Messenger of Truth

“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.

A skeleton staff had lived at 15 Ebury Place, and Maisie knew that she would miss the young women who worked below stairs, though Eric, the footman-cum-chauffeur, had said she should bring her motor car to the mews regularly for him to “have a look at, just to make sure she’s running smoothly.” But for two months now, she had been living at her new flat in Pimlico, chosen not only for price but for its proximity to the water, the river that ran though London and that Maisie loved—despite her friend Priscilla, who referred to the Thames as “swill.”

She had traveled by underground railway this morning instead of driving the MG, so she returned the same way this evening. The cold, the damp and thick yellow smog conspired to nip at her ears, her lips, gloved fingers and even her toes, so she pulled her hat down even lower, navigating her way from the station to the new block of flats by following the flagstones underfoot. Designed with an optimism that was extinguished before construction was complete, the four-story building housed some sixteen flats. Each end of the building was curved to reflect a fascination with ocean travel fashionable in the 1920s, when the architect first sat at his drafting table. Enclosed service stairwells to both the right and left of the building were made brighter by porthole windows, and in the center, a column of glass revealed the inner spiral staircase for use by residents and guests. The accommodation requirements of a well-heeled resident had been in mind, one who would pay a good rent to live in an area that the developer thought “up and coming,” yet the building was still barely half occupied, either by owners who, like Maisie, had seen an opportunity to buy, or by tenants now renting from an absentee landlord who had stretched his resources to acquire four apartments on the top floor.

Turning her key in the lock, Maisie entered the ground-floor flat. Though not a palace, it was deceptively capacious. A corridor gave way to a drawing room with plenty of room for a three-piece suite and, at the far end, a dining table and chairs—if, of course, Maisie had owned a three-piece suite and dining table with chairs. Instead, an old Persian carpet, bought at an executor sale, half-covered the parquet floor, and two Queen Anne chairs with faded chintz covers were positioned in front of a gas fire. There were two bedrooms to the left of the hallway, one larger than the other and separated by a bathroom. A box room to the right was probably meant for storage, as it housed the gas meter. Maisie had set a stack of coins by the meter, so that she never had to grope around in the dark when the power went out.

Only one bedroom had a bed and, fortunately, the flat was already equipped with some new Venetian blinds, the sort that had suddenly become rather popular a few years earlier. Maisie sighed as she felt the radiator in the