“Lovely to see you at the party, Maisie. I feared you might have had more than enough of us.” Georgina eased into a chair by the gas fire. “Everyone had a smashing time—and Nick wouldn’t have wanted life to grind to a halt, you know. In fact, he would have said to party away merrily.”
“It was a colorful evening—a lot of fun,” replied Maisie, as she placed the woman’s coat on a hook behind the door. “I had an opportunity to speak to Nick’s friends, and to meet Harry. Thank you for inviting me, Georgina. Would you like tea?”
“No, thank you.” Georgina looked around. “Where’s your man this morning?”
Maisie seated herself close to her client. “His children are rather ill, so it seemed only right that he should be with his family. All being well, he’ll be back at work tomorrow.”
“Oh, dear. I am sorry…. Now then, to Nick.”
“Yes, Nick.” Maisie was surprised that the plight of Billy’s family had been brushed off so quickly, though she allowed that perhaps Georgina did not want to linger on illness, which might be interpreted as akin to loss. “I’d like to ask some more questions of you, if I may.”
“Fire away.” Georgina fidgeted in her seat and crossed her arms.
“First of all, I’d like to have a more detailed picture of Nick’s relationships with those he was closest to and those who had an effect on his life. Let’s start with his work, and Stig Svenson.”
Georgina nodded. “Yes, indeed, Stig. He was a supporter of Nick’s work right from the beginning, more or less as soon as he left the Slade. At first he would exhibit a piece of work here and there, as part of a larger exhibit, and always encouraged Nick to develop his range. He made it possible for Nick to go to Belgium; then, after the war, to America.”
“How did he make it possible? Contacts? Financially?”
“Both. He believes in nurturing new talent along with close hand-holding. He’s very good at his job, steering his clients toward works that not only reflect their tastes but that prove to be lucrative investments. He knows his market and he understands his artists.”
“I see. And does he represent Nick’s friends as well?”
“Yes, to some extent. They are certainly at the gallery on and off. They’ve all known Stig for years.”
“How did Mr. Svenson react when Nick enlisted?”
“The Viking vapors, a sort of hot sweaty state that he gets himself into when things run out of control or if he’s about to lose money. He was furious, telling Nick that he was ruining his career, that he was on the cusp of fame, how could he…and so on. But when it led to such stunning work, Stig was amazed. He couldn’t wait to get out and sell to the highest bidder.”
“So, Svenson has done quite well out of his relationship with Nick?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll say, very well indeed. I don’t think he loses money on anything.”
Maisie nodded, stood up and paced to the window, then back to the fireplace, where she leaned against the mantelpiece to continue the conversation. “Georgina, it’s important for me to have a true sense of who your brother was in his heart.” She touched her chest as she spoke. “I know the war affected him deeply—how could it not? But I would like you to recall conversations, perhaps, that might lead me to have a greater understanding of him.”
“Is this necessary?”
Maisie remained calm at her place by the fire. “Hmmm, yes, it is. If I am to establish a motive for murder, then I must inhabit the victim, as far as that might be possible. It is my way.”
“Yes, I know.” Georgina Bassington-Hope paused, then rubbed her hands, whereupon Maisie leaned down and turned up the gas jets. The woman continued.
“To say that Nick lost an innocence in France would be too light an observation, but the description serves to explain what happened to him.”
Maisie spoke softly. “Yes, I understand. Very well. Go on.”
“It wasn’t so much that first time, when he was wounded—though that was bad enough. But going back disturbed him deeply.”
“Tell me about the wounds first.”
“To his shoulder, a shrapnel wound that effectively gave him a ‘blighty.’ He was also gassed, and…” She paused. “He wasn’t unbalanced, not like some of the shell-shock cases I wrote about, but he was disturbed. Then they drafted him to work in propaganda. No choice about it.”
Maisie was thoughtful. “I’d like to go back to him being disturbed. Does anything stand out from your conversations immediately following his repatriation?”
“What stands out was his silence, though within that reserve, there were stories here or there, if you happened to be with him.”
“Stories?”
“Yes.” Georgina paused, her eyes narrowing as if she were looking into the past. “He saw some nasty things. Well, didn’t we all? But these were more disturbing, from what I can gather, than the shocking things that you or I experienced. And he didn’t say much, but I knew he remembered things…”
“Are you all right?” Maisie sensed her client had weakened.
Georgina nodded. “As an artist, Nick saw events as messages, if you know what I mean. He would see a man killed and at the same time, in the melee, look up and see the dot that was a skylark overhead. It was something that touched and intrigued him, the reality of that moment.”
Maisie said nothing, waiting for the woman to continue her reflection.
“He told me that he had seen overwhelming acts of terror and, on the other side of the coin, acts of compassion that touched him to the core.” She sat forward. “I wrote about one of the stories, you know. This is the sort of thing that you would never have heard about in The Times, but I managed to sell it to an American magazine. There was a man, not someone he knew well because he had just joined a regiment following training with the Artists’ Rifles. It was after a big show, and the man had completely lost his mind, running here and there, uncontrollable. Nick said that he thought there would be compassion for him, understanding, but no, something quite different happened.” She paused again, as if choosing her words with care. “Someone called him a shirker, then another said, ‘What shall we do with him, boys?’ to which it was decided that he would be sent out alone in broad daylight to check the wires. So the man staggered out toward the line and was cut down by an enemy sniper in short order.”
Maisie shook her head and was about to speak when Georgina went on.
“And that’s not the end of it. His body was brought back and hung from a post above the trench, whereupon the soldiers used the dead man’s remains for target practice, having daubed the letters ‘LMF’ on his back. Now that’s the sort of thing you’ll never hear about in an official record.”
“LMF?”
“Low Moral Fiber.”
Maisie tasted the salty saliva that flooded her mouth. She swallowed before continuing her questioning. “Georgina, I know you said Nick had just joined the regiment, but did he know the men who committed this dreadful act, or their commanding officer?”
Frowning, Georgina replied. “Well, that’s the thing, I believe he must have, because I can just remember him saying that it was terrible what war could do, to change a man, to bring about a sort of anarchy where soldiers—human beings—would do something out of fear.”
“Fear?”
“Yes, that fear we have of someone who was one of us, but who has now changed. Nick always said that he wanted to show how people were joined, how they were the same, that it was something sacred. And he said that’s what scared people—people like those men—seeing something terrible that could so easily have been them, so they have to destroy it. Mob rule.” She shook her head. “And isn’t it funny, that ‘sacred’ can be ‘scared,’ if you jiggle the letters around a bit.”
“Did he paint this scene?”
“I’m sure he did. I looked for it when I went to the carriage after he died. In fact, I looked for work that depicted some of his stories and found only those general war sketches that you must have seen.”
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“I’d hardly call them general.”
“Yes, I know.”
Maisie checked her watch, taking a seat next to her client once again. “And what about compassion? Did he draw those episodes?”
“I can see no reason why he wouldn’t have. I believe there’s a whole body of work that we haven’t seen, to tell you the truth, and I believe that Nick kept those sketches and detailed pieces safe away from view because they were like a rehearsal for the big show—the piece we can’t find, the triptych.”
Picking up her notes, Maisie knew she must make progress. “I’d like to come back to Nick’s work next time we meet. However, I do have a few more questions for you now. To get straight to the point, had Nick had any arguments with anyone lately? I know I have asked this before, but I must ask again.”
“Well, though they all lived in Dungeness, the boys—Quentin, Alex and Duncan—weren’t quite as close as they once were. They’re all pretty much moving away now. In fact, I understand that Duncan and Quentin are going down again on Wednesday—they’re both moving, you know, I think they have to pack and such like.” She paused, for a second. “And Nick was distancing himself from everyone, it seemed, though that isn’t unusual for someone like my brother, an artist preparing for months for a major exhibition.”
“And within your family?”
“Nick had argued with Harry. You have probably guessed that by now. Harry is both man and boy, with the boy being more obvious most of the time. And he gambles with a nasty losing habit, so he’s come to both Nick and me for help. No good going to Nolly. Nick took him to task last time he got into big trouble.”
“What do you call big trouble?”
“A few hundred pounds.”
“And Nick could help?”
“He had reached a position where his art commanded a good price. Since Nick died, Harry has come to me twice. I was careful with my money, and I invested a bequest from my grandmother very wisely and managed to pull it out of stocks just in the nick of time, but I can’t fritter it away on Harry. Mind you, I have helped him out just lately.”
“Where does he work?”
“Various clubs, you know—the Kit Kat, the Trocadero, the Embassy, that sort of thing.”
Maisie didn’t know, but needed to locate Harry. “I’d like to talk to him, Georgina. May I have his address?”
“I—I don’t actually have it.”
“I see. Well, then, a list of the clubs, perhaps?”
“All right, I’ll scribble a few down. I always depend on Harry to turn up when he needs something, to be perfectly honest. And he never disappoints me.”
Maisie flicked through some notes. “Now, then, how about Nick and Nolly?”
Georgina sighed. “As you know, Nolly can be terribly difficult. And she hasn’t always been like that, though she wasn’t quite like the rest of us. She adored Godfrey, her husband, and is bent upon cherishing his memory as a war hero.”
“Yes, she said as much to me.”
“It’s sad, really. I mean, he was a delightful chap, but a bit bland. We all joked that it was her quest to breed some common sense into the line—you know, a few farmers, accountants and solicitors. Being a Bassington-Hope must have been so terribly hard on her, when I think of it. Mind you, she and Nick were very close when he came back.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Of course, I was still away, and Nolly visited him just about every day in hospital and convalescence, then remained in London with him, just to make sure he was all right when he started work at the Office of Information. I think the fact that he was with Godfrey when he died—”
“Nick was with Nolly’s husband?”
“Didn’t you know? I was sure…well, anyway, he was with him when he died. Godfrey was in the regiment that Nick joined—just a fluke, but that sort of thing happened all the time.” Georgina was thoughtful, then she looked at Maisie, frowning. “It’s just awfully sad that Nolly and Nick fell out and didn’t really put their differences behind them.”
“What were their differences?”
“I’m trying to think when things deteriorated. I do know that she took an intense dislike to his work, said that he should forget the war, that it was idiocy to dredge it all up just for the sake of a picture.”
“When was that?”
“They were on the outs just before he went over to America. Yes, that’s it, I remember her saying, at lunch, just after he sailed, ‘Let’s hope the cowboys and Indians capture his imagination instead of the bloody war!’ Daddy agreed with her—mind you, Daddy always tries to see Nolly’s side of things. She’s the eldest and he’s really rather protective of her, endeavors to understand what makes her tick, though I think he’s as flummoxed as the rest of us. I say, Maisie—”
“I’m sorry, Georgina. I was listening, but just thinking about something you said.” Maisie was pensive for a moment. “And how about you and Nick? Were you on good terms when he died?”
“Of course. I mean, we had our little differences of opinion, perhaps about a play we’d seen, or about something in the newspaper. But Nick and I were terribly close, not fighters.”
As she spoke, Maisie watched as Georgina systematically pressed down the cuticle of each finger with the thumbnail of the opposite hand.
“Now then, just two or three more questions today. Was Nick seeing anyone, did he have a sweetheart?”
Georgina smiled. “Such an old-fashioned term, sweetheart. Nick’s mind was on his work most of the time, and when it wasn’t he played the field in a dark horse sort of way. There was always a girl here or there for him to squire along to a party, if he wanted someone with him. And I do mean girl. No one of note, though, and certainly no one I can remember.”
“What do you know about Randolph Bradley?”
Georgina shrugged, and as she looked away, Maisie noticed the faintest color rise to her cheeks. “Typical American businessman. Pots and pots of money, and he’s managing to hold on to it, which is a feat—I hear the economic woes are worse over there than they are here. He’s been one of Stig’s clients for years, so he began collecting Nick’s work some time ago. I understand he has a gallery at his house dedicated to Nick’s work—these trade millionaires do like to show off their acquisitions to one another, don’t they?”
“Do they?”
“Oh, absolutely! I’ve heard that Bradley will stop at nothing to get a piece he wants.”
“And he wants the triptych?”
“Yes, but when it’s found we’re not selling. Nick didn’t want to. After he died, Nolly thought it would be a good idea to get rid of everything. Which is strange, as at one point she wanted to have all of Nick’s work hidden away. Change of heart caused by impending financial doom on the estate, I shouldn’t wonder. Plus the fact that it would go overseas. As I said, she hated Nick’s war work, said that it shouldn’t be allowed to hang anywhere in Britain or Europe.”
“I see.” Maisie consulted her watch again. “You know, I do have one last question—for now, anyway. You hinted that if Nick was murdered, then your life might be at risk. What caused you to say that?”
Georgina shook her head. “I think I was being overcautious. It’s just that Nick and I did the same kind of work, the same things were important to us. It’s hard to explain, but we both wanted to do something with our chosen fields. I didn’t want to just doodle away with words, I wanted to write exactly what I saw when I was driving an ambulance in France. Nick wanted to do the same thing with his art, whether it was to show the beauty of nature or the violence of men and beasts.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“Do you think he was murdered?” She looked directly at Maisie.
“There is compelling evidence to support the pathologist’s conclusion that his death was the result of an accident, though I have a feeling in my heart—as you do—that the truth is not quite as straightforward. I believe we have made progress this morning, Georgina. I will be leaving for Dungeness again o
n Wednesday, but I would ask you not to tell anyone else that I will be there. I plan to go to the gallery again, and to pay a visit to Mr. Bradley. But, I cannot continue to feign a passing interest in Nick for much longer. Inevitably, others outside your family will learn that I am investigating your brother’s death.”
“And what tack will you take in these meetings?”
Maisie tapped the index cards with her pen. “If Nick sought to illustrate personal or universal truths, there are many who must have been touched by his work. Some might have been grateful for such enlightenment, but as experience taught Nick in the trenches, people do not always like to see what is so, especially if they see themselves reflected in the brutal honesty of the artist. I’m curious to know how he touched his more immediate audience—friends and associates—with his work. You see, if Nick was the victim of a crime, it is more than possible that he knew his killer. Which means that you are likely known to that person too.”
“INSPECTOR, I’M SORRY I’m late. My first appointment of the day went on a bit.” Maisie took off her scarf and placed it on the back of the chair facing Stratton, who was already sipping tea. “Another cup?”
“No, thank you, this will do.”
“Then you won’t mind waiting while I just fetch myself some.”
Maisie returned with a cup of strong tea from the urn and a plate of toast and jam, setting them down before taking her place at the table.
“So, Miss Dobbs, what is it this time?”
“Inspector, as I said before, I am most grateful to you for supporting Miss Bassington-Hope’s decision to seek my help—though, as we have established, the purpose was to keep her occupied and out of your hair. However, what has become clear to me is that something else is going on. Now, I appreciate that your investigations are your own business, but you must have known that I would stumble across the fact that you—and the Flying Squad chappie—have an intense interest in the activities of Harry Bassington-Hope.”
Stratton shook his head. “I told them you would find out.”
“Vance?”
“I even told them you would know his name in short order.”