Messenger of Truth

consider the wall where Nicholas Bassington-Hope was to have exhibited his masterpiece. Was it a triptych, as everyone assumed, or had the secretive artist something else up his sleeve? She leaned forward, squinting to better see certain parts of the wall in closer detail. Yes, she could identify where anchors had been placed in the plasterwork, anchors that had now been removed and the wall made almost smooth again. Fresh repairs were clearly visible, and Maisie wondered whether the damage had been due to the scaffolding, which must have dented the wall as it collapsed when the artist fell—if he fell. How high might the scaffolding have been, and which level had Nick Bassington-Hope been working from when he crashed down to the stone floor? From ground to ceiling, the wall must be some twenty-five feet high, not a height that would necessarily cause a life to be lost as a result of a fall, unless the victim were unusually unlucky. And if someone had pushed…Maisie now looked at the doors on the main floor below, one exit on either side of the wall, leading, she supposed, to storage and delivery areas and to offices. Could someone have made the scaffolding unstable without being seen by the victim? Might such instability have been accidental? There were clearly several possibilities to consider—not least the possibility that Nicholas Bassington-Hope had taken his own life.

“Oi, Miss—”

Maisie looked around. She could hear Billy, but could not see him, and she didn’t want to call out his name.

“Pssst. Miss!”

“Where are you?” Maisie kept her voice as low as possible.

“Over ’ere.”

Maisie walked toward a painting at the far end of the landing. Much to her surprise, the painting moved.

“Oh!”

Billy Beale poked his head around what was, in fact, a door. “Thought you’d like that, Miss! Come in ’ere and ’ave a dekko at this ’ere trick door. I tell you, my three would love this.”

Maisie followed Billy’s direction, stepping as quietly as she could. “What is this?”

“I started off in the storeroom—been down there talking to the caretaker, man by the name of Arthur Levitt. Nice enough bloke. Anyway, I found a staircase, came up it and then along this ’ere corridor. They must use this for bringing up the art and what ’ave you from where it’s delivered.” He crooked his finger again, closing the door that led onto the balcony. “Look through ’ere.”

Maisie leaned forward to the point in the door indicated by Billy. “Oh!” She moved slightly, then stepped back. “You can see a good deal of the gallery from here—as well as having access to the balcony that extends along three sides of the room, right around to the opposite side of the wall where Nicholas Bassington-Hope would have been setting up his main piece.”

“Do you reckon it’s impor—” Billy stopped speaking when raised voices were heard coming from below. Maisie and Billy both remained perfectly still.

“I told you, Stig, you were to deal with me only. You were not to agree to anything with Nolly.”

“But Georgie, Nolly said—”

“I don’t give a damn what Nolly said. My sister has no business poking her nose into this. She knows nothing about art.”

“But she does have a right, after all, as joint executor—”

“I’ll speak to Nolly today. In the meantime, I will not allow the piece to be sold with the rest of the collection. Absolutely not. And if I even think of selling the remaining sketches and incompletes, I will let you know. You can keep your rich buyers hanging on for a day or two if they’re that interested.”

“But—”

“That is final, Stig. Now, I had better find my friend.”

A door below slammed.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Maisie leaned toward Billy and whispered. “I’ll see you out on Piccadilly in about fifteen minutes. Don’t join me until Miss Bassington-Hope has left.”

THE TWO WOMEN departed the gallery, Svenson cordially thanking them for visiting, though perhaps not with the theatrical flourish of his greeting.

“Let’s walk along the street here—I have several requests to make, in order to commence with my investigation.”

“Of course.” Georgina fell into step with Maisie, unaware that the woman to whom she had turned for help was now gauging her intent and her emotional state of mind simply by observing her physical demeanor.

“First of all, I want to meet your family, so please arrange for us to visit, using the pretext of our early friendship at Girton.”

“All right.”

Maisie cast a glance sideways at Georgina and began mirroring her movement as she walked. She continued listing her requests. “I would like to see—alone, this time—where Nicholas lived in Dungeness. Perhaps you would be so kind as to furnish me with keys and his address—or, knowing Dungeness, perhaps there is no actual address, but simply directions.”

Georgina nodded, but said nothing. Maisie had noticed her shoulders sag, her manner suggesting a sense of melancholy and, perhaps, a feeling of anger. The melancholy might be easily explained—she had lost a beloved brother, after all—but at whom was the anger directed? At Maisie, for making the request? At her sister for whatever gave rise to the crossed words with Stig Svenson? Or at her dead brother, for abandoning her to a life without her twin?

“I will need details of all previous purchases of your brother’s paintings. I understand that artists can be rather fickle when it comes to retaining financial records; however, I will need anything that comes to hand. I want to know who was collecting his work.”

“Of course.”