her request, Maisie was handed the letters to post. They would have been received on Saturday morning by each member of the Bassington-Hope family, though there was some discussion as to the best address to use for Harry. Envelopes were also prepared for Quentin Trayner, Duncan Haywood and Alex Courtman, and it was anticipated that when Randolph Bradley’s breakfast tray was delivered to his suite on Saturday morning, the letter would be set on top of a copy of the
International Herald Tribune.

Maisie and Billy spent most of Saturday assembling the people and equipment they would need to execute their part of the production. Svenson had stepped forward to cover all costs involved in setting up the exhibition on Sunday evening as well as for the exhibition itself. Billy’s brother-in-law would be working for the first time in months, and Eric had asked for and been given use of Reg Martin’s van. Sandra assisted Maisie with procurement of all manner of nails, screws, hooks and pulleys. The plans were falling into place. Sunday loomed almost too quickly.