Messenger of Truth (4 page)

Billy came into the room, a coating of fresh snowflakes across his shoulders. “Taxi-cab’s outside, Miss B-H.”

“Thank you, B—, Mr. Beale.” Georgina Bassington-Hope shook hands with Billy, then addressed Maisie. “See you at ten tomorrow morning at Svenson’s Gallery on Albemarle Street.” She paused for just a moment, plunging her hands inside her coat sleeves once again. “I know you will find out the truth, Maisie. And I know you will find his killer, of that I am sure.”

Maisie nodded, moved as if to return to her desk, then turned back. “Georgina, forgive me—one last question, if I may.”

“Of course.”

“You were obviously close to your brother, you’ve said as much, but, were you on good terms when he died?”

The woman’s eyes reddened. “Of course.” She nodded her head. “We were close, so close that we never had to explain ourselves to each other. We just
knew
about each other, to the point of perceiving what the other one was thinking, even when we were miles apart.” Georgina Bassington-Hope looked at Billy, who opened the door to accompany her downstairs to the waiting taxi-cab.

When Billy came back to the office, he was shaking his head. “Well, what do you think about all that, Miss?”

Maisie was now seated at the paper drawn across the table to form the case map, working with colored pencils to add notes to a small but growing diagram. “It’s too soon to say, Billy, too soon to even begin to draw conclusions.” She looked up. “Come and help me pin this paper onto the table.”

Billy smoothed his hand across the paper to remove folds before pinning the edges and studied his employer’s preliminary notations as he worked. “What do we do next?”

Maisie smiled. “Well, here’s what we’ll be doing this afternoon—we’re off to the Tate to learn a bit more than we know already about art.”

“Oh, Miss…”

“Come on, Billy, an hour or two spent in contemplation of the great world of art will do us both the power of good on this gray old day.”

“If you say so, Miss. You never know, you might find something nice for them bare walls of yours!” Billy patted the case map as he pressed in the last pin, then moved from the table and collected Maisie’s coat, which he held out for her.

“I think the bare walls are there to stay for a while, Billy. Furniture is top of my list for the new flat at the moment.” Maisie laughed as she buttoned her coat, collected her hat, scarf, gloves and document case. “Now then, let’s go and find a triptych or two. With a bit of luck we’ll find an amenable curator who will educate us about the people who can afford to buy such things without even looking at the goods or balking at the price!”

Maisie and Billy left Fitzroy Square at half past nine the following morning, each wrapped up in a heavy coat, scarf and hat.

“Nippy, innit, Miss?”

Maisie’s eyes watered. “Yes, and the so-called central heating system in my flat is not working properly—mind you, I thought it was too good to be true.”

Billy stood aside for Maisie to go through the turnstile at Warren Street tube station before him, then they stepped onto the wooden escalator, one behind the other.

“P’raps the main boiler weren’t put in right, what with the builder goin’ bust like ’e did.”

Maisie turned around to continue the conversation as the escalator clattered down to the platforms. “Wouldn’t surprise me. I jumped at the chance to buy when the flats came up for sale, but there’s no proper system yet for those collective repairs, such as the heating that isn’t! I have discovered that bankers aren’t very good at being managers of property. They were probably thrilled when buyers came along but didn’t really think about what came next, only about recouping their money. Thank heavens there’s a gas fire, because my radiators are stone cold!”

Billy put his hand behind his ear. “Aye-oop, Miss, ’ere we go, train coming in.” Stepping off the escalator, they ran to the platform and clambered aboard the waiting carriage, each taking a seat before Billy continued. “We’ve ’ad the fires going nonstop. Doreen’s been rushed off ’er feet, what with the nippers going down with one thing after the other. O’course, I don’t think that coal smoke is good for you at all, but our little Lizzie is a bit poorly now.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Maisie had a soft spot for the Beales’ youngest child, who was barely two years old.

“Doreen thinks it’s a bit of a chill. Both the boys’ve ’ad chesty colds, so we think that Lizzie ’as copped it now. Poor scrap, even turned ’er nose up at a bit of bread and dripping for ’er tea yesterday.”

The train slowed to a halt, and as they alighted to change trains for Green Park, Maisie instructed Billy, “Look, when we’re finished here, we’ll go back to the office to get everything on the case map, then you should go home early to give Doreen a hand. And keep an eye on Lizzie’s cold—there are some nasty things going round and she’s young to have to fight some of them off. Keep the windows closed and put some Friars Balsam in a bowl of hot water next to her cot—that’ll clear all your noses!”

“Right you are, Miss.” Billy looked away. Lizzie was the apple of his eye and he was clearly worried about her. They continued on their way in silence.

As they walked down Albemarle Street, their talk was of the terrible state of London traffic and how it was easier now to ride by tube or travel by “shanks’s pony” rather than use the motor car or even a bus. They noticed Svenson’s Gallery some yards before coming to a halt alongside the building, for the once-red bricks had been painted bright white.

“Gaw, I bet the neighbors ’ad something to say about that. Bit stark, innit?”

“Yes, I think I much prefer the original brick with a white sign for contrast. This is rather clinical, if you ask me.” Maisie looked both ways, anticipating the arrival of Georgina Bassington-Hope, then turned to Billy. “Look, I want you to find your way to the back of the building—there must be some kind of alley, an entrance for deliveries and so on. See if you can locate the caretaker. I want you to get to know him, talk to him about the gallery, see if you can get some inside information regarding Svenson, and also—needless to say—the night of Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s death.” She paused, reaching into her case. “You might need a few shillings to oil his vocal cords, so take this—” Maisie handed Billy several coins. “We don’t want to overdo it, this is man to man, you and him having a chin-wag together—all right?”

Billy nodded. “Consider it done, Miss. I’ll come back to the front ’ere to find you when I’m finished.”

“Good. You’d better be off before Miss B-H gets here.”

Billy cast a glance in either direction and continued on down Albemarle Street. As she watched him leave, Maisie saw him bear the weight of concern for his daughter, as if carrying a burden across his shoulders. She hoped the child would improve soon, but knew the East End of London to be a breeding ground for disease, with its proximity to the damp and filth of the Thames and with houses and people almost on top of one another. She understood that Billy was worried about the cost of a doctor, if it came to it, and how they would manage. Not for the first time, she was thankful that her business was doing well and that she was able to employ Billy—she knew he might be in a line at the assistance office if the situation were different.

“Good morning, Maisie!” A taxi-cab screeched to a halt, and Georgina Bassington-Hope was calling to Maisie from the open window.

“Ah, good morning, Georgina. How was your journey?”

The woman alighted onto the pavement, paid the driver and turned to Maisie. “You wouldn’t think it would take so long to get from Kensington to Albemarle Street. Heaven only knows where the traffic comes from—and they thought the horseless carriage would be the answer to London’s congestion problems!”

Maisie smiled and held out her gloved hand toward the gallery. “Let’s go inside.”

Georgina placed her hand on Maisie’s arm. “Just a moment—” She bit her lip. “Look, it would be best if Stig isn’t told who you are. It would give him an attack of the Viking vapors if he thinks I’ve asked a professional to look into Nick’s ‘accident.’ He’s bound to come out of his office—he’s always on the lookout for a sale—so we’ll let him think you are an interested buyer.”

Maisie nodded. “All right. Now then, I’m freezing out here—”

The two women entered the gallery and were immediately met by Svenson. As befitted his profession, he was impeccably turned out. His gray trousers were pressed so that the front crease appeared sharp enough to cut a mature cheese. He wore a blue blazer-style jacket, a white shirt and pale blue tie with a matching kerchief placed in the chest pocket with a certain panache. Maisie suspected he dressed with immense care, knowing that he must convey the flair of an artist along with the perceived gravity of a businessman.

Svenson ran his fingers through his silver-blond hair as he walked toward the women. “Georgie, darling, how are you bearing up?” He leaned to kiss Georgina on both cheeks, taking her hands in his own and speaking with only the barest trace of an accent.

“I’m as well as can be expected, Stig.” She turned to Maisie, withdrawing her hands from his grasp. “This is an old friend from my days at Girton, Miss Maisie Dobbs.”

Svenson leaned toward Maisie, and as he took her right hand, instead of the expected handshake, he pressed his lips to her slender knuckles. Like Georgina, she withdrew her hand quickly.

“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Svenson.” Maisie looked around at the paintings exhibited, chiefly landscapes depicting country scenes. “Your gallery is most impressive.”

“Thank you.” He held out his hand for the women to walk farther into the gallery. “Are you a collector, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie smiled. “Not a collector, as such, though I have recently moved and have a few bare walls to do something with.”

“Then I am sure I can help you fill them; however, this entire collection was purchased yesterday.”

“The whole collection? Goodness me!”

“Yes, as fast as the old families are selling off their collections, so the American new money is buying it up—even in an economic slump, there are always those who continue to do well, who still have money to spend.”

“Is it usual for one person to buy a whole collection, Mr. Svenson?” Maisie was surprised, but conceded that her knowledge of the art world was limited—two hours at the Tate gallery yesterday afternoon notwithstanding.

“Yes and no.” He smiled at Maisie in a way that suggested he had embarked upon such conversations many times and had pat responses up his sleeve ready to present at a moment’s notice. “Yes, in that once a collector becomes enthusiastic about a given artist, they look out for more of his work, especially if that artist is on the cusp of a wider fame.” Svenson turned to Georgina. “Such as our dear Nicholas, Georgie.” He brought his attention back to Maisie. “However, there are also complete collections from certain families or other collectors that are extremely valuable and of great interest when they come onto the market—such as the Guthrie collection here.”

“What makes this one valuable?” Maisie was genuinely interested.

“In this case”—he swept his hand around to indicate the paintings throughout the gallery—“it is not only the name of the collector, but their reputation and the interesting blend of pieces. Lady Alicia and her late husband, Sir John Guthrie, never had children and both inherited substantial collections from their respective families. Each was a sole heir. Sir John died last year and Lady Alicia’s solicitors have persuaded her to sell in order to set up a trust to support their property in Yorkshire, which I understand has been bequeathed to the county. An American investor was drawn to this collection given its provenance and the fact that some interesting and influential artists are represented here.” He smiled again, as if he were about to make a joke. “Not to put too fine a point on it, it’s new money buying an instant connection to old money. I am amazed they haven’t pressed Lady Alicia to sell the estate, or even her title.” Svenson laughed and both Maisie and Georgina indulged the Swede with a brief chuckle.

“Is Nick’s work safely in storage now?” Georgina changed the subject.

Svenson nodded. “Yes, indeed, although not for long. A buyer—another American—wants to view and purchase other works not previously exhibited. He’s even interested in sketches and partials, and is very keen. I tried to telephone you this morning—in fact, I gave a message to your housekeeper, but you had already left. A confirmatory telegram has been received and I await your instructions. No doubt you will need to speak to your family.”

“Does he think he’s getting a chance to purchase the triptych?”

“Ah, a thorny subject, especially as we don’t know the whereabouts of the main piece at the present time. The buyer has spoken of recruiting a private detective to find the piece, but frankly, I find that rather low, if you don’t mind me saying so. I also think our friend Mr. Bradley should have first refusal.”

Georgina nodded. “Let me have the full details of the offer so that I can discuss it with the family this weekend. I think they may be interested, though I do not wish to include the triptych—Nick was vehement about it.”

“Georgie, I must advise you—”

“No, Stig. No triptych. When we find it, I will decide what to do with it.” She held up her hand and looked at Maisie, as if to underline the personal value of the piece.

Maisie spoke up, asking a timely question to diffuse the situation. “Mr. Svenson—”

“Stig, please.”

She smiled accord, then beckoned her companions toward the back of the room, where she pointed to the wall. “Tell me, Stig, is this where the triptych was to be exhibited?”

“Indeed, yes, though do remember, we may not be correct in our assumption that it was a triptych.”

“What do you mean?” Georgina’s tone seemed short with Svenson as she joined Maisie.

“Nick only ever spoke of the sections or pieces. I—we—always assumed it was a triptych given his work in Belgium before the war, and the influence of Bosch in particular. However, as no one but Nick saw the work, as far as we know, it may be some other arrangement of pieces, like a collage or sectional landscape.”

“Of course, I understand.” Maisie touched Georgina’s arm as she spoke, hoping to neutralize the unbecoming edge demonstrated by her client’s earlier remark. “Mr. Svenson, how many pieces were there in this exhibition, all told?”

“Counting the sketches and fragments, all of which were included, there were twenty pieces.”

“And all in the same style?” Maisie wondered whether she was using the correct terminology, but suspected that Svenson was one of those people who could become quite puffed up in his role of expert and would make the most of her naïveté.

“Oh, no, that was the interesting thing about this exhibit: It comprised works from all stages of Nick’s life as an artist. Some were kept back from previous collections, and together with early experimental efforts and new pieces, they demonstrated the arc of his artistic gift. One could see how the professional accomplished artist was formed from an extraordinary raw talent.”

“I see. Of course, I know about Nick’s paintings from Georgina’s descriptions, but have never seen any exhibited.” She turned to Georgina. “I do hope this is not too difficult for you, dear.”

Georgina smiled, understanding that Maisie had spoken with such intimacy so that Svenson would not doubt the authenticity of their friendship. She replied in the same vein. “Oh no, not at all, in fact, it’s all rather lovely, you know, talking about Nick’s work when all I have really thought about is that terrible accident.”

“So, Mr. Svenson,” Maisie continued. “I’d love to hear more about the work that was on display before the accident.”

“Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat and directed his full attention to Maisie, though she felt his proximity was rather too close. She took one step backward as he began to detail the artist’s life from his perspective. “First there was his interest in those artists from the Low Countries that he studied in Belgium. What is fascinating was that it was not the technique that interested him as much as the crafting of stories each told in a painting, which then led to another story and another painting. Structure was of great interest to him and his early work was rich with curiosity.”