Messenger of Truth

were under starter’s orders again, something like that.”

“I see.” Maisie made note of the conversation on an index card, shuffled a fresh one into place and looked up. “So, back to Nick. What was your training like? Did he continue with his work?”

“Never saw him without a sketchbook. Mind you, we’re artists, we all had our sketchbooks, even though it was Nick who was on a quest to render those drawings into something more substantial.”

“You’ve never sold your war paintings?”

“Miss Dobbs, I have never completed any war paintings. Even though Svenson might like to say that my work is of the Bassington-Hope school, I would rather draw everyday life here and now than bring those scenes to mind every time I put brush to canvas. In any case, I’ve just got a new job. Commercial artist, that’s the place to be now….” He paused, choosing his words with care. “Nick’s art was his exorcism, in a way. He painted the war out of his soul and into the open. Every time a picture was born of his memory, it was as if something dark was laid to rest. And if that darkness made one of the higher-ups hot under the collar, it was icing on the cake for Nick.”

“What do you know about the triptych?”

He shook his head. “If you know it’s a triptych, then I know about as much as you.”

“Do you think it was the last of his war paintings?” Maisie leaned forward.

Courtman was quiet for some moments, then he looked up at Maisie. “You know, I think it was. I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but when I consider his work and the way he spoke of that piece—he never said anything specific about it, by the way—I do believe it was the last of his war paintings.” He paused once more, just for a moment. “Yes, very intuitive of you, Miss Dobbs. How very astute you are.”

“No, not me. It was something suggested by Randolph Bradley, actually.”

“Hmmph! The American moneybags, eh? Well, he should know, shouldn’t he? He all but bought Nick himself, the way he snapped up his work. He was furious about that triptych, or whatever it is. Furious! He came to the gallery when we were setting up Nick’s scaffolding—and, let me tell you, we knew what we were doing, that scaffolding was solid, absolutely solid.”

“What did he want?”

“He called Nick aside. They started talking quietly, you know, backslapping from Bradley, lots of congratulatory comments, that sort of thing. Then there was a pause and the next thing you know, Bradley is saying, ‘I’ll have that painting if it’s the last thing I do—and if I don’t, your career is dead, pal!’ Makes you wonder, now that I think of it. Not that he would have done anything really. In fact, that’s what surprised me, you know, he’s always such a gentleman, as if he set out to show us how being British should be done. Bit of a cheek, for a bloody colonial.”

“Then what happened?”

“Oh, Svenson came out in a bit of a lather and everyone calmed down. Bradley apologized to Nick, to Duncan and me. He said that it just showed the sort of emotion Nick’s work inspired.”

“Did Nick say anything?”

“Oh, yes, that’s when he really let the cat out of the bag.”

“Yes?” Maisie inclined her head, in a manner that suggested simple curiosity, rather than the excited energy Alex’s words had inspired.

“He smiled, as if he’d really got the upper hand now. Then he said, quite calmly—you know, I’m surprised Georgie didn’t tell you this—”

“She knows the story?”

“For heaven’s sake—she was there! Anyway—”

“She was at the gallery, when this was going on?”

“Well, she came with Bradley.” He grinned. “Come on, you must have known about Georgie and Bradley?”

Maisie shook her head. “No. I didn’t.” She paused a moment, then was quick to go back to the conversation. She’d consider Georgie and the American later. “But, Mr. Courtman, how did Nick let the cat out of the bag?”

“He announced his intention for the piece—we’re all assuming it’s a triptych, but I don’t know, could have been more pieces—”

“And?”

“He said that this piece would not grace a private home, but instead he was going to give it to the nation, to the Tate or the National or even the war museum at the old Bethlem Lunatic Asylum in Lambeth—rather an appropriate place for a museum of war, don’t you think? A disused lunatic asylum? Anyway, Nick said, to everyone there, that it was his gift to the dead of war and those who would have us go to war in the future, so that we may never forget who we are.”

“Never forget who we are? Did he say what he meant?”

“Yes, in fact, Bradley asked him. ‘And who the hell are we, god-damn it?’ Bit embarrassing, to tell you the truth, but Nick wasn’t at all unnerved by it, even though the man spent a fortune, a fortune, on his work. He didn’t smile—his face said nothing about his mood—but he said, quite simply, “We are humanity.” And then he turned back to the scaffolding, and Duncan and I looked at each other and did the same, just carried on with our work, you know, shuffling Nick’s map of where the anchors for the painting—or paintings—should go, and getting down to it. Everyone went on their way with a bit of muttering here and there, as you can imagine. But Svenson never came back to tackle Nick, as far as I know, to give him a lecture about the purse strings. At the time I assumed he’d wait until everyone had calmed down before playing the diplomat, but…”

Maisie said nothing. Alex leaned back on the chesterfield and closed his eyes. He sat that way for some moments, until Maisie spoke in a soft voice. “You’ve been most helpful, Mr. Courtman.” She stood up, collected her black document case and checked her watch. “I really must be going now.”

“Righty-o.” Courtman came to his feet. “Hope I didn’t put my foot in it, you know, spilling the beans about Georgie and Bradley. You won’t tell her…well, if you do, please don’t let on that it was me who told you.”