Messenger of Truth Read Online Free PDF Page A

twenty-nine now and a musician. Not classical, no, much to Nolly’s dismay he plays the trumpet in dark places where people have fun and enjoy themselves.”
    Billy came into the room, a coating of fresh snowflakes across his shoulders. “Taxi-cab’s outside, Miss B-H.”
    “Thank you, B—, Mr. Beale.” Georgina Bassington-Hope shook hands with Billy, then addressed Maisie. “See you at ten tomorrow morning at Svenson’s Gallery on Albemarle Street.” She paused for just a moment, plunging her hands inside her coat sleeves once again. “I know you will find out the truth, Maisie. And I know you will find his killer, of that I am sure.”
    Maisie nodded, moved as if to return to her desk, then turned back. “Georgina, forgive me—one last question, if I may.”
    “Of course.”
    “You were obviously close to your brother, you’ve said as much, but, were you on good terms when he died?”
    The woman’s eyes reddened. “Of course.” She nodded her head. “We were close, so close that we never had to explain ourselves to each other. We just knew about each other, to the point of perceiving what the other one was thinking, even when we were miles apart.” Georgina Bassington-Hope looked at Billy, who opened the door to accompany her downstairs to the waiting taxi-cab.
    When Billy came back to the office, he was shaking his head. “Well, what do you think about all that, Miss?”
    Maisie was now seated at the paper drawn across the table to form the case map, working with colored pencils to add notes to a small but growing diagram. “It’s too soon to say, Billy, too soon to even begin to draw conclusions.” She looked up. “Come and help me pin this paper onto the table.”
    Billy smoothed his hand across the paper to remove folds before pinning the edges and studied his employer’s preliminary notations as he worked. “What do we do next?”
    Maisie smiled. “Well, here’s what we’ll be doing this afternoon—we’re off to the Tate to learn a bit more than we know already about art.”
    “Oh, Miss…”
    “Come on, Billy, an hour or two spent in contemplation of the great world of art will do us both the power of good on this gray old day.”
    “If you say so, Miss. You never know, you might find something nice for them bare walls of yours!” Billy patted the case map as he pressed in the last pin, then moved from the table and collected Maisie’s coat, which he held out for her.
    “I think the bare walls are there to stay for a while, Billy. Furniture is top of my list for the new flat at the moment.” Maisie laughed as she buttoned her coat, collected her hat, scarf, gloves and document case. “Now then, let’s go and find a triptych or two. With a bit of luck we’ll find an amenable curator who will educate us about the people who can afford to buy such things without even looking at the goods or balking at the price!”

Two
    Maisie and Billy left Fitzroy Square at half past nine the following morning, each wrapped up in a heavy coat, scarf and hat.
    “Nippy, innit, Miss?”
    Maisie’s eyes watered. “Yes, and the so-called central heating system in my flat is not working properly—mind you, I thought it was too good to be true.”
    Billy stood aside for Maisie to go through the turnstile at Warren Street tube station before him, then they stepped onto the wooden escalator, one behind the other.
    “P’raps the main boiler weren’t put in right, what with the builder goin’ bust like ’e did.”
    Maisie turned around to continue the conversation as the escalator clattered down to the platforms. “Wouldn’t surprise me. I jumped at the chance to buy when the flats came up for sale, but there’s no proper system yet for those collective repairs, such as the heating that isn’t! I have discovered that bankers aren’t very good at being managers of property. They were probably thrilled when buyers came along but didn’t really think about what came next, only about recouping