of a comb that morning.
“I wonder if you would be so kind as to oblige me with a moment or two of your time, Mr. Courtman?”
“Of course.” He extended his hand toward an armchair, then sat down on the end seat of the chesterfield, close to Maisie, who glanced around before turning to face him. There had been so many people at Georgina’s party, she had hardly looked at the room, which now seemed quintessentially bohemian, though perhaps not as outlandish as the Bassington-Hope family seat. There were antique pieces that immediately suggested a connection to old money, but instead of the gravity an ill-lit room might inspire, this interior was bright with windows flanked by heavy swags of pale gold silk. In one corner a carved screen was draped with fabrics from Asia, and a collection of masks from around the world were displayed on a wall.
Maisie felt comfortable in the room, now that she was able to pay attention to the details. The walls were painted a pale yellow, the picture rails and mantelpiece white; nondescript colors chosen to provide an accommodating backdrop for the works of art. There were three paintings by Georgina’s brother, and several others by artists unknown to Maisie.
“How may I help you, Miss Dobbs?”
“As you know, I am working on behalf of Miss Bassington-Hope to discover more about the circumstances of her brother’s death. To that end, I must find out more about his life. You were one of his dearest friends, so I thought you might be able to”—she smiled—“paint a picture of him for me, by answering some questions?”
“Fire away!” He leaned back into the chesterfield, a move that caught Maisie’s attention. It occurred to her that she felt as if she were on a stage with Alex Courtman, who, having just read his words from a script, was now waiting for her to play her part. Instinctively she wanted to unsettle him.
“You’re all moving on now. Nick’s dead, of course, but Duncan has his house in Hythe, Quentin’s bought a flat ‘with his thrice-wed paramour,’ and you’re spending more time here than in Dungeness. It couldn’t have all been planned since the accident.”
Courtman answered calmly. “Well, these things tend to happen all at once, don’t they? It just takes one to step off the boat and everyone else gets itchy feet. Duncan was courting for ages, poor girl must have wondered if he was ever going to make an honest woman of her. Then Quentin grasped his opportunity to make a dishonest woman of someone else—the woman’s still married to husband number three—and I found myself up here more and more.” He looked out the window, then back at Maisie. “I’ll probably get my own flat soon.”
“You’ve all done very well with your work, haven’t you?”
He shrugged. “Nick’s work sold very well, and I do believe we were affected simply by being associated with him, as if some of that stardust flaked off onto us. And, frankly, Svenson makes the most of the friendships. If you stick around him long enough, you’ll hear him talk about the ‘Bassington-Hope school’ and how our work was influenced by Nick.”
“And was it?”
“Not at all. We’re all quite different, but if I can go up the ladder hanging on to Nick’s coattails, then that’s what I’ll do.”
Maisie paused before continuing. “You said at the party that you met some years ago.”
He nodded. “Yes, as I told you, we all met at the Slade, though I knew Duncan better than I knew Nick and Quentin, to tell you the truth. Not that you would guess, but I’m a bit younger than the others, a latecomer to the group. It doesn’t make much difference now, but in those days I was definitely the new boy. Then we joined the Artists’ Rifles together, more or less, which sealed the friendships, though Nick, Duncan and Quentin are—were— something of an exclusive trio. But when it comes to a move such as the one to Dungeness and away again—it only takes one and we all fall in.”
“And who was the one?”
“Nick. He’s the one who said that we ought to do our bit in the war. Seemed as if that’s all people said then, you know, do your
“Indeed.” Maisie nodded, familiar with the stream of disillusion that formed an undercurrent to conversations concerning the war. Sometimes the emotion came from angry defense of the war, but more often, she realized, it was inspired by an inability to understand how and why the war happened, and why so many who fought were now all but abandoned, or so it appeared. Hadn’t Mosley exploited the situation at Georgina’s party? And hadn’t so many been drawn to his words, as if he could provide answers to their own deepest questions? She continued. “Perhaps you can tell me about the Rifles. Was this where you got to know each other really well?”
“In training, not over in France. We were all assigned to different regiments. Nick ended up in the same regiment as his brother-in-law, much to his dismay, though I understand he came to rather like the old chap.” Courtman stared out the window, his eyes blankly focused across chimney pots and into the distance. “He said in a letter that he’d always thought the man was a bit wet, but came to regard him as simply
“Do you know the circumstances, specifically?” Maisie had not expected the conversation to take this turn and was intrigued enough to allow the man to reminisce.
Courtman turned to Maisie. “Circumstances? You mean other than two lines of men with guns pointed at each other?”
“I meant—”
“Yes, I know what you meant. I was being facetious. Talking about the war does that to me. How did Godfrey Grant die? As far as I know it was during a cease-fire.”
“Cease-fire?”
“Yes. I mean, you’ve heard about the Christmas truce and all that? Well, there wasn’t just one truce, you know. It happened fairly often. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for there to be a quick truce for both sides to whip out, collect their wounded and bury their dead. Imagine it, men like ants scurrying back and forth, trying to honor their own before some smart-aleck officer calls them all back to their own side for another round.”
“Nolly’s husband was killed in a truce?”
“Yes, as far as I know. Not sure what happened, of course. Probably didn’t get back to his trench before they
