Messenger of Truth

had words both on the morning and on the evening of his death, and I left without saying good-bye, or sorry, or… anything, really.” Georgina began to weep.

Maisie said nothing, allowing the tears to fall and then subside before continuing.

“And you do not think that the argument might have rendered Nick so unsettled as to make an error of judgment with his step?”

“Absolutely not! Nick was too single-minded to allow such a thing. In fact, he was probably so hardened in his response to my appeal because he had only one thing on his mind—exhibiting the triptych.”

Maisie reached for her scarf, beside her on the chesterfield. “Yes, I understand.” She stood up, collected her gloves and bag and turned as if to leave, though she faced Georgina. “And you didn’t see anyone else after you left the gallery that evening?”

“Well, Stig came back. I saw him turn into Albemarle Street as I left the gallery. Frankly, I didn’t really want to see him and fortunately a taxi-cab came along at just that moment.”

“About what time was this? Had Mr. Levitt gone for the day?”

“Yes, Levitt had left.” She closed her eyes, as if to recall the events. “In fact, I know he’d left because I had to bang on the front door for Nick to open it. The back door was locked.”

“And did you leave by the front door?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if Nick locked it behind you again?”

“Um, no, I don’t.” She bit her lip. “You see, he told me to just leave him alone, that he just wanted to get on with his work. I could barely speak to him, it was just so unlike us to be at odds with each other.”

Maisie sighed, allowing a pause in the questioning. “Georgina, why did you not tell me about the affair with Bradley sooner? You must have known how important such information could be.”

Georgina shrugged. “Having an affair with a married man is not something I’m proud of, to be perfectly honest with you.”

Maisie nodded thoughtfully and walked to the painting above the cocktail cabinet. “This is new, isn’t it?”

Georgina looked up, distracted. “Um, yes, it is.”

“From Svenson?”

“No, I’m looking after it, for a friend.”

“Lovely to have it for a while.”

She nodded. “Yes. I hope it won’t be too long though.”

Maisie noticed a wistfulness about her client, a blend of regret and sadness that possession of the piece seemed to have brought with it. She continued to look at the painting, and as she did so, a fragment of the jigsaw puzzle that was Nick Bassington-Hope’s life fell into place—and she hoped it was exactly the right place.

Maisie did not question Georgina Bassington-Hope further, satisfied—for the moment, in any case—with her responses. She was dismayed, however, that she had not learned of the unlocked front entrance to the gallery before.

As the women stood on the threshold, Georgina having waved her housekeeper away, saying she would see Miss Dobbs out, Maisie decided to throw a grain of possibility to the once-renowned journalist.

“Georgina, you mentioned that you needed a war to ignite your work.” Maisie made the statement without inflection in her voice.

“Yes, but—”

“Then you need look no farther than the boundaries of the city in which you live, though you will have to risk traveling beyond your chosen milieu.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Beale and his wife have lost their youngest child to diphtheria. In a house that barely contains one family, they have taken in a family of four—almost five, a new baby will be born before the end of the day—because his brother-in-law has lost his job. And the Beales are among those who consider themselves better off. Your friend, Oswald Mosley, has lost no time in using such circumstances for political gain; however, I am unaware of any real understanding among those who have of the plight of those who have not. The war is being waged, Georgina, only the war is here and now, and it is a war against poverty, against disease and against injustice. Didn’t Lloyd George promise something better to the men who fought for their country? You would do well to consider igniting your pen with that for a story! I’m sure your American publisher would be happy with the unexpected view you put forward.”

“I—I hadn’t thought—”

“I’ll be in touch soon, Georgina. Expect to hear from me within two days.”

Georgina nodded and was about to close the door when Maisie turned to her one last time. “Oh, by the way, are you acquainted with a Mr. Stein?”

Georgina frowned and shook her head rather too fiercely as she replied, “No. The only Stein I know is Gertrude.”

MAISIE WONDERED IF she had gone too far with Georgina. What do I know about journalism, to be advising her? Then she reconsidered. The woman was clearly grief-stricken over her brother’s death, but wasn’t it also true that her actions since that time reflected a need to have some of her old power back? Bullying the police had led her, in frustration and anguish, to Dame Constance, who had in turn led her to Maisie. And now, of course, she was fueling her emotions with an adulterous affair. Georgina had been known as a maverick in the war, a young woman who went too far, who pushed as hard as she could—indeed, she had been something of a cause celebre among the alumnae of Girton College. Her bravery had inspired a notoriety that even her detractors could not fail to admire. But now, with no cause to champion, no passionate call to arms to draw out her skill with words, no treacherous game of risk to excite her, her language had become flabby, her interest in her assignments minimal. It did not take an expert in journalism to understand