“So, you weren’t asked when you last saw Nick, that sort of thing?” Maisie was quick to bring the conversation back to her original question.
“Not specifically. To tell you the truth, I can barely remember. It was such a blur. There was much to do, the family had to be informed, the newspapers contacted, an obituary to compose—I was Nick’s agent, after all.”
“But you saw Nick on the evening of his death, didn’t you?”
Svenson sighed again. “Yes, I did. There was something of a contretemps between Mr. Bradley—who as you know was Nick’s most fervent supporter—and Nick, here in the gallery, earlier in the day. It was in connection with the triptych, a piece that Nick’s secrecy suggested would become a work of significant value and import. Nick, as you have no doubt gathered if you’ve been making inquiries, had announced that the piece would not be put up for sale, would not be offered to Bradley first, as it should have been, by rights. No, out of the blue, Nick declared that the piece would be given to the war museum in Lambeth, and if they weren’t interested, then the Tate or some other such national institution. His decision presented something of an anathema to Bradley, and their words were fierce and heated.”
He had been rubbing his hands together as he spoke, but now he looked up at Maisie, then Billy. “I returned with the express purpose of cooling the eruption, so to speak. It was crucial that the two men remained able to do business, that there was respect on both sides, each for the other. If Nick wanted to make a gift of the piece, all well and good, but I was intent that we should take the appropriate steps toward reconciliation, perhaps by allowing Bradley to purchase the piece, then place it with the museum for permanent exhibition, a bequest in his name. I have brokered such arrangements in the past.”
“And Nick didn’t accept your proposal?”
“Dismissed it immediately. Of course, the budding liaison between Georgie and Bradley did not help matters. Nick was furious with her.”
“Did you enter by the front or back door?”
“I entered by the front.”
“Did you lock the door upon leaving?”
“I…I…” Svenson frowned and fell silent.
“Mr. Svenson, do you remember locking the door?”
He shook his head. “That I do not recall turning the key in the lock does not indicate that I didn’t actually secure the door. It is something I do all the time, it is a habit.” A hint of his Scandinavian accent was revealed as he spoke, indicating to Maisie that he was less than sure of his facts.
Maisie pressed on. “Did you see anyone lingering outside, as you departed the gallery?”
Svenson closed his eyes, his words deliberate, as if trying to remember the details. “I closed the door…raised my umbrella to summon a taxi-cab that had just turned into the street. It was a fortuitous arrival and—”
“Mr. Svenson?”
“Oh, dear. Oh, no!”
“What is it?”
“I rushed to the taxi-cab! It had started to rain again. I didn’t take a second glance at the passenger alighting on the other side of the motor car. I remember thinking that I was glad he or she had stepped via the left-hand door so I could just dive in and be on my way, and—I have now recalled—oh, my dear…. I may not have locked the door. The taxi-cab’s arrival just when I needed it distracted me, made me hurry, I—”
Maisie placed a hand on Svenson’s forearm. “Don’t worry, Mr. Svenson. If someone wanted access to the gallery, they would have found it whether the door was open or not. It’s just another piece of information to help me in my work.”
“But, do you think Nick was murdered?”
Maisie and Billy exchanged glances again. As Maisie questioned Svenson, Billy had been taking notes. Now it was time to move on to the second reason for their visit.
“Mr. Svenson, I’m also here with some news, news that, for the meantime, we must keep between just we three. In addition, I have a proposal for you, and I need your help.”
Svenson shrugged. “My help? How?”
“I know where the masterwork is, and I want to exhibit here, at your gallery. I—”
“You know where the triptych is?”
“It’s not a triptych. And yes, I know where it is. Let me finish, Mr. Svenson. I want informal invitations sent to a select group of people—Nick’s friends from Dungeness, his family, Mr. Bradley, perhaps a representative from each of the museums. I am sure you will have an opportunity for an open exhibition later, perhaps to show other works found by Georgie and Nolly following Nick’s death—to my untrained eye, it would appear that even his sketchbooks would draw good money—though that would have to be with permission granted by the family and by his sisters, as executors.”
“Oh, my God, my God, we must make arrangements. I must see the work, I must!”
Maisie shook her head. “No, Mr. Svenson. I have to make a request I hope very much that you will grant, for it is crucial to my work, and to the purpose of this special exhibition.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not only do I require you to keep the arrangements confidential, only releasing information in the manner I stipulate, but I will need to have private access to the gallery. I want only men of my choosing to assist with mounting the pieces. There will be a timetable to follow, a specific period during which—to all intents and purposes—the gallery will appear to be unattended. I cannot emphasize enough that my instructions must be followed to the letter.”
“What about Georgie? Will she be told?”
“I will see her this afternoon. As my client she must be kept apprised of my progress, but she also understands that in my work I cannot be expected to account for or inform her of every decision, if I am to be successful.”
“You ask much of me, Miss Dobbs.”
“I know. But you, in turn, asked much of Nick, and though he could be fractious at times, your reputation has increased a thousandfold as a result of that relationship. I think you owe him this, don’t you?”
The man was silent for a few moments, then regarded Maisie again. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”
GEORGINA BASSINGTON-HOPE WAS, fortuitously, at home when Maisie arrived. When informed by the housekeeper that Miss Dobbs was waiting in the drawing room, Georgina emerged from her study with the now-familiar ink-stained fingers.
“My apologies if I have disturbed you while working, Georgina.”
“It’s the curse of the writer, Maisie: I am both annoyed and relieved upon being interrupted. I can spend much time cleaning the keys on my typewriter or rinsing the nib and barrel of my fountain pen—in fact, anything that constitutes a writer’s work without actually stringing two words together.” She smiled, pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and rubbed the stains. “Tell me, have you news?”
“I think we should sit down.”
Georgina sat down on the armchair, continuing to clean her fingers with a handkerchief, though now her hands shook. She looked at Maisie, who had taken a seat on the chesterfield at the end closest to her. “Go on.”
“First of all, Georgina, I want to ask you about the painting above your cocktail cabinet, the one that belongs to Mr. Stein.”
“Maisie, I told you, I don’t know a—”
“Georgina! Please do not lie to me. You must have known that my work on your behalf, would lead me to unearth the truth of what has been going on down in Dungeness.”
Georgina stood up and began to pace. “I didn’t think it had anything to do with the investigation.”
“Didn’t think it had anything to do with the investigation? Have you lost all grip, Georgina?”
The woman shook her head. “I just knew Nick’s involvement had no link to—”
Maisie stood up to face her client. “That is as may be, Georgina, but I had to follow the lead I discovered and that has taken valuable time—it was a distraction that had to be explored before I was able to conclude that it was of no import regarding Nick’s death.”
&nbs
p; “I—I’m terribly sorry. But what they’re doing is all in a good cause.”
“Yes, I know that. But you realize that Harry is in deep water, and Nick must have been at risk too.”
“And you don’t think it had anything to do with his death?”
“No, Georgina, I don’t.” Maisie sighed. “But if you wish to help Harry, as well as Duncan and Quentin, then you must locate them soonest and tell them I want to speak to them as a matter of urgency. I have advice that I think will help them, though they have taken enormous risks.”
“Of course. I—”
“And I do have some news for you.”
“About Nick’s death?”
“Not exactly. I have located the lock-up where Nick kept much of his art, including the missing work.”
Georgina reached out to touch Maisie’s arm. “You’ve found the triptych?”
“There are six pieces, actually.”
Georgina faced Maisie squarely. “Then let’s go then, I want to see it.”
Maisie shook her head. “Please sit down, Georgina. There are other plans already in motion, plans that I request you follow.”
Georgina took her seat once again, though her tone was short. “What do you mean? What gives you the right to execute ‘other plans’ without first requesting my express permission? If anyone should be making plans, it should be—”
“Georgina, please!” Maisie raised her voice, then reached out and clasped both the woman’s hands in her own. “Be calm, and listen.”
Georgina nodded, snatching back her hands and crossing her arms.
“You are absolutely right to be put out, and right to want to see your brother’s work,” continued Maisie. “However, in the interests of developments in my investigation, I had to move with some speed.”
“But I’m your bloody client! I’m the one paying your fees, and a pretty penny they are too!” Georgina leaned forward, her body tense.
“Quite right, but there are times in my work when my allegiance has to be to the dead, and this is one of them. I have thought long and hard about what to do in this case, and I must ask for your trust and your blessing.”
There was silence in the room. Georgina Bassington-Hope tapped her right foot several times, then gave a final deep sigh.
“Maisie, I don’t know why you are acting in this manner, or what has inspired your ‘plan,’ but…but, against my better judgment, I trust you. At the same time, I am extremely annoyed.” She reached out to Maisie, who held her hand once again.
“Thank you, for your trust.” Maisie smiled at Georgina. “My work does not end when a solution to a given case is found, or the grain of information sought is discovered. It ends only when those affected by my work are at peace with the outcome.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“What I mean is something that my clients can never really understand until I have achieved the aim of the investigation.”
Georgina stared into the fire for some moments, then turned to Maisie. “You’d better tell me your plans.”
MAISIE LEFT THE flat just as it was getting dark, a wintry smog swirling around outside. By the time she reached the MG, a dark sense of sadness had enveloped her, a feeling that she had anticipated and knew presaged the devastation that awaited Georgina Bassington-Hope and her family. She wondered if she had another choice, whether she could turn back the clock and lie to protect others. She had made such decisions before, but…She rested in the driver’s seat for some moments, considering her position. There it was again, the game of risk and chance, only this time her loyalty was to the dead artist, and to the truths that moved him. Would it have been different had the paintings not touched her so? She would never know now, though she understood that even from beyond the grave, it was as if Nick Bassington-Hope’s dream of his work being viewed by the widest possible audience had caught her imagination, and now she was a conspirator, a speculator with the lives of others, in the quest to make that wish come true.
HAVING STOPPED AT a telephone kiosk to leave a message at Scotland Yard for Detective Inspector Stratton, it was no surprise to see his Invicta motor car waiting upon her return, parked on the flagstones in Fitzroy Square. She tapped on the window as she passed, whereupon Stratton stepped from the motor and followed her up to her office.
“I do hope you have something I can use, Miss Dobbs.”
“I’ve some more information for you, Inspector; however, I need some assistance in return. I think you’ll find it a fair exchange.”
Stratton sighed. “I know I won’t hear a word unless I agree, so—against my better judgment, and in the hope that your request will not compromise my position—you have my word.”
“Far from compromising your position, I think you might expect some congratulatory comments later on. Now, here’s what I’ve learned about the smuggling operation in Kent.” Maisie pulled two chairs in front of the gas fire and ignited the jets. When they were both settled, she began.
“Let me start at the beginning. The artists, Nick Bassington-Hope, Duncan Haywood and Quentin Trayner, have all been involved in the smuggling operation on the coast. They were helped in their quest by three fishermen—two from Hastings, men with a boat large enough for their purposes, and one from Dungeness, an older man with, I am sure, a knowledge both deep and broad when it comes to the coves, caves and other secret places along the coast. And of course he was the linchpin, the go-between who recruited just the right locals for the job.”
“Go on.” Stratton did not take his gaze from Maisie.
“Now, the thing about this operation is that there was nothing strictly illegal, so to speak—not in the way you may think. Of course, this is conjecture on my part, gleaned from various sources and a sense of the mission—and I mean exactly that—taken on by the artists.” Maisie paused to see how her words were being received. “As you may know, the most valued art collections here in Britain and across the Continent are being plundered by a select group of American buyers, those who still have money, and who are keen to take advantage of an aristocracy weakened by war, by economic disaster and by the fact that lines of succession were effectively cut off for so many of the families that owned those collections. And investment in art is currently looking a good deal safer than stocks and shares, so a lot of valuable and beloved works of art are making their way across the Atlantic, and our museums can only afford to save so many. Then you have the artists, people like Bassington-Hope, like Trayner, like Haywood, artists who have seen an exodus of the paintings that inspired them as young men. Nick, especially, was touched by the power that the wealthy wielded in the art market. Of course, he did well from such expenditure, but was also angered by what was happening. And that’s not all.” She paused, assessing Stratton’s interest. “There are others who have good reason to fear for the future of their property. I am not sure, to tell you the truth, which group came first for the artists, but it is of no great consequence.” Maisie pressed her lips together, choosing her words with care. “As you know, politics in Germany have become increasingly influenced by the new party, the one led by Adolf Hitler. There are those who have become fearful, who have, to all intents and purposes, seen the writing on the wall. They predict that their property will be taken from them. And there are others who want to help. I have discovered that valuable works of art are being distributed throughout Europe, taken to safety until such a time as they can be returned in confidence to their owners. And the owners know it may be years, possibly decades, before that sense of safety returns once more. The artists have two contacts, one in France, one in Germany, and possibly more, who receive and prepare the items for evacuation. Once in safe hands, the valuables are then placed with sympathizers who will keep them hidden until claimed by their rightful owners when this unsettled time has passed. There is no law against that, but they obviously do not want the departure of the paintings to be observed by those who might want them, whether that person is an investor intent upon ownership against the
wishes of an extended family or a political party set upon disenfranchisement of a segment of the population.”
“That’s all very well, Miss Dobbs, but the men we’re after aren’t interested in paintings.” Stratton leaned forward, holding out his hands toward the fire.
“I know, but they are interested in diamonds, aren’t they?” Maisie replied as she leaned down to turn up the jets.
Stratton was silent.
“As I said, much of what I have gleaned came from a comment here, an overheard conversation there, perhaps an observation that led to a lucky guess, but here’s what I think happened to interest the men you’re looking for.”
“Go on.” Stratton pulled his hands back, and pushed them into his coat pockets.
“Harry Bassington-Hope was in trouble—”
“For goodness sake, we know that!”
“Bear with me, Inspector,” continued Maisie. “Harry was in trouble—a not uncommon occurrence. His back against the wall, he revealed a secret that, at some point, his brother must have confided in him: that the artists were moving paintings and other artworks from the Continent across the Channel for safekeeping. Such things are of little consequence to criminals who prefer to trade in what they already know, and who deal only with that which can be handled easily via contacts who can move the goods and make money on them. One thing they know is the market in precious stones, particularly diamonds. Bringing in the gems from their own overseas contacts therefore became a much easier proposition—lean on Nick Bassington-Hope, make it clear that his brother will suffer if he doesn’t play the game and you have a leader who will see that his partners acquiesce. In short, Nick had already created the means to traffic valuables, he had the system in place, so your criminal element simply piggybacked on the scheme—and the threat to Harry Bassington-Hope’s life ensured that mouths remained shut. And once the system was proven to work, steady payments from the men pulling Harry’s strings ensured that everyone was well and truly ensnared in the net.”
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