Bradley shrugged. “Small fry. I’ll get it, like I said.”
“Do you know anything about it, apart from the fact that it’s supposed to be more than one piece?”
“That’s what I’ve been told, Nick said as much to me, and it’s what I would have expected.”
“Why?”
“Well, you look at his other work; it has a serial quality to it. So I’m pretty sure this one is a triptych. And I’m sure the subject is the war. That’s why I want it.”
Maisie made no immediate response, whereupon Bradley stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward, his elbows on the table.
“I believe that this piece, whatever it is, will distill—yeah, I reckon that’s a good word— distill everything he thought and felt about that war. Remember, I’ve collected him for years, watched him grow, change, sort out his life with his art. I think that once it was finished, this final piece, he was ready to let the past be the past, you know, step forward to whatever was next. I predict that whatever he moved on to would be an example of…of…”
“Resurrection? Rebirth?” Maisie offered, almost absentmindedly, for her mind had wandered, thinking about Nick Bassington-Hope and the work that had caused his death.
“Yeah, that sounds about right. I like that. Yeah. It was there, to some extent, in his American period. But even that seemed to show an exploration, a journey, not an arrival.” He nodded again, and looked around the room, now filled with guests taking luncheon. He looked at his watch. “Any more questions, Miss Dobbs?”
“Oh, yes, just one or two if you don’t mind. I’d like to know how long you’ve been doing business with Stig Svenson, and—I promise this is confidential—what he’s like to deal with.”
“I’ve known Svenson since before the war, when we were both starting out. I’d made some money and I wanted to indulge myself. When I was a boy, an English fellow”—he grinned, checking that Maisie had caught the quip—“lived on our street. He wasn’t rich, none of us were in that neighborhood, but every day he left that house dressed as if he were going to the Bank of England. His clothes weren’t new, but they were good. I didn’t know anything about him, except that he was dapper, as you would say. Dapper. I wanted to be like him, and when he died his family—turns out he had kids in the city—came out and sold up everything. And you know what? He worked in a factory. Not a fancy office, but a factory. And he spent money on art, all sorts of pictures from artists you’d never even heard of. I was only young, but I bought a couple I liked, cheap. So, that set me on my path, my love of art. I came to see Svenson in ’19, when I was in London before shipping back home. I bought a couple of pieces from him—cut price, you guys weren’t in any position to haggle then—and we kept in touch. My business boomed and I was over here as much as I was at home.” He paused, once again reaching for a cigarette, then reconsidering before he continued talking, looking directly at Maisie. “Now, even though I’ve known Svenson awhile now, I believe he’d take the shirt off my back if he could. We respect each other, but I know what he’s about. He’s sharp, understands what sells—and right now, that’s European art, all your rich dukes and counts and princes selling off the family heirlooms. God only knows where he’s getting it from—and he knows who wants to buy. Make no mistake, if there is a pie with money anywhere in London, Paris, Rome, Ghent or Amsterdam, Stig Svenson’s finger is in it.” He stood up and came around to pull out Maisie’s chair for her. “And Nick had his number. Knew Svenson could pull a buyer, but watched him like a hawk all the same.”
Bradley accompanied Maisie into the foyer of the hotel.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Bradley. You have been most helpful, most kind to allow me so much of your valuable time.”
“My pleasure, Miss Dobbs.” He handed her a calling card. “Call me if you need any more information.” He laughed. “In fact, call me if you find that darn painting. I want it and I’ll pay the family whatever they want for it— Nolly Bassington-Hope knows that—in fact, she can’t wait to get it out of the country!”
Maisie drew a breath to put another question to the American, but he had turned and walked away. And though he appeared to move in an easy fashion, he walked with some speed, for in an instant he was gone.
MAISIE KNEW SHE was struggling with the case. Already the loose threads threatened to unravel before she could even distinguish a pattern. There were points she was missing and she understood that all the thinking in the world wouldn’t make the task any easier. She had to continue working away, trusting that each step taken would be like another drop of water on stone, gradually wearing down the hard shell that time and circumstance had wrapped around clarity. Except that she didn’t have time for gradually. Of course, it would have helped had she been able to set out right from the start with a letter of introduction from Georgina to the effect that she was investigating Nick Bassington-Hope’s death with her permission. But Georgina had not initially wanted her to reveal the nature of her inquiry, thus she had left the first interview with the caretaker to Billy, rather than question him herself. However, that might have been a good strategy, though she must speak to the man personally tomorrow, with Billy there to ease the path of conversation.
Nick’s three closest friends, according to Georgina, were still in London and, as far as she knew, Alex Courtman would be at Georgina’s flat this afternoon. As she traveled to Kensington, Maisie was struck by the fact that all three men were moving on, with two of them appearing to have recently become financially better heeled, which was interesting if one considered that an artist created something to be acquired on the basis of sheer desire, not need. On the other hand, thought Maisie, she had already seen that there were plenty of people who could still afford such luxuries and perhaps those people who bought art were viewing this as a time to build their collections at a lower cost than might otherwise be the case. She shook her head as she walked, wishing she understood the art world a little better.
The places where Nick Bassington-Hope chose to live were desolate. His past was desolate, as were the natural landscapes that drew him. There were women—girls, as Georgina described them, but his work was his life, his true love. And he too seemed to be financially secure, to have enough money to help Harry with his debts. Georgina said that Nick’s art was selling well, and of course Maisie knew that Bradley had spent a considerable amount feathering Nick’s nest. But could there be another source of revenue? And what was the relationship between Nick, Harry and the man who drove the motor car that followed the younger brother to the party? She knew the man by appearance already, and suspected—though she had no hard evidence—that Stratton was wrong when he assumed that the underworld known to Harry Bassington-Hope had not beaten a path to Nick’s door.
She parked the MG, walked to Georgina’s flat and rang the bell. A housekeeper answered, then showed her into the drawing room and went to summon Alex Courtman.
“Ah, Miss Dobbs, the dancer. How charming to see you again.” Alex Courtman held out his hand. He appeared even more youthful today, dressed in gabardine trousers, a white collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a reddish-brown cable-knit pullover. He did not wear a tie and did not seem unduly concerned about his casual appearance, which was exaggerated by unruly dark hair that appeared not to have had the benefit
