“And was it?”
“Not at all. We’re all quite different, but if I can go up the ladder hanging on to Nick’s coattails, then that’s what I’ll do.”
Maisie paused before continuing. “You said at the party that you met some years ago.”
He nodded. “Yes, as I told you, we all met at the Slade, though I knew Duncan better than I knew Nick and Quentin, to tell you the truth. Not that you would guess, but I’m a bit younger than the others, a latecomer to the group. It doesn’t make much difference now, but in those days I was definitely the new boy. Then we joined the Artists’ Rifles together, more or less, which sealed the friendships, though Nick, Duncan and Quentin are—were—something of an exclusive trio. But when it comes to a move such as the one to Dungeness and away again—it only takes one and we all fall in.”
“And who was the one?”
“Nick. He’s the one who said that we ought to do our bit in the war. Seemed as if that’s all people said then, you know, do your bit. Trouble was, it was a bit too much to have bitten off, if you ask me. Old men always tell the young to do their bit, and half the time it isn’t anything they’d want to do themselves.”
“Indeed.” Maisie nodded, familiar with the stream of disillusion that formed an undercurrent to conversations concerning the war. Sometimes the emotion came from angry defense of the war, but more often, she realized, it was inspired by an inability to understand how and why the war happened, and why so many who fought were now all but abandoned, or so it appeared. Hadn’t Mosley exploited the situation at Georgina’s party? And hadn’t so many been drawn to his words, as if he could provide answers to their own deepest questions? She continued. “Perhaps you can tell me about the Rifles. Was this where you got to know each other really well?”
“In training, not over in France. We were all assigned to different regiments. Nick ended up in the same regiment as his brother-in-law, much to his dismay, though I understand he came to rather like the old chap.” Courtman stared out the window, his eyes blankly focused across chimney pots and into the distance. “He said in a letter that he’d always thought the man was a bit wet, but came to regard him as simply kind. Nick was quite shattered when he was killed.”
“Do you know the circumstances, specifically?” Maisie had not expected the conversation to take this turn and was intrigued enough to allow the man to reminisce.
Courtman turned to Maisie. “Circumstances? You mean other than two lines of men with guns pointed at each other?”
“I meant—”
“Yes, I know what you meant. I was being facetious. Talking about the war does that to me. How did Godfrey Grant die? As far as I know it was during a cease-fire.”
“Cease-fire?”
“Yes. I mean, you’ve heard about the Christmas truce and all that? Well, there wasn’t just one truce, you know. It happened fairly often. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for there to be a quick truce for both sides to whip out, collect their wounded and bury their dead. Imagine it, men like ants scurrying back and forth, trying to honor their own before some smart-aleck officer calls them all back to their own side for another round.”
“Nolly’s husband was killed in a truce?”
“Yes, as far as I know. Not sure what happened, of course. Probably didn’t get back to his trench before they 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.”