Messenger of Truth

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 on 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.”