Messenger of Truth

I can’t seem to get going.”

“Perhaps it’s your subject, rather than your ability.”

“Hardly. The man elicits excitement wherever he goes. I can’t think why I cannot get the words on the page. I can’t seem to describe the honesty, the integrity of his mission.”

Maisie smiled. “Could that be because, in truth, such qualities are not truly present?”

“What do you mean?” Georgina sat up. Her spine, previously curved under the weight of a burdensome task, was now erect with indignation. “He is—”

“It was simply a question to consider. Have you experienced such an issue with your work before?”

“No.” She curled a stray wisp of hair behind her ear before leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. “Sorry, that’s a lie. To tell you the truth, even though I’ve done quite well—especially with the bound collection of my wartime reports—I haven’t been really inspired since the peace conference in 1919.” Georgina shook her head, slapped her hands on her knees and stood up, folding her arms and walking to the fireplace, where she reached down, took up a poker and plunged it into the fire, moving the hot coals around to stoke the flames. “I think I need a war to write about, to tell you the truth. I should really just leave the country and look for one.”

Maisie smiled, though it was not a smile of mirth but one that she knew was rooted in an emotion akin to that expressed by Billy when he first met the Bassington-Hope woman. Her resentment was growing, but she was mindful that even though she knew the woman a little better now, she was still a client.

“As I said, Georgina, I’d like to ask a few questions. First of all, are Nick’s friends still with you?”

“No, Duncan left this morning. As far as I know, he and Quentin have gone down to Dungeness, as planned. They both have loose ends to deal with.” She paused, looking at Maisie. “I thought you were going again this week.”

“Yes, that’s right.” She did not elucidate with more information. “They’ve been here for a week or so, haven’t they?”

Georgina poked the fire once more, then replaced the cast-iron tool in the holder next to the coal scuttle. “Yes, I think they were down for just a day around about the time you visited. I remember thinking that it was a shame you hadn’t met then. You must have just missed them.”

“Of course.” Maisie was thoughtful. I am right. Today is the day. “Georgina, may I ask some personal questions?”

The woman was cautious, her chin held a little higher, betraying a reticence she would likely not have wanted to reveal. “Personal questions?”

“First of all, why did you not tell me of the encounter between Mr. Bradley and Nick at the gallery on the afternoon before he died?”

“I—I—I forgot. It wasn’t terribly nice, so I wanted to forget, to tell you the truth.”

Maisie pushed harder. “Might it have anything to do with your relationship with Mr. Bradley?”

Georgina cleared her throat and Maisie, once again, watched as she pushed down the cuticles of each finger, moving from her left hand to her right as she answered. “There was no relationship, as you put it, at that time.”

“There was an attraction.”

“Of—of course…. I mean, I had always got on with Randolph—I mean, Mr. Bradley. But we weren’t close at the time of Nick’s death.”

“And what about you and Nick? I have asked you this question before, however, I understand that you went back to the gallery after the row in the afternoon—of course, it was a row during which you took Nick’s part. I realize you supported his refusal to sell the triptych.”

“Yes, I supported his decision. We always supported each other.”

“And why did you go back?”

“How did you—” Georgina sighed, now cupping her hands, one inside the other, on her lap. “I shouldn’t ask, should I? After all, I’m paying you to ask questions.” She swallowed, coughed, then went on. “I went back to talk to Nick. We’d left under a cloud and I couldn’t leave it on such terms. I wanted to explain.”

“What?”

“Nick knew that Randolph and I were attracted and he didn’t like it. Randolph was his greatest admirer, and Nick didn’t want complications. He also heartily disapproved of our interest in each other—which, I have to say was a bit rich, when you consider his peccadilloes.”

Maisie said nothing.

“He’d had an affair with Duncan’s wife-to-be,” continued Georgina, “and he’d had a bit of a fling with a married woman years ago, so he wasn’t so pure as the driven snow as Emsy would have you believe. Of course, my father knew what Nick was like, truly, and had upbraided him on more than one occasion.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But that was ages ago.” She waved her hand as if to dismiss a triviality. “I went to Nick to make up, to let him know that I supported him, and I wanted him to accept me too.”

“And he didn’t?”

“Not with Randolph, no. We’d argued about it before.” She paused, looking straight at Maisie. “My brother could be pretty bloody-minded when he liked, Maisie. On the one hand you had the easy-going brother, and on the other, a man with the morals of a vicar and actions that fell shy of the sort of behavior that Harry is capable of.”

“I see.”

“And he never forgot—and sometimes the things he saved in his mind turned up in his work—so you can imagine how I felt. I imagined a mural of star-crossed lovers with my face depicted alongside Randolph’s. So we