Maisie shook her head. “I do not believe there was a direct link.”
“Thank God. At least his sister will rest when she hears that you’ve come to the conclusion that it was an accident after all.”
“That’s not what I said, Inspector.” She paused. “You’d better be off, it sounds like Vance is rather impatient, with that insistent motor horn. I will be in touch.”
Stratton was about to speak again, then seemed to think better of it. He left with a nod to Maisie and Billy.
“BLIMEY, MISS, I was amazed, the way you ’andled them two coppers.” Billy shook his head. “Mind you, you don’t reckon you let the cat out of the bag a bit soon, you know, showed your hand premature?”
“Billy, I barely told them a thing. They can fight it out between themselves, and then with the Customs and Excise. Revealing something of what I know gets them off my back for now—no, let them all come off their high horses and put their cards on the table, then they might achieve something instead of treading on one another’s shoes or being afraid that one department will bag the laurels first.”
“So, what’s been going on—and what do we do next?”
Maisie returned to the table by the window and looked down at their original case map. She picked up a pencil and struck a line through words and scribbled ideas that pertained to the smuggling operation, then she circled the notes remaining, looping them together with a red pencil. Billy joined her and ran his finger along the new lines that charted the progress of her thinking.
“I would never ’ave guessed that, Miss.”
Maisie frowned, her eyes clear, her voice low as she responded. “No, neither would I, Billy. Not at first, anyway. Come on, we’ve got work to do. I won’t be able to prove this without more legwork on our part.” She walked to the door and reached for her mackintosh. “Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I? I know where the lock-up is. We’re going there now, then we’ll go to see Svenson again.”
Billy helped her into her mackintosh, took his coat and hat from the hook, and opened the door. “Why do we need to see ’im again?”
“Corroboration, Billy. And, if I’m right, to organize a very special exhibition.”
THE LOCK-UP WAS in what Maisie would have called an “in-between” area. It was neither a slum nor was it considered a desirable neighborhood, but it was instead a series of streets with houses that, one might think, could have gone either way. Built a century before in a convenient location on the south side of the river by a wealthy merchant class, the houses had been grand in their day, but in more recent years many had been divided into flats and bed-sitting-rooms. Once-tended gardens were gone, though there were some patches of green from an abandoned lawn here or a rose turned to briar there. Pubs and corner shops were still well frequented, and people on the street did not seem as down-at-heel and wanting as those in the neighborhood where Billy lived. Another year of economic strife, though, and life could change for the locals.
They saw only one other motor car, a sure sign that they had left the West End. A coster went by atop his horse-drawn barrow, calling out the contents of his load as he passed. He waved to other drivers—of carriages, not motor cars—as the horse lumbered down the street.
Slowing the MG to a crawl, Maisie squinted to read the street names on the right, while Billy, clutching a piece of paper with the address they were seeking, looked out on the left.
“It should be along here, Billy.”
“ ’old up, what’s this?”
They had just passed a corner pub, and on a strip of land before the next house, a one-story brick building with double doors at the front was partially hidden behind an overgrowth of grass and brambles. A broken path led to the doors and a number had been painted on the wall.
“Yes, this is it.” Maisie drew the MG to a halt and looked around. “I would rather no one knew we were here.”
“Let’s park the old jam jar back there, nearer where we made that first turn. There was a bit more traffic there. Little red motor like this stands out a bit round ’ere.”
Maisie drove to the spot suggested by Billy and they walked back to the lock-up.
“Who do you reckon owns this place?”
“Probably the publican, or the brewery. I would imagine Nick walked around looking for a place like this, and the rent would have been welcomed by the owners if it was sitting here unused.”
They stepped carefully along the path, where Maisie knelt down and opened her black document case. She removed the envelope found under the carriage floorboard and took out the key. She leaned closer to the lock, pressed the key home and felt the tumblers click.
“Got it, Miss?”
She nodded. “Got it!”
Together they pulled back the doors, entered the lock-up and closed the doors behind them again.
“I imagined it would be darker in here.”
Maisie shook her head. “I didn’t. The man needed light, he was an artist. And I doubt if those skylights were there when he rented the place—look, they seem quite new, and raising them up like that would have cost a penny or two. He intended to use this for a long time.”
They spent a moment inspecting the skylight, which ran the full length of the lock-up—a not insignificant thirty-odd feet—and both commented on the way it had been raised first, then constructed into a pointed roofline. Maisie looked around the room, for it certainly seemed more like a room than a glorified shed.
“In fact, I would say he put quite a bit of money into this place.” She pointed to indicate her observations. “Look over there, the way the crates are stacked and held back. And the shelving for canvases and paints. There’s a stove and cupboards, an old chaise, the carpet. This was not only a place where he worked on the larger pieces, but this was his workshop—that’s a drafting table, look, with plans for exhibits. If Dungeness was his coastal retreat, then this was his factory. This is where it was all put together.”
“And everything’s in its place.” Billy’s eyes followed Maisie’s hand. “I tell you, Miss, I bet there’s more room ’ere than in our little ’ouse. In fact, I wonder why ’e didn’t make a bit of a garden out there? Doesn’t seem like ’im to let it stay wild like that.”
She shook her head. “A garden would have attracted attention. I suspect he wanted to come in, go to work, leave again…and all on his own time.” Maisie took off her gloves and surveyed the room again. “Right, I want to search every nook and cranny, and I want to ensure we’re not disturbed. We’ve good light, thanks to those”—she pointed to the skylights—“and I’ve brought my small torch with me. Now then, I’m anxious to see if my suspicions are right about those crates over there.”
They walked over to a series of crates of differing sizes, though each was approximately eight inches wide.
“Let’s see how many there are first.” Maisie nodded to Billy, who already had his notebook in hand. “And keep your ears open for voices. We have to be as quiet as we can.”
“Right you are.” Billy nodded in agreement, then shrugged as he touched a number on the top of a crate. “What d’you reckon these are for?”
Maisie scrutinized the numbers, which were marked 1/6, 2/6 and so on until the final crate, which was marked 6/6. “All right, this looks fairly straightforward, though we won’t know until we get inside. This has to be the main piece for the exhibit and the numerals suggest that it comprises six pieces.”
“So, it’s not a triptych then?”
“We’ll soon find out.”
“Are we going to open all of them?”
“Perhaps. Then we must search this place for anything pertaining to the placement. Nick gave Alex and Duncan a guide to positioning anchors and other fixtures that would secure the works, though he didn’t reveal how many pieces, or in what order they should be put in place. There must be a master plan here somewhere, something he worked on…and there has to be a cache of sketchbooks that contain the preliminary drawings and roughs that he used to create the wor
k.”
“What about all those books you saw down in Dungeness?” Billy asked Maisie while studying a tool rack. “Gawd, even ’is tools’re kept neat and tidy.”
“The sketchbooks were revealing in that I could see his progress, the images that moved him, right from his early days as an artist. But even though they contained his reflections upon the war, I think there are books, somewhere, that definitely pertain to this collection.”
“Crowbar, Miss?”
“That’ll do, but take care.”
“Which one shall I start with?”
Maisie touched the first crate. “This one. It’s one of the largest, and it’s on the outside, so let’s be logical and open it first.”
Billy shimmied the crowbar between two slats of wood, pulling them apart. With each crack as a nail came free, both Maisie and her assistant stopped all movement and listened to ensure they had not drawn unwanted company. Finally, the crate was opened, and Maisie reached to pull out a painting that had been packed in a similar manner to those she had seen unloaded by the smugglers. Billy helped her stand the work against another crate before removing a hopsack covering, followed by a clean linen cloth, which, when pulled back, revealed the painting.
In a plain wooden frame, the piece appeared to be a horizontal panel measuring approximately eight feet by three feet.
“Blimey.”
Maisie said nothing, feeling the breath catch in her throat.
Billy reached to touch the piece, and though she thought it would be better to stop him, Maisie found that she couldn’t, for she understood the action as a reflex of memory.
“It’s got me right ’ere, Miss.” He touched his chest with fingertips that had lingered on the painting.
“Me too, Billy.”
The panoramic scene depicted two armies marching toward each other, with every last detail so clearly visible that Maisie felt that she could focus on the face of a soldier and see into his soul. Across and through the barbed wire they ran forward to meet the enemy, then, to both left and right, men began falling, with wounds to head, to leg, arm and heart taking them down. In the mural, so full of movement that it appeared animated, the two armies were not shown in combat, for instead the foot soldiers had become stretcher-bearers, running to their wounded, caring for the dying, burying their dead. Ants in khaki going about the business of war, the toil expected of them. The work suggested no victor and no vanquished, no right side and no wrong side, just two battalions moving toward each other with the terrible consequence of death. Blending skill with passion, Nick Bassington-Hope had revealed the landscape of war in all its darkness and terror—the sky lit by shellfire, mud dragging down those who remained unfelled and the stretcher-bearers, those brave souls who hurried across no-man’s-land in the service of life.
“If that’s just one of ’em, I’m not sure I can look at the rest.”
Maisie nodded and whispered, as if to speak aloud would dishonor the dead. “I just need to see one or two others, then we’ll pack them all up again.”
“All right, Miss.” He lifted the crowbar and began to open the next crate.
THE TASK COMPLETED, Maisie and Billy leaned against shelving to rest for a moment.
“Does anyone know what Mr. B-H wanted to call this ’ere masterpiece?”
“Not as far as I know. People don’t even know what to call it, and because he was so interested in the triptych form while in Belgium before the war, they all assumed that’s what it was.”
“I don’t reckon I ever want to ’ear the word triptych again, not after this.”
“I don’t think I do, either. Now then, if you search through those shelves over there, I’ll attack this chest of drawers.”
Both began work in silence, as a bladelike shaft of sunlight piercing through the clouds came to their aid with a shimmering beam onto the glass above. Taking up a series of papers and rough sketches, Maisie looked over at her assistant, who was pulling out a collection of completed but unwrapped canvases. “Will your boys be home soon, Billy?”
“Reckon by the weekend. The ’ospital talked about convalescence somewhere on the coast—you know, fresh air to clear the lungs. Of course, if Doreen’s brother-in-law ’adn’t decided to throw in ’is lot to come up to London, we could probably ’ave done it, but not now. Costs money, does that. But the boys will be all right, you’ll see.” He hesitated, just for a second. “Of course, they know about their sister now, that we’ve lost Lizzie.”
“I see,” Maisie said as she pulled a collection of thick sketchbooks from a drawer. Of quarto dimension, they were each numbered in the same manner as the crates in which Nick had identified his masterwork. “Oh, look…one, two, three, four…” She leafed through each one in turn. “These are the sketchbooks where Nick did his preparatory work for the pieces, but—”
“What is it, Miss?”
“Two are missing.”
“P’raps Mr. B-H put them somewhere else, took them down to ’is cottage in Dungeness.”
“Yes, of course, they must be down there.”
“Do you remember seeing them?”
“No, but—”
Billy was silent, then, for his thoughts had kept pace with Maisie’s. She set the sketchbooks to one side.
“Those are coming with us. I think we can go now.”
“Don’t we need to find the diagram thing that shows how all the bits of art are put together on the wall?”
Maisie shook her head. “No. From the pieces I inspected, each segment has a certain shape and will only fit logically in one place, just like a puzzle. It shouldn’t be difficult to work out.”
They ensured that everything in the lock-up was left as they had found it, then secured the doors and walked to the MG. Billy glanced sideways at Maisie and cleared his throat, ready to ask a question.
She responded before he uttered a word, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m all right, Billy. It’s just those paintings…”
Eighteen
It was midafternoon before Maisie and Billy arrived at Svenson’s Gallery, opening the main door to a flurry of activity as the Guthrie collection was in the midst of being taken down and packed for shipping to new owners. Svenson was ever dapper in another well-cut suit set off by a rich-blue cravat and bright-white silk shirt. He called across to Arthur Levitt, instructing him to oversee the movement of one particular piece, and as the visitors stood to one side waiting for him to notice them, he reprimanded a young man for having “fingers like sausages and a grip like a wet fish,” adding that the painting in his hands was worth more than his granny’s portrait over the mantelpiece at home.
“Excuse me, Mr. Svenson!” Maisie raised her hand to attract the gallery owner as he moved on.
“Ah, Miss…er, Miss…” He turned and smiled, giving additional orders as he approached.
“It’s Miss Dobbs, and this is my colleague, Mr. Beale.”
“Charmed to see you again, and to make your acquaintance, Mr. Beale.” He inclined his head toward Billy and brought his attention back to Maisie. “How may I be of service to you, Miss Dobbs? I trust that all is well with our friend Georgina.”
Maisie nodded. “Quite well, though it’s still early days, isn’t it?”
“Yes, poor Nicholas’s death hit Georgie particularly hard.” He paused, then remembering that there was clearly a reason for her visit, spoke again. “Forgive me, Miss Dobbs, but is there something I can assist you with?”
“May we speak in private?”
“Of course.” Svenson held out his hand in the direction of his office, then called to Levitt. “Make sure those gorillas are careful with that portrait!”
The office was, like the gallery, a bright room with white walls and furniture constructed of dark oak and shiny chrome. There was a cocktail cabinet in one corner, a system of filing cabinets in another, and in the center, a large desk with two trays of documents, one on either side of a leather blotting pad. A set of two crystal inkwells was positioned at t
he top of the pad, along with a matching container with a clutch of fountain pens, each one of a different design. A black telephone was within easy reach. Though there were two chairs in front of the desk, Svenson directed his guests to the right of the door, where a coffee table was surrounded by a matching settee and two chairs in black leather.
“So, what can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”
“First of all, I have to make a confession. My first visit to your gallery was not in the context of my friendship with Georgina. We were, indeed, both at Girton, though her purpose for being in touch with me was in connection with my profession. I am a private inquiry agent, Mr. Svenson, an investigator—”
“But—” The color rose in Svenson’s cheeks as he began to stand.
Maisie smiled. “Let me finish, Mr. Svenson, there is no cause for alarm.” She waited for a second or two, then, satisfied he would not interrupt again, she went on. “Georgina came to me several weeks after Nick’s death, essentially because she felt, in her heart, that his passing was not the result of a simple, unfortunate accident. Given my work, and my reputation, she wanted me to make some inquiries, and to see whether there might be any reason for doubt—she understood that her emotional state might render her unable to see the facts with clarity.” Maisie chose her words with care, so that Svenson felt no undue pressure from the weight they carried—after all, the man in question had died on his premises.
Svenson nodded. “I wish she had confided in me; I could have helped her, poor girl.”
Billy stole a glance at Maisie and raised his eyebrows. Maisie nodded in reply, then continued speaking to Svenson.
“Please, do not take this as an indication of my suspicions or findings, but I do have some questions for you. I understand that you came back to the gallery later in the day that Nick died, to speak to him—is that so?”
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