“Said it was all very strange. Police didn’t stay long, just a quick look, a ‘Yes, that’s accidental death,’ then off they all went, much quicker than ’e would have thought.”
“Well, it could be that once they had determined there were no suspicious circumstances, their work was done until the inquest. The body could be released to the family that much earlier, and with little in the way of red tape.”
“Per’aps. I’ll find out a bit more about it though.”
“Good.” Maisie looked up at Billy, assessing his interest in the case and therefore his attention to detail. His attitude in the initial meeting, where he revealed some resentment toward the client’s social standing, had unsettled her.
“Mind you…” Billy sat up straighter as he read through his notes, clearly keen to move on to another point so that he could get home early, as Maisie had suggested. “Brian did mention the younger brother, ’arry.”
“What did he say?’
“Well, you know that fella, Jix?”
“The former home secretary Joyston-Hicks? Of course, but what has this to do with the younger brother?”
“It’s one of them roundabout stories, Miss. You remember that when ’e was in government, Jix was the one who got the police going round to the clubs and closin’ ’em down? Right killjoy was that man, we’re better off without the likes of ’im.”
“Billy…”
“Well, turns out that one of the people old Jix ’ad it in for was Harry B-H. The boy might’ve been able to carry a tune with that trumpet of ’is, but ’e ’ad a reputation for carryin’ on with all sorts of people—you know, girls on the game. And ’e kept the villains entertained while they got up to no good at all. The press ’ad their eyes on ’im too, and ’e’d got a few mentions in the linens, you know, when the police’d raided a club on Jix’s orders.”
Maisie was thoughtful. “Well, it’s funny you should say that, but I confess, since Miss B-H first mentioned him, I have had a sense that all was not well with the brother. I mean, as a family, they definitely sound a bit out of the ordinary, but there was a certain hesitation in her voice. Look into it again tomorrow. The club raids subsided as soon as Jix lost his position, so Harry might’ve been able to keep his job without having to move on. I want to know where he is, who he works for, who he consorts with and, if he’s on the edge of the underworld, so to speak, whether he’s in any trouble.”
Billy nodded.
“I think you might have to go back to see Levitt as well. I want to know the location of Nick’s lock-up and Levitt probably knows someone who can tell us, even if he doesn’t know it himself. An artist might be secretive about his work, but he’s also protective and would want there to be help available if there were a fire, for example—someone else may well have known the location of the lock-up, and I suspect that the major work that he wanted to hang is still there. Mind you, I am wondering what the arrangements were for its delivery to the gallery on the evening of his death—was it loaded on a lorry waiting for Nick B-H to drive it himself once the backdrop was ready? Or did he have drivers at the ready—and had they already left by the time he’d fallen? If so, then what did they do when they couldn’t gain access to the gallery?” Maisie had been staring out at the square, seeing only the closing hours of the dead man’s life, rather than the trees, people walking across the square or anything another onlooker might have noticed. She turned to Billy again. “There is much to gather, Billy. Let’s be ready to put our backs into the case again tomorrow.”
Billy nodded, consulted his watch once more, then asked Maisie whether her second visit to the Tate had been fruitful.
“Yes, I think it was. I wanted to find out more about the artist as a person, what character traits define someone who takes on that kind of work—”
“Work?” Billy was frowning. “I can’t say as I would call that dabbling around with brushes and paints
Maisie stood up, leaned back against the table and regarded Billy for what must have felt like an age to him, though it was only seconds. “I think you had better get what’s gnawing at you off your chest, because if there is one thing we cannot afford in our work, it’s jumping to conclusions about the moral worth of our clients. We must accept who they are and get on with it, putting our personal feelings and beliefs aside. Such opinions reflect prejudices, and we cannot allow smoke from our personal fires to prevent the vision that is crucial to our work.”
Billy’s lips formed a tight line. He said nothing for some time, then blurted out his words, his face becoming red with anger. “It was when that man yesterday, you know, ’im at the Tate, was tellin’ us about that bloke who spent almost ’alf a million—’alf a bleedin’ million—on a picture last year. What was ’is name? Duveen or something? ’alf a million! There’s men out of work and children wantin’ for a good meal and a man spends all that on a f—” He bit his lip. “Spends all that on a picture. It makes me seethe, it does.”
Maisie nodded. “Point taken, Billy, point taken. And it’s a good one.” She paused, allowing her agreement to soften her assistant’s temper. “But here is something to remember, when this sort of thing comes up and makes you angry: that in our work we come across injustice. Sometimes we can do something about it—for example, as Dr. Blanche taught me, our wealthier clients pay us handsomely, which enables us to work for those who come to us with little or nothing with which to pay. And sometimes our work can put right an injustice against someone who stands accused, or clear the name of someone who is dead. To accomplish all of this, we have to face aspects of life that are not always palatable.”
“So, what you’re sayin’ is that I’ve just got to swallow it and get on wiv me job.”
Maisie nodded. “Look at the world beyond your immediate emotion, the immediate fury of inequality. Choose your battles, Billy.”
Silence seeped between them. Maisie allowed another moment to elapse, then moved to the chair and picked up her notes.
“I thought it would be a good idea to get a better sense of what we are dealing with in our investigation into the death of Nicholas Bassington-Hope. I am keen to know more about those characteristics that are common among artists, that might give us clues as to what moved him, what risks he might take as an individual and what he might do for his fellow man, so to speak.”
Billy nodded.
