Maisie silently opened the door for her client, steadying her as she descended the steps to the waiting car. She said nothing to Georgina about truth, about the instinct that had inspired her to seek Maisie’s help. It was not the right moment to speak of the inner voice that instructs us to move in a given direction, even though we know—even though we know and might never admit to such intuition—that to continue on our path is to risk the happiness of those we hold dear.
GEORGINA BASSINGTON-HOPE ALL but fell into her father’s embrace upon entering the interview room at Scotland Yard, her sobs matching his own as they held each other. Having escorted her to the room, along with a woman police auxiliary, Maisie turned to leave, only to hear Georgina call to her.
“No, please, Maisie—stay!”
Maisie looked to Stratton standing behind Piers Bassington-Hope, who gave a single nod. She could remain in the room.
Sitting close enough to see Georgina’s hands shaking, Maisie was silent as they spoke, Piers repeatedly clearing his throat and running his hands back through his silver hair as he recounted the events that led to his son’s death.
“I’d gone along to Nick’s cottage, must have been early in November. We hadn’t had much time to…to talk, as father and son, alone, for ages. You know what your mother’s like, always fussing around Nick, so that I hardly had time with him when he came to the house.” He swallowed, then cleared his throat again. “Nick had gone to fill the kettle with water from the barrel, so I sat down—next to a pile of sketchbooks. I began leafing through them—as always, stunned by your brother’s work.” He paused. “I was so proud of him.”
Georgina reached out to her father, then withdrew her hands to pull a handkerchief from her pocket, with which she rubbed her eyes.
Piers continued. “Nick was taking his time, so I continued—ready to put them down when he came in, you know how secretive he could be, and I wouldn’t want him to think I was snooping. And that’s when I found them, the sketchbooks….” He held a hand tohis chest, heaving a sob, then coughed, so much so that the woman auxiliary left the room to bring a cup of water.
“I—I recognized the subject of the work immediately, no mistaking it. And I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. How could he do that, how could my son…do that? He told me that the piece was the most ambitious undertaking of his life, that he could not compromise. Georgina, I begged him to choose an unknown model, but Nick declined, saying that in his work he must honor truth, and that he had thought long and hard about his decision, and felt it only right. I tried to make him understand, tried to make him see—but he just waved me away, told me I was an old man who didn’t understand what art was all about these days, that I should stick to ivy-clad walls.” Piers clenched his teeth, trying to stem the tears. “My son thought I was spent as an artist, and my pleas were met with disdain—there’s no other word for it.” He held out his hand to Georgina. “You know how Nick could be, Georgie; you know how stubborn he could be, how intractable.” He leaned back in his chair. “I came again over the following weeks, came to ask him to reconsider, to petition him to stop, to think again, to…to be kind in his work. But he wouldn’t give an inch.”
Piers sipped from the cup of water, then began to describe the final bid to change his son’s mind. He had come to the gallery on the eve of the exhibition when everyone had left, knowing that he was the only person who had any knowledge of the paintings and knowing that success in his plea was imperative. Entering by the front door— left open by Stig Svenson—Piers saw his son was on the trestle and, wanting to face him, rather than look up at him—a desire that Maisie understood immediately, though Piers would not have been able to explain his motivation—he went to the stairs leading to the landing and was soon on a level with his son. Still agile, Piers had climbed over the railing and onto the scaffolding so that he could press home the importance of his request. Nick began to turn his back on his father, going about his work as if he were not there.
Piers Bassington-Hope sobbed as he continued. “I had seen, then, the cold refusal in Nick’s eyes. He infuriated me. After all, how could he be so indifferent, so oblivious to what he was doing? I could not help myself, I could not—”
Georgina handed her father a fresh handkerchief, which he pressed to his eyes. “I am so terribly sorry.” He shook his head, then went on. “I—I could not help myself. I raised my hand and struck him across the cheek, then again with the back of my hand. I struck my own son.” He swallowed deeply, placing a hand on his chest once more in a bid to control his emotions. “Then the trestle began to move. We both became unsteady, barely able to stand upright, then…then…Nick turned around and swore at me, and I—I lost control of my senses. It was as if I were blind. I could not see, could only feel this…this welter of anger that rose up from my feet and exploded in my head. I felt my hand connect with the side of Nick’s face, then I reached out to grab hold of the scaffolding, anything to steady myself. Then Nick was gone. It happened before I could stop it. One second he was there, a look of complete disbelief on his face.” Piers looked directly at Stratton. “I had never raised a hand to any of my children, Inspector. Never.” He was silent for a moment. “Then Nick was gone. Before I could reach out, before he could gain a foothold, he was gone, the barrier broken as he fell. And I heard a terrible, terrible thud as he hit the stone floor.” Piers Bassington-Hope leaned sideways, moaning, as if he would collapse. A police constable stepped forward to support him.
“When did you know your son was dead, Mr. Bassington-Hope?” Stratton spoke with a steady voice, neither soft nor confrontational.
Piers shook his head. “I thought he might cry out, might get up and begin to berate me for challenging him. I wanted him to shout at me, to argue, to yell—anything but that silence.”
“So, you left the gallery?”
Piers looked up, indignation evident in his eyes. “Oh, no, no. I rushed to his side and I…I knew he was dead, could see the life gone from his eyes. So I held my son in my arms until…until his body was cold.” He explained that it was only as dawn broke that he panicked, his thoughts now of his wife and daughters and the anguish they would feel upon learning that Nick was dead. The last words he spoke before Stratton brought the meeting between Georgina and her father to an end were, “He was my son, Inspector,
NICK BASSINGTON-HOPE’S FINAL exhibition at Svenson’s Gallery took place in early February 1931, with a select group of family and friends invited to preview an event that was also a memorial to the artist, who—as Svenson made a point of telling everyone who came—would be remembered as an interpreter of both the human and natural landscape. There were those who were surprised to see Piers Bassington-Hope escort his wife from the Invicta motor car that drew up outside the gallery, and as guests entered, Harry Bassington-Hope, at first tentatively, then with more confidence, lift his trumpet to play the heartrending lament he’d composed after first seeing the work his brother had named
Duncan and Quentin arrived together, furtively nodding an acknowledgment toward Maisie, who had helped broker their freedom with a full description of the events she had witnessed at the barn on Romney Marsh and a statement to the effect that she considered them “tea boys” in the diamond smuggling operation. Alex Courtman stepped into the gallery and joined his two friends, then looked around the room as if searching for someone. He saw Maisie, raised his hand to greet her, only to have his attention drawn to the door: Randolph Bradley had arrived, his shining American Du Pont Merrimac Town Car eliciting gasps from onlookers as it pulled alongside the entrance to the gallery. Bradley made an entrance wearing a stylish English double-breasted suit, and Maisie saw
