Messenger of Truth jw-2

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Of course.” Maisie drove on for a few yards, parked the motor car, turned off the engine, then reached for the scarf and gloves she’d pushed behind her seat. “Only you won’t mind if we walk rather than sit here. I see you’re wearing sturdy shoes, so come on, let’s go.”

  Georgina agreed, but appeared rather taken aback. Maisie guessed that she was usually the one with the ideas, the one who made suggestions.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Well, first of all, Nick’s carriage-cottage. Did you glean much from your visit?”

  Maisie nodded, composing her reply, while at the same time assessing Georgina’s mood. The way she walked, held her hands at her sides, opened and closed her fingers into her palm, then just as quickly pushed her hands up into the sleeves of her coat, all revealed a depth of tension, but what else? As they walked, Maisie came into step with her client, holding her hands and shoulders in the same fashion. She felt that not only was Georgina afraid, but her fear came from an expectation of something untoward. In her work, Maisie saw fear revealed time and time again but had learned that it was experienced in degrees, demonstrated in quite different actions and responses from person to person, from one event to another. Anticipation of bad news resulted in a more depressed aura surrounding the one who was afraid—different from, say, that of one who was fearful of another person, or who feared failing to do something by a certain time, or perhaps the consequence of a given action. Maisie suspected that Georgina was rather afraid of what might be uncovered, and that she was also somewhat regretful of her decision to delve into the cause of her brother’s accident. She considered that such feelings on Georgina’s part could have come as a result of some new information received, or perhaps a sense she had bitten off more than even she could chew.

  “I came away with more questions than answers, to tell you the truth. Mind you, that’s not unusual at this stage in an investigation.” Maisie paused. “I find that I have become rather curious about Nick’s work. He was a most interesting artist, wasn’t he?”

  Georgina took a handkerchief from her pocket, which she dabbed against the small drops of perspiration on her brow and on either side of her nose. “Yes, he was certainly interesting, and innovative. But, in what way did you discern that he was ‘interesting’?”

  Maisie reached inside her coat and glanced at the old nurses’ watch pinned to the lapel of her jacket. “I noticed on one or two pieces that Nick depicted people he knew—their faces—in scenes that they couldn’t have posed in. I thought it was interesting that he would do such a thing. In fact—and bear in mind, I know nothing about art—I assumed that, much like a writer who casts a character inspired by a person known to him, yet who then protects that person with a fictional name, so the painter will employ all manner of disguises to avoid revealing the real person in a given scene. Nick seems to have gone out of his way to do the opposite.”

  “Which piece are you referring to?”

  “The mural on the walls of his cottage.”

  “The smugglers?”

  “Yes. It appears he used the fictional character, Dr. Syn, from the books by Russell Thorndike, to inspire an illustrated story. Yet when you look at the faces, they are men known to him.”

  “Oh, of course! You know, I think he only did that the once. I remember him saying that fishermen have such weatherbeaten faces, like rocks chiseled by sea over the years, so he wanted to paint them in an historical context. He said that the sheer look of the men brought to mind the whole mythology of smuggling in the area. Then, of course, he read that book and was inspired to depict the story as a decoration for his carriage—all very appropriate, I must say, being on the edge of the mysterious Marshes.”

  Maisie nodded. “Yes, I thought it was rather clever. Mind you, I was curious about one thing, you know.” She turned to Georgina as they walked back to the MG and noticed beads of perspiration across her forehead.

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  Maisie took her seat and leaned across to open a door for Georgina. She started the engine, then continued. “I’ve placed the three fishermen who inspired the smugglers in the mural, but not the face behind the character of their fearless leader on his charger.” She let the comment hang in the air, looked both ways to check the road, then pulled away from the station and drove toward the High Street. “Left or right?”

  Seven

  The entrance to Bassington Place was flanked by two moss-covered pillars from which rusted iron gates hung open. Maisie thought the gates had probably not been closed for years, judging by the ivy tethering them in place. There was a one-story sandstone lodge, to the left, also covered in ivy.

  “Gower, our gamekeeper, occasional footman and general estate factotum lives there with his wife, the housekeeper. Frankly, I wonder why we still have a gamekeeper, but Nolly is determined to raise funds by opening the estate to shooting parties. We’ve always had the locals, you know, and they all pay a bit to shoot, but Nolly has her eye on bigger things—in fact, she got the idea from one of Nick’s clients.” Georgina pointed to the right. “Carry on along here, then turn right, over there, by that oak tree.”

  Making her way along a drive bordered by snow-dusted rhododendrons, Maisie drove slowly to avoid ruts in the road, following Georgina’s instructions. “One of Nick’s clients?”

  “Yes, the American tycoon who is desperate to have the triptych. He said that there are still men with plenty of money over there, and they’re all looking for a bit of old Europe. I think that if Nolly were left to her own devices, she’d sell the whole place and my parents along with it—now there’s a bit of old Europe for you!”

  “Is this it?”

  “Yes, we’re here. And thank heavens, Nolly isn’t back yet.”

  Maisie slowed the MG even more on the approach, so that she could study the property, which she thought was a magnificent example of a grand medieval country house, if now a little down-at-heel. It appeared almost as if three houses had been joined together, there were so many pitched roofs and even some ornate candy-twist Elizabethan chimneys, clearly added at a later date. The sturdy beams that framed the structure were completed by brownish-gray rendering that Maisie suspected had been laid on top of walls made of ancient wattle-and-daub. Diamond-paned windows had changed shape with the centuries, and here and there the beams were less than true where the ground had settled under the weight of walls and burden of years. Despite its size, the ivy-clad house seemed warm and welcoming, and in its way reminded her of Chelstone.

  As she parked the MG, the heavy oak door opened with an eerie sound as cast-iron hinges groaned for want of some oil. A tall man of about seventy years of age approached them, but before he reached the motor car, Georgina leaned toward Maisie.

  “Look, I realize I should have let you know before now, but I thought it best to tell my parents I had briefed you to look into Nick’s accident. Of course, even though I swore them to secrecy, they told Nolly, who has completely gone off the rails about it. Not that I’m scared of Nolly, but she can be such a bloody nuisance, even though one always feels sorry for her…but I’m fed up with dancing around her moods.” She clambered from the MG, walked toward her father and kissed him on the cheek. “Hello, Piers, darling, let me introduce my old friend from Girton, Maisie Dobbs.”

  The Bassington-Hope patriarch held out his hand to Maisie, who immediately felt his warmth and strength. He was tall, over six feet in height, and still walked with the bearing of a younger man. His corduroy trousers were well kept, if slightly worn, and along with a Vyella shirt and a rather colorful lavender tie, he wore a brown cable-knit pullover. His ash-gray hair, which matched that of his eyebrows, was combed back, and his steel-gray eyes seemed kind, framed by liver-spotted furrowed skin at the temples and across his brow. Though Georgina had portrayed her parents as being somewhat eccentric, Maisie had been prepared for unusual behavior but was surprised when the woman used her father’s Christian name. As she observed the pair, she
gained an immediate sense of Piers Bassington-Hope and suspected he might well use any appearance of eccentricity to his advantage, should such a thing be necessary.

  “Delighted to meet you, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Thank you for inviting me to your home, Mr. Bassington-Hope.”

  “Not at all. We’re so glad you’ve come and that you’ve agreed to help Georgina here. Anything you can do to put her mind at rest, eh?”

  Bassington-Hope’s smile of welcome was genuine but could not camouflage a gray pallor that pointed to the man’s sorrow at losing his eldest son. It didn’t escape Maisie’s notice that he used his smile, punctuating his words to great effect, as if to suggest that any investigation was purely for Georgina’s emotional well-being, an indulgence of her unsettled state. She suspected that, as far as Nick’s father was concerned, the matter was closed, with no further questions on his part. She wondered how Nick’s mother was bearing up under the weight of the family’s loss.

  “Come along, Mrs. Gower has put up a tea, the like of which we have not seen in years! Your favorite this weekend, Georgie—Eccles Cakes!” He turned to Maisie. “Our children may well have grown, but Mrs. Gower feels a certain need to fill them up with their favorite foods when they make a weekend visit. Nolly’s here all the time, poor girl, but of course, if Nick were here…” The man’s words trailed away as he stood back to allow the women to enter the drawing room before him.

  Even before she reached the drawing room, Maisie thought she would need a week to absorb her surroundings. Had this been Chelstone, or perhaps one of the other grand houses she had visited in the course of her work, the decor would have been more reserved, more in keeping with what was considered good taste. There were those adherents of Victorian mores who covered every table leg in sight and who filled every room with heavy furniture, plants and velvet curtains. Others adopted a softer approach, perhaps using those older pieces of furniture but blending them with brighter curtains and light, cream-painted walls instead of a forbidding anaglypta. Then there were those who had plunged headfirst into what the French had termed Art Deco. But for most, the decorating of a house was often a question of balancing personal taste with available funds, so even in the grandest homes, a blend of furniture and fittings illustrated the family’s history as well as investment in a few new pieces—a gramophone, a wireless, a cocktail bar. But this, the decor in the Bassington-Hope house, represented a departure she found at once stimulating and a little alarming.

  In the entrance hall, each wall was painted a different color, and not only that, someone—perhaps a group of people—had left their mark by adding a mural of a garden of flowers and foliage growing up from a green skirting board. It appeared as if ivy had snaked in from the exterior of the house. On another wall, a rainbow arched over a doorway, and even the curtains had been dyed in a variety of patterns to match the artistic frivolity around her. An old chaise longue had been recovered in plain duck, then the fabric painted in a series of triangles, circles, hexagons and squares. Avant-garde tapestry wall hangings and needlepoint pillows of red with yellow orbs or orange with green parallel lines added to the confusion of color.

  The drawing room seemed to be named more for the activity that went on there than as a place to which guests would withdraw for tea or drinks. The walls were painted pale yellow, the picture rail in deep maroon, while the skirting boards and doors were hunter green. When she had the opportunity to look more closely, Maisie saw that the beveled edges of the paneled doors were finished in the same burgundy, along with the window frames.

  Georgina’s mother turned from her place in front of one of two easels set alongside French windows, wiped her hands on a cloth and came to welcome Maisie, who thought she was as colorful as the house itself. Her gray hair was coiled and pinned on the top of her head in a loose braid, with wisps coming free at the back and sides. A paint-splashed blue artist’s smock covered her clothing, but Maisie could see the lower half of a deep-red embroiderd skirt. She wore hooped earrings, and bangles of silver and gold on her wrists. She looked like a gypsy, reminding Maisie of the Kalderasa immigrants who’d flooded into London’s East End some twenty years earlier, bringing with them a mode of dress that had been adopted by many of those tired of dour, lingering Victoriana.

  “Thank heavens Georgina found you. With Nolly driving, we thought she might insist on completing her errands first before running Georgie to the station to meet you. We were worried you’d be left in the lurch.” Emma Bassington-Hope clasped Maisie’s hand between both of her charcoal-stained hands. “As you can see, Mrs. Gower has laid out a magnificent tea—did you tell them, Piers? Come along, let’s sit down to our feast and you can tell us all about yourself.” She turned to her daughter and husband. “Throw those books on the floor, darlings.”

  Becoming comfortable on a settee covered in floral fabric, she beckoned Maisie and patted the place next to her. Georgina and her father seated themselves in armchairs that reminded Maisie of old gentlemen in the midst of an afternoon nap. The settee springs had softened in the middle, so that, despite the large feather cushions, Maisie couldn’t help but lean toward her hostess. It was as if the settee was conspiring to bring her into the woman’s confidence, which wasn’t a bad thing, as far as Maisie was concerned.

  “Emsy, Maisie is here on business, remember. She will have to ask you some questions.”

  Maisie smiled and raised a hand. “Oh, that’s all right, Georgina. Later. There’s plenty of time.” She turned to Emma Bassington-Hope, and then to Georgina’s father. “You have a lovely house, so interesting.”

  Georgina poured tea and passed cups to her guest, then her mother and father before offering cucumber sandwiches. Emma continued the conversation with Maisie.

  “Well, it is a wonderful house for people who love to paint. We’re surrounded by the most exquisite countryside—we grow all our own vegetables, you know—and we have all this space to experiment with. And Piers and I have always been proponents of the notion that our canvases do not have to be squares constructed of wood and cloth.” She pointed at her daughter. “Why, when Georgie was a child, she would compose whole stories on the bedroom walls, then Nick would come in and illustrate them—we still have them, you know. Couldn’t bear to paint over them, and now, of course, it’s even more…” She held her hand over her mouth, then reached for the edge of the painter’s smock and pressed it against her eyes.

  Piers Bassington-Hope looked down at his feet, stood up and walked to the window, stopping alongside his wife’s artwork, where he picked up a charcoal and added to her piece, then crushed it between his thumb and fingers. For her part, Georgina studied her hands, and glanced at Maisie, who had made no move to comfort the woman, whose shoulders moved as she sobbed into the smock. After some moments, moments during which Georgina’s father had opened the French doors and walked outside, Maisie reached across, taking the older woman’s hands in both of her own, as Emma had held Maisie’s hands when they were introduced.

  “Tell me about your son, Emma.”

  The woman was quiet for a while, then sniffed and shook her head, though she was looking directly at Maisie. “This is quite unusual for me, you know. I have barely met you, yet already I feel as if I am here with someone I have known for a long time.”

  Maisie said nothing, waiting, still with her fingers cocooning the woman’s hands.

  “I’ve been lost, quite lost, since the accident. Nick was so much more like me, you see. Georgina’s like her father—he writes, you know, and he’s also accomplished in other ways: designing furniture, drawing and composing music. That’s where Harry gets it from, I would think. But Nick was an artist through and through. I saw that even in boyhood. His work was so sophisticated for a child, his sense of perspective, the level of observation, acute. I remember thinking that not only could the boy draw a man working in a field, but he seemed to draw the very thoughts the man held within him. It was as if he could tell the complete story of the field, of ea
ch bird, of the horse, the plow. I could show you his boyhood drawings and paintings, and you would see—his heart and soul were poured into every line of charcoal on the paper, every sweep with sable and color. Nick was his work.” She choked on a sob, then leaned forward toward her knees, her forehead now touching Maisie’s hands as they continued to clasp her own. So earnest was her grasp that Maisie herself felt drawn to lean forward, to acknowledge the mother’s trust in allowing her tears to fall, and to gentle her by resting her cheek against the back of the grieving woman’s head. They remained so for some moments, until Maisie felt the dreadful keening subside, whereupon she sat up, but did not move her hands. Some moments later, when Emma Bassington-Hope raised her head, Maisie drew back her hands and looked into the woman’s eyes.

  “Goodness me, I…I…do excuse me, I…”

  Maisie spoke, her voice soft. “Say nothing, there’s no need.” She paused. “Would you like to show me some of Nick’s work, tell me more about him?”

  IT WAS PERHAPS an hour later that Georgina’s mother and Maisie returned to the drawing room. During that time, Maisie had received a tour of the house, seen that every room was decorated in a different color and style and had concluded that this family seemed to typify everything she had associated with the word bohemian. The Bassington-Hope parents had clearly adopted a way of life that would have shocked the elders of their time, but they were not alone in their day in seeking an authenticity through which to explore their creative sensibilities. They had been fortunate to inherit land and property, resources that enabled them to pass on the indulgence to their children, who had no reason to believe that any door was closed to them, though Maisie was now intrigued to see if such an assumption was shared by the eldest child.

  More of Nick Bassington-Hope’s work was on display around the house, though Emma pointed out that Nolly had sold a few pieces, gifts to his parents, even before Nick’s death. It was an action that, apparently, had caused Nick to argue with Nolly and had later incurred Georgina’s wrath. The parents had acquiesced at the time, realizing that the family trust was presently looking more than a little underfunded. During their conversation, Maisie became even more curious about Harry, as his name was seldom mentioned.