Messenger of Truth (6 page)

BILLY JOINED MAISIE
as she watched Georgina Bassington-Hope being swallowed into a flurry of passersby.

“Miss B-H gone then?”

Maisie nodded, seemingly half dreaming, though Billy knew that the glazed eyes disguised a depth of thought that some might have considered quite unnecessary in the circumstances.

“Everything all right, Miss?”

“Yes, yes, I’m very well, thank you.”

They began to walk toward Piccadilly underground station. “She shot off a bit sharpish, didn’t she?”

“Hmmm, yes, it was a bit quick. But then it gave us some interesting information.”

“What’s that, Miss?”

“That, concerning Harry B-H, the family—or perhaps just Georgina—has something to hide.” Maisie turned to Billy. “Now then, you know what to do this afternoon, don’t you, Billy—usual lines of inquiry with your newspaper friends.” She pulled on her gloves. “I’ll see you back at the office around three. We’ll have a talk about our respective findings, then you can go home early—perhaps Lizzie will be feeling a bit better.”

Having already nurtured contacts among the newspapermen who gathered in Fleet Street pubs—and many of those men, reporters, compositors and printers alike, were at the bar by mid-morning following a night shift—the cost of a pint often proved to be a very good investment, as far as Billy was concerned. Following the meeting at Svenson’s Gallery, Billy procured information from newspaper reports pertaining to Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s death. For her part, Maisie returned to the Tate gallery to meet with the helpful curator, Dr. Robert Wicker, with whom she had consulted the previous day. Now they were back at the Fitzroy Square office comparing notes on the day’s work.

“I looked through the obituary, and it didn’t say anything that wasn’t known to us already. There were a couple of write-ups on ’is paintings, otherwise it was all along the lines of ‘a rare talent lost’—you know, that sort of thing.” Billy seemed to stifle a yawn. “Mind you, there was a line or two in one of them about the sibling rivalry. I thought it was a bit snide myself. In the
Sketch,
it was. The reporter saying that the B-H’s had always competed to see who could get more attention, and that now there was no twin brother, Miss B-H would probably have the wind knocked out of her sails.”

“That doesn’t mean that there was anything untoward in the competition though. That sort of thing often happens, I believe.”

“Too right, Miss. You should see my boys go at it sometimes.”

Maisie smiled and was about to speak again, when Billy continued. “Now then, Brian Hickmott, one of the reporters what I know, did say that ’e remembered the story because ’e went over there, to the gallery, as soon as the press got wind of something going on.”

“And?”

“Said it was all very strange. Police didn’t stay long, just a quick look, a ‘Yes, that’s accidental death,’ then off they all went, much quicker than ’e would have thought.”

“Well, it could be that once they had determined there were no suspicious circumstances, their work was done until the inquest. The body could be released to the family that much earlier, and with little in the way of red tape.”

“Per’aps. I’ll find out a bit more about it though.”

“Good.” Maisie looked up at Billy, assessing his interest in the case and therefore his attention to detail. His attitude in the initial meeting, where he revealed some resentment toward the client’s social standing, had unsettled her.

“Mind you…” Billy sat up straighter as he read through his notes, clearly keen to move on to another point so that he could get home early, as Maisie had suggested. “Brian did mention the younger brother, ’arry.”

“What did he say?’

“Well, you know that fella, Jix?”

“The former home secretary Joyston-Hicks? Of course, but what has this to do with the younger brother?”

“It’s one of them roundabout stories, Miss. You remember that when ’e was in government, Jix was the one who got the police going round to the clubs and closin’ ’em down? Right killjoy was that man, we’re better off without the likes of ’im.”

“Billy…”

“Well, turns out that one of the people old Jix ’ad it in for was Harry B-H. The boy might’ve been able to carry a tune with that trumpet of ’is, but ’e ’ad a reputation for carryin’ on with all sorts of people—you know, girls on the game. And ’e kept the villains entertained while they got up to no good at all. The press ’ad their eyes on ’im too, and ’e’d got a few mentions in the linens, you know, when the police’d raided a club on Jix’s orders.”

Maisie was thoughtful. “Well, it’s funny you should say that, but I confess, since Miss B-H first mentioned him, I have had a sense that all was not well with the brother. I mean, as a family, they definitely sound a bit out of the ordinary, but there was a certain hesitation in her voice. Look into it again tomorrow. The club raids subsided as soon as Jix lost his position, so Harry might’ve been able to keep his job without having to move on. I want to know where he is, who he works for, who he consorts with and, if he’s on the edge of the underworld, so to speak, whether he’s in any trouble.”

Billy nodded.

“I think you might have to go back to see Levitt as well. I want to know the location of Nick’s lock-up and Levitt probably knows someone who can tell us, even if he doesn’t know it himself. An artist might be secretive about his work, but he’s also protective and would want there to be help available if there were a fire, for example—someone else may well have known the location of the lock-up, and I suspect that the major work that he wanted to hang is still there. Mind you, I am wondering what the arrangements were for its delivery to the gallery on the evening of his death—was it loaded on a lorry waiting for Nick B-H to drive it himself once the backdrop was ready? Or did he have drivers at the ready—and had they already left by the time he’d fallen? If so, then what did they do when they couldn’t gain access to the gallery?” Maisie had been staring out at the square, seeing only the closing hours of the dead man’s life, rather than the trees, people walking across the square or anything another onlooker might have noticed. She turned to Billy again. “There is much to gather, Billy. Let’s be ready to put our backs into the case again tomorrow.”

Billy nodded, consulted his watch once more, then asked Maisie whether her second visit to the Tate had been fruitful.

“Yes, I think it was. I wanted to find out more about the artist as a person, what character traits define someone who takes on that kind of work—”

“Work?” Billy was frowning. “I can’t say as I would call that dabbling around with brushes and paints
work
. I mean, work is…is…’ard graft, ain’t it? None of this daubin’ business.”

Maisie stood up, leaned back against the table and regarded Billy for what must have felt like an age to him, though it was only seconds. “I think you had better get what’s gnawing at you off your chest, because if there is one thing we cannot afford in our work, it’s jumping to conclusions about the moral worth of our clients. We must accept who they are and get on with it, putting our personal feelings and beliefs aside. Such opinions reflect prejudices, and we cannot allow smoke from our personal fires to prevent the vision that is crucial to our work.”

Billy’s lips formed a tight line. He said nothing for some time, then blurted out his words, his face becoming red with anger. “It was when that man yesterday, you know, ’im at the Tate, was tellin’ us about that bloke who spent almost ’alf a million—’alf a bleedin’ million—on a picture last year. What was ’is name? Duveen or something? ’alf a million! There’s men out of work and children wantin’ for a good meal and a man spends all that on a f—” He bit his lip. “Spends all that on a picture. It makes me seethe, it does.”

Maisie nodded. “Point taken, Billy, point taken. And it’s a good one.” She paused, allowing her agreement to soften her assistant’s temper. “But here is something to remember, when this sort of thing comes up and makes you angry: that in our work we come across injustice. Sometimes we can do something about it—for example, as Dr. Blanche taught me, our wealthier clients pay us handsomely, which enables us to work for those who come to us with little or nothing with which to pay. And sometimes our work can put right an injustice against someone who stands accused, or clear the name of someone who is dead. To accomplish all of this, we have to face aspects of life that are not always palatable.”

“So, what you’re sayin’ is that I’ve just got to swallow it and get on wiv me job.”

Maisie nodded. “Look at the world beyond your immediate emotion, the immediate fury of inequality. Choose your battles, Billy.”

Silence seeped between them. Maisie allowed another moment to elapse, then moved to the chair and picked up her notes.

“I thought it would be a good idea to get a better sense of what we are dealing with in our investigation into the death of Nicholas Bassington-Hope. I am keen to know more about those characteristics that are common among artists, that might give us clues as to what moved him, what risks he might take as an individual and what he might do for his fellow man, so to speak.”

Billy nodded.

“Dr. Wicker was most interesting, explaining that there is a connection between art and the big questions that the artist is seeking to answer, either directly or indirectly, with his work.” Maisie met Billy’s eyes as she uttered the word
work
. He was listening, and even making a note. “It may be a passion for a landscape that he can bring to life for a broader audience, people who will never have the opportunity to visit such a place. It might be a depiction of another time, a comment on our world, perhaps, let’s say…life before steam or the spinning jenny. Or—and I think that this may be where Bassington-Hope felt he could communicate a message—it might be some inner or external terror, an experience that the artist struggles to tell us about by depicting the memory, the image, in his mind’s eye.”

Maisie stood again, rubbing her arms against the encroaching chill of late-afternoon’s darkness. “The artist takes it upon himself—or herself—to ask questions and, perhaps, sit in judgment. So, as in literature, the work may be taken at face value, for an audience to appreciate as a form of entertainment, or it can be seen in the context of the artist’s life, and indeed, from the perspective of the individual observer.”

“So, the artist really is sendin’ a message?”

“Yes—and in working on their craft, the dexterity of hand, the understanding of color, light and form, so the artist builds an arsenal of tools with which to express a sentiment, a view of the world from their perspective.”

“I reckon these ’ere artistic types are probably a bit soft.”

“
Sensitive
is a better word.”

Billy shook his head. “Now that I come to think of it, it must’ve been rotten for the likes of Mr. B-H in the war. You know, if you’re a person what lives with pictures, someone who sees somethin’ more where the rest of us just see what’s what, then what we all saw over there in France must’ve been terrible for ’im, what with all that sensitivity or whatever you call it. No wonder the poor bloke went off to America and all that land.” He frowned, then continued with a sad half laugh. “If ’e came back from the war ’alf as worn out as the rest of us, at least ’e ’ad a way to get it all out, you know, from the inside.” Billy touched his chest. “Onto the paper, or canvas or whatever it is they use.”

Maisie nodded. “That’s why I want to see everything I can that came from his mind’s eye and onto the canvas.” She looked at her watch. “Time to go home to your family, Billy.”

Billy gathered his belongings, then his coat and cap, and left the office with a swift “Thanks, Miss.”

Maisie read over her notes for a moment or two longer, then walked to the window and looked out onto the already dark late-afternoon square. This quiet time was
her
canvas; her intellect, sensitivity and hard work formed the palette she worked with. Slowly but surely she would use her gifts to re-create Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s life in her mind, so that she could see, think and feel as he might have, and in so doing she would come to know whether, indeed, his death was an accident or a deliberate act, whether it was self-inflicted or the result of an attack.

SOME THREE HOURS
later, having seen two more clients, one man and one woman seeking not her skill as an investigator but her psychologist’s compassion and guidance as they spoke of fears, of concerns and despair, she made her way home. Home, to the new flat that was quiet and cold, and that did not have the comforts to which she had become accustomed while living at the London residence of Lord Julian Compton and his wife, Lady Rowan Compton. Lady Rowan had been her employer, the sponsor of her education, her supporter and now, in her senior years, she was something of an ally, despite a chasm in the origin of their respective stations in life.

The flat was in Pimlico, which, despite the proximity of neighboring Belgravia, was considered less than salubrious. However, for Maisie, who was careful with her money and had squirreled away savings for years, the property was affordable, which was the main consideration. A flurry of pamphlets produced by banks for the past decade, extolling the virtues and affordability of home ownership, had allowed her to dream of that important nugget of independence: a home of one’s own. Indeed, the number of young women whose chance of marriage ended with the war—almost two million according to the census in 1921—meant that an adverse attitude toward women and ownership of property had been suspended, just a little, and just for a while.

Certainly, living rent-free at the Belgravia home of Lord and Lady Compton had helped enormously, as had the success of her business. The initial invitation to return to Ebury Place had been inspired by Lady Rowan’s desire for an overseer “upstairs” in whom she could place her trust while she spent more and more time at her estate in Kent. The invitation also stemmed from an affection with which Maisie was held by her former employers, especially since she had played an important part in bringing their son, James, back into the family fold following his postwar troubles. James now lived in Canada, directing the Compton Company’s interests from an office in Toronto. It was thought that, like many of their class in these troublesome times, the Comptons would no longer retain two or more properties, and might therefore sell the large London home. But Maisie, for one, could not imagine Lady Rowan completely closing the house, thereby putting people out of work.