Messenger of Truth jw-2

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “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.

  MAISIE, BILLY, ERIC, Jim and Sandra entered the gallery as the men put final touches to the construction of wooden struts, trestles and ladders that would be used to position the pieces of Nick Bassington-Hope’s creation.

  “That’s all for now, Mr. Levitt. We can manage from here.”

  Levitt nodded. “You’ll need the keys.”

  “Thank you.”

  As soon as they heard the caretaker leave, Billy ensured the back entrance was secure and the front door was locked. Together Eric and Jim pulled screens across so that the back wall could not be seen from the street, while Maisie and Sandra covered the floor with heavy cotton dust-sheets of the type used by housepainters.

  “Ready for us to unload the van, Miss?”

  “Ready, Billy.”

  Maisie and Sandra opened a box they had brought in with them and took out tools they would need for the next part of the plan. The men returned with six panels, which they laid on top of the dust-sheets, before returning to the van for more equipment. In the meantime, the women set to work, each taking care to don a pair of overalls and cover her hair with a top-knotted scarf before commencing.

  Some three hours later, Maisie checked her watch and caught Billy’s eye.

  “Time to let Stratton in, Miss?”

  “Yes, it’s time. Then you go up to the landing.”

  “You’ll be all right?”

  “Of course.”

  As Maisie took up her place behind a screen, she felt a churning in her stomach. There was always the chance that she would be wrong. She swallowed. Yes, this was her gamble.

  AT HALF PAST nine, according to Maisie’s watch, illuminated for just a second with her torch, she heard the rumble of a motor car in the alley, followed by the sound of a latch at the back of the gallery being rattled. Any sense of movement was suspended as she raised her head to listen. Deliberate steps echoed, as if the person entering the gallery were carrying a heavy load. Soon there was a distinct creaking noise as the door leading into the gallery was opened, and the steps came ever closer. Then a pause. The intruder’s breath came heavy and fast. There was a whine, a mournful aching sound that came from someone clearly struggling with a burdensome weight.

  There was a deep sigh and a metallic sound echoed into the air. And something else, a distinct smell. Maisie almost choked. Oil. Paraffin. Back and forth, the footsteps moved faster now, the sound of the inflammable liquid slopping across the floor beneath the pieces that Maisie and her helpers had worked so hard to install on the wall. The scaffolding would ignite in a second, though she could not make her move yet. She knew she had to wait, had to linger long enough to hear the interloper speak. There would be a declaration—at least she hoped she was correct in her sense that such destruction would be accompanied by words spoken to Nick Bassington-Hope, as if the artist were in the room himself. Finally, as the fuel’s vapor became overwhelming, a voice spoke loud and clear. Maisie pulled the kerchief from her head and held it across her nose and mouth, all the time listening.

  “You disappointed me, Nick. You just didn’t know when to stop, did you? I pleaded with you, dear boy. I did all I could to prevent this, but you couldn’t draw back, eh?” The can rattled with the dregs of paraffin, and Maisie heard a second can being opened. “Couldn’t believe you wouldn’t listen. Couldn’t believe you just stood there. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Nick, d
idn’t mean for this…but you couldn’t be allowed to do it, couldn’t be allowed to dishonor your own flesh and blood….” The soliloquy drifted into a whisper, as the man upended the can, then fumbled with a matchbox drawn from his coat pocket.

  “Damn!” The match failed to ignite, and as he tried to take out another match, the box fell to the ground, its contents scattered in the pungent liquid. “Damn you, Nick. Even dead you’re trying to save that monstrosity, even dead I cannot stop you.”

  Maisie stood up and began to walk toward the man who had come to destroy the work of his beloved son.

  “Piers…”

  Now partially illuminated in a half shaft of light from the street-lamp outside, the man frowned, as if not quite able to comprehend what was taking place. “What the hell—?”

  She could wait no longer; the risk was too great. “Billy, Stratton!”

  Soon the gallery was filled with movement as Stratton’s men rushed in with sand-filled fire buckets, and Piers Bassington-Hope searched for anything that could be used to ignite the flammable liquid.

  “It was his fault, you know, it was Nick. I didn’t mean it to happen, I didn’t want—”

  “You can save that for the station, sir,” instructed Stratton. He nodded to a sergeant, who pulled the older man’s arms behind him, the loud click of a handcuff lock echoing in Maisie’s ears as the killer of Nick Bassington-Hope was led away.

  “I—I wanted to talk to him, I—” Maisie looked around. The fire brigade had been summoned to secure the gallery.

  “It’s too dangerous here and there’s no need for you to remain anyway, Miss Dobbs. You’ll have to come down to the station, of course.”

  “Yes, indeed—but I’ll have to telephone Svenson first, and I want to wait until the gallery is safe before I leave. I don’t think either of us expected this sort of damage.”

  Stratton looked up at the painting. “Pity he didn’t get rid of that thing, if you ask me.”

  Billy, who had been talking to both the police and fire brigade, joined them at that moment.

  “You talking about that valuable work of art there, Inspector?”

  “I am indeed.”

  Maisie rolled her eyes. “Let us just say, gentlemen, that my endeavors with paint might have saved a great work of art this evening.”

  They all turned to look at the six pieces of plywood that Sandra had whitewashed earlier, and that Maisie had proceeded to use as a background for her own masterpiece.

  “Thank heavens he came without a torch!”

  MAISIE FELT HEAVY in body and soul as she drove slowly back to her flat in Pimlico in the early hours of the morning. Piers Bassington-Hope had trusted that one beloved child would understand the plea he’d made on behalf of another; his actions, borne of a deep disillusionment, had caused the death of his eldest son. Yet he had not considered, as Maisie had, that the child he cared for so deeply might be strong enough to endure any depiction of life or death created by her brother.

  Nineteen

  As if angels had conspired to clear the heavens for Lizzie Beale, a low, bright winter sun managed to sear through morning fog on the day her body was committed to earth. A service in the local church, its buttresses soiled by smoke and green lichen growing upon damp sandstone, moved all who came. It seemed that the whole neighborhood had turned out to say good-bye to the child whose smile would never be forgotten. Maisie looked on as Billy and Doreen, bearing their daughter’s weight between them, carried the small white coffin topped with a posy of snowdrops into the church.

  Later, at the graveside, Billy’s quiet stoicism provided strength for Doreen as she leaned against him for fear her legs would not support her during the final farewell. And cradling her newborn child swaddled in blankets, Ada stood alongside her sister, knowing the warmth of their sisterhood would be sustenance on grief’s barren journey. A clutch of relatives gathered around the Beale family, so Maisie stood to one side, though Billy had beckoned her to come closer. She watched the coffin as it was lowered into the ground and pressed a hand to her mouth as the minister, with a gentleness that can only be borne of strength, said the words, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” and followed with another prayer for the dead child. Then Billy reached down to lift a fistful of cold brown earth. He looked at the dirt in his hand, then took the rose from his lapel and threw it into the chasm that would soon be filled. It was only when the rose sat between the pure white snowdrops that he threw down the first clod to signal his good-bye. Doreen followed, then others stepped forward. Having waited until last, respectful of those closest to the Beale family, Maisie walked slowly to the edge of the grave, remembering, once again, the softness of Lizzie’s head, of the curls that brushed against her chin, and the small dimpled hand that grasped her button. She, too, took up a handful of earth and heard the thud as it splashed across the coffin. Then she bid Godspeed to dear Lizzie Beale.

  ON THE PREVIOUS day, instead of driving straight to Scotland Yard following the arrest, Maisie had gone immediately to Georgina Bassington-Hope’s flat, where she broke the news that her father had been taken into police custody in connection with the death of her brother.

  “Georgina, I am sure you want to be with him. I will take you now, if you wish.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Georgina placed a hand on her brow, as if not sure what to do next.

  “I’ll get your coat, Georgina.” Maisie summoned the housekeeper, who left, then returned with her employer’s coat, hat, gloves and handbag.

  “Do you need to inform anyone before we leave?”

  “I—I think I will…no, I’ll see him first. No good talking to anyone before I’ve seen Daddy, and Inspector Stratton. Nolly will have a fit if I don’t have every last detail at my fingertips. I think that’s what made me a journalist, you know, having Nolly for a sister!” Georgina gave a half laugh, then looked at Maisie, her eyes dark, her skin ashen. “Fine mess I’ve got the family into, eh? I should have left well enough alone.”

  Maisie silently opened the door for her client, steadying her as she descended the steps to the waiting car. She said nothing to Georgina about truth, about the instinct that had inspired her to seek Maisie’s help. It was not the right moment to speak of the inner voice that instructs us to move in a given direction, even though we know—even though we know and might never admit to such intuition—that to continue on our path is to risk the happiness of those we hold dear.

  GEORGINA BASSINGTON-HOPE ALL but fell into her father’s embrace upon entering the interview room at Scotland Yard, her sobs matching his own as they held each other. Having escorted her to the room, along with a woman police auxiliary, Maisie turned to leave, only to hear Georgina call to her.

  “No, please, Maisie—stay!”

  Maisie looked to Stratton standing behind Piers Bassington-Hope, who gave a single nod. She could remain in the room.

  Sitting close enough to see Georgina’s hands shaking, Maisie was silent as they spoke, Piers repeatedly clearing his throat and running his hands back through his silver hair as he recounted the events that led to his son’s death.

  “I’d gone along to Nick’s cottage, must have been early in November. We hadn’t had much time to…to talk, as father and son, alone, for ages. You know what your mother’s like, always fussing around Nick, so that I hardly had time with him when he came to the house.” He swallowed, then cleared his throat again. “Nick had gone to fill the kettle with water from the barrel, so I sat down—next to a pile of sketchbooks. I began leafing through them—as always, stunned by your brother’s work.” He paused. “I was so proud of him.”

  Georgina reached out to her father, then withdrew her hands to pull a handkerchief from her pocket, with which she rubbed her eyes.

  Piers continued. “Nick was taking his time, so I continued—ready to put them down when he came in, you know how secretive he could be, and I wouldn’t want him to think I was snooping. And that’s when I found them, the sketchbooks….” He held a
hand tohis chest, heaving a sob, then coughed, so much so that the woman auxiliary left the room to bring a cup of water.

  “I—I recognized the subject of the work immediately, no mistaking it. And I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. How could he do that, how could my son…do that? He told me that the piece was the most ambitious undertaking of his life, that he could not compromise. Georgina, I begged him to choose an unknown model, but Nick declined, saying that in his work he must honor truth, and that he had thought long and hard about his decision, and felt it only right. I tried to make him understand, tried to make him see—but he just waved me away, told me I was an old man who didn’t understand what art was all about these days, that I should stick to ivy-clad walls.” Piers clenched his teeth, trying to stem the tears. “My son thought I was spent as an artist, and my pleas were met with disdain—there’s no other word for it.” He held out his hand to Georgina. “You know how Nick could be, Georgie; you know how stubborn he could be, how intractable.” He leaned back in his chair. “I came again over the following weeks, came to ask him to reconsider, to petition him to stop, to think again, to…to be kind in his work. But he wouldn’t give an inch.”

  Piers sipped from the cup of water, then began to describe the final bid to change his son’s mind. He had come to the gallery on the eve of the exhibition when everyone had left, knowing that he was the only person who had any knowledge of the paintings and knowing that success in his plea was imperative. Entering by the front door—left open by Stig Svenson—Piers saw his son was on the trestle and, wanting to face him, rather than look up at him—a desire that Maisie understood immediately, though Piers would not have been able to explain his motivation—he went to the stairs leading to the landing and was soon on a level with his son. Still agile, Piers had climbed over the railing and onto the scaffolding so that he could press home the importance of his request. Nick began to turn his back on his father, going about his work as if he were not there.