just a hint of disapproval from Nolly when he approached her sister, who gave a half smile as she raised a cheek to be kissed by her lover. Soon Harry leaned back, pressing his lips into a piercing final note and the low murmur of those gathered ceased as Stig Svenson climbed the steps onto a plinth, beside which was the cord that, when pulled, would open the thick, blood-red velvet drapes to reveal the completed
Svenson pressed a white handkerchief to his eyes as he stood behind the lectern to address the guests, who edged forward to hear him speak.
“Thank you, all of you, for coming today. As those closest to Nick, I know you would not have missed this opportunity to view
“We all knew Nick. We all knew that he journeyed to the very edge of convention in his quest to tell the truth of what he saw, of what he felt in his very soul, with his skill as an artist. You’ve seen his early work, seen the Flemish villages, abundant landscapes, the murals, works of utmost complexity, and every one marked by an acute sense of place, or perhaps an appreciation of love, of hatred, of war, of peace. He was a man of and beyond his time, a man of sensitivity almost crushed by the weight of his experience in the years 1914 to 1918. This piece is, perhaps, his most telling. It is a work of art that will leave not one of you with an opinion steeped in the gray mist of ambiguity. Be prepared to hate it, be prepared to love it, but do not expect to leave untouched by the message of Nicholas Bassington-Hope.”
It seemed as if everyone in the room held their breath at the moment when Svenson turned to the pulley and drew back the drapes concealing the masterpiece sought since the night of the artist’s death. As silence followed the collective gasp, Maisie opened her eyes, for she had closed them when Svenson reached for the cord. No one uttered a sound. She had seen the complete work in the days leading up to the opening, yet none of the impact was lost with familiarity, in fact, as the artist intended, at every viewing another scene seemed to come to the fore, giving rise to a new emotion.
The segment that had stemmed Billy’s desire to see more when they first visited the lock-up formed the base of the exhibit. Each and every face was clear and distinct, the artist achieving a level of detail reminiscent of the masters he’d studied in Brugge and Ghent. Three large pieces—the anticipated triptych—formed the next level, and were deliberately shaped to resemble the stained glass windows of a grand cathedral. The column to the left mirrored part of the scene below, the soldiers’ expressions even clearer now, filled with fear, terror and determination as they marched forward. Then the magnificent giant centerpiece that had every person in the gallery transfixed. Maisie felt as if she were part of the scene, as if her feet were caught in the mud and blood of
The scene depicted required no explanation. A cease-fire had been called, and, as was the custom, stretcher- bearers from both sides had been sent forth to bring back the living, while others toiled with shovels to bury the dead. Soldiers brushed shoulders with those against whom they had fought, and every man knew that it was not uncommon for friend to help foe commit a countryman to the earth. There was much for the battle-weary to accomplish as the guns would be alive with shells and bullets before too long and men would be marching upon one another’s trenches with bayonets fixed, intent upon killing before death could claim them. Nick Bassington-Hope had seen that moment, had recorded the instant when two infantrymen, one British, one German, had come upon their own, the dead having fallen to the ground next to each other. With mud and blood smeared across their faces, exhaustion writ large in eyes that had looked into the furnace of hell, the soldiers had reacted with instinct and, instead of taking up arms, in that terrible moment had reached toward each other for comfort. And there they were captured in time, almost as if a camera had been used, rather than oils. The men were kneeling, locked in a raw embrace, one clutching the other, as if holding on to that other human being was to hold on to life itself. The artist had caught, in eyes, in mouths, in lines across foreheads, in white-knuckled hands, a depth of grief, a futility that came when man recognized man, not as an enemy with a gun, but as a reflection of himself. And it was clear to anyone who knew the family that the British soldier offering succor to the German was the dead war hero Godfrey Grant.
Noelle had already seen her brother’s work. Without faltering, she had stood in front of the painting, recognizing now why Piers had sought to protect her. Maisie remained with the woman, as her eyes moved from the center panel to the one on the right, the panel that spoke the truth of her husband’s death. Nick Bassington- Hope could never tell his sister that her husband was murdered, that he was tortured, then shot, by the very men with whom he had served. The gentle Godfrey, who had turned to his enemy and seen, instead, his brother, had made his way back to the British front line, to a silence in the trench that was broken only by taunting. He stood next to men who, afraid of what it meant to see the enemy as human, instead saw a foe in their fellow man. His life ended with the letters LMF scrawled in blood across his forehead. LOW MORAL FIBRE.
With his brush, Nick had told a story no words could recount. The two final pieces, triangular-shaped segments to the upper left and right of the triptych, designed so that the collection of paintings would form a rectangle when displayed together, revealed something of what he had come to sense as a pilgrim in the wild places that healed him, that before there was barbed wire and trenches there were verdant fields and thick green forests, and, after the battle, so the grass would grow again, the land belonging not to man, but to nature, to love. No matter what claim there might be on this soil or that, the artist knew it all to be no man’s land.
While some moved forward to study the pieces in detail, others, including Piers and Emma Bassington-Hope, moved back to view the work as a whole. No one spoke, there was no discussion of light or depth, of a brushstroke here, the use of a palette knife there. Maisie recalled something that Dr. Wicker, the expert who had been so helpful at the Tate, had said in response to a question: “With a true masterpiece, there are no words required. Discourse is rendered redundant. That’s why the work of a master transcends all notions of education, of class. It rises above the onlooker’s understanding of what is considered good or bad, or right and wrong in the world of art. With the artist who has achieved mastery, skill, experience and knowledge are transparent, leaving only the message for all to see.”
Maisie remained in the gallery for just a few moments longer, then left to return to her office, for she wanted to complete final notes on the written report she would hand to Georgina Bassington-Hope when the time was right, along with her bill. She bid good night to the two policemen in plain clothes who waited by the door to escort Piers Bassington-Hope back to the cell where he awaited trial on a charge of manslaughter. Though the detective sergeant held a pair of handcuffs, they would most likely not be used until the prisoner stepped from the motor car upon arrival at their destination. As Maisie emerged from the gallery into the freezing night and made her way toward the MG, she realized she was glad to be leaving.
LATER, HAVING COMPLETED her report, Maisie leaned back, put the notes in an envelope, tied the two strings together to seal the flap and placed the envelope in her drawer. Trusting time to be the most efficient editor, she would check the notes in a few days, then the closing bill would be calculated for presentation to her client when they met. In the days that followed, she would undertake the process she referred to as her “final accounting,” a period of time during which she visited the places and, where appropriate, the people she had encountered as she worked on a given case. It was a method learned in her apprenticeship with Maurice Blanche, and one that had served her well, enabling work to begin on the next investigation with renewed energy and insight.
