Messenger of Truth

“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.”