Read Messenger of Truth for Free Online Page A

was formed from an extraordinary raw talent.”
    “I see. Of course, I know about Nick’s paintings from Georgina’s descriptions, but have never seen any exhibited.” She turned to Georgina. “I do hope this is not too difficult for you, dear.”
    Georgina smiled, understanding that Maisie had spoken with such intimacy so that Svenson would not doubt the authenticity of their friendship. She replied in the same vein. “Oh no, not at all, in fact, it’s all rather lovely, you know, talking about Nick’s work when all I have really thought about is that terrible accident.”
    “So, Mr. Svenson,” Maisie continued. “I’d love to hear more about the work that was on display before the accident.”
    “Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat and directed his full attention to Maisie, though she felt his proximity was rather too close. She took one step backward as he began to detail the artist’s life from his perspective. “First there was his interest in those artists from the Low Countries that he studied in Belgium. What is fascinating was that it was not the technique that interested him as much as the crafting of stories each told in a painting, which then led to another story and another painting. Structure was of great interest to him and his early work was rich with curiosity.”
    “Did he employ the triptych form even then?”
    “No, that came later. What he did, and this was interesting, was to paint fragments of stories on one canvas, so that he achieved a rather avant-garde effect. That phase was youthful, and though it reeked of the novice artist, it was also compelling and caused a stir when first exhibited—at this gallery, I might add, though it was in a collective exhibit.”
    “Interesting…”
    “Then, sadly, the war intervened and—as you know—Nick enlisted and was sent to France. I still believe it was his good fortune to have sustained an injury serious enough to bring him home. However, I was rather upset when I heard that he had accepted the work of war artist at the front. Mind you, it was an offer that was probably not up for discussion.”
    “No…” Maisie said only enough to keep Svenson talking. She would interview Georgina again later, and compare notes against what she had already learned about the dead man.
    “That, of course, was when he grew up, when he became not just a man, but—I am sad to say—an old man.” He sighed, as if genuinely pained. “But his work at that time proved to be more than a record, a moment in time to be placed in an archive. No, it became a…a…mirror. Yes, that is what it became, a mirror, a reflection of the very soul of war, of death, if such a thing exists. He became driven, his work no longer light or colorful, but dark, with heavy use of those colors one associates with the very bleakest period in one’s life. And of course, red. His work from that period was rich with red.”
    “Did his technique change? I have not seen those works, so I am trying to imagine them.” Maisie leaned forward, and though she was aware of Georgina watching her, she paid her no heed.
    “There were elements of the old work, the experimentation. Images superimposed, death a shadow in the background. And that was the thing that was most appealing to both the collector with an artistic sensibility and knowledge, and the rather well-heeled neophyte—Nick’s work needed no explanation. None at all. You could see his message, feel his emotions, see what he had seen. He touched you….” Svenson turned to Georgina and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Just as Georgina re-created what she saw with her words, so Nick could do the same with color and texture. What a family!”
    “What came next, from your perspective?” As she continued to question Svenson, Maisie noticed that Georgina had stepped aside, away from his grasp.
    “As you know, Nick left the country almost as soon as he received his demobilization papers. America was, frankly, the obvious