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 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.”