Levitt removed his flat cap. “Everything all right, son?”
Billy pressed his lips together and Maisie could see him struggling. She knew that every time he uttered the truth of the family’s bereavement, the anguish wrenched his heart as if for the first time. He shook his head. “We lost our youngest, Mr. Levitt.”
“I’m sorry, son.”
“We’re not the first, and we won’t be the last. My old mum lost four babies, all of ’em under two. You’d think all that’d be in the past, wouldn’t you? Anyway, just got to get on. There’s the boys to look after, and my wife’s sister is about to ’ave another one, so she’s got plenty to take ’er mind off it.” He changed the subject quickly. “Arthur, this is Miss Dobbs, my employer.”
Maisie stepped forward, extending her hand. Levitt raised an eyebrow but was courteous.
“What can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”
“Mr. Levitt, I am conducting an informal inquiry on behalf of Miss Georgina Bassington-Hope into the death of her brother at this gallery. Miss Bassington-Hope feels that there are a few places where information regarding the events leading up to his death is rather thin, hence my interest in speaking to you—in confidence.”
“Well, Miss Dobbs, I don’t know.” He looked around. “Mr. Svenson isn’t here, and he won’t like it, I’m sure.”
“I’ve already spoken to Mr. Svenson.” It was true enough, though Maisie was quite aware that her words suggested that he had given her leave to speak to his caretaker. “And I know you’ve given a statement to the police regarding the discovery of Mr. Bassington-Hope’s body, but I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”
Levitt looked back and forth between Billy and Maisie, then sighed. “Right you are. Probably no harm in it, and if it helps Miss Bassington-Hope, then it’s all to the good.”
“You liked Mr. Bassington-Hope?”
He nodded. “Very nice man. Always thoughtful, always respectful. Not like some of them, the airy-fairy types who flap back and forth like a finch in a thunderstorm. No, Mr. Bassington-Hope was more of your feet-on-the- ground type. Not afraid to do the heavy lifting—mind you, he preferred to do it, was very protective of his work, you know.”
“Yes, so I understand.” Maisie glanced at Billy, who was busy taking notes. She saw that his hands were shaking, and wondered when he had last taken food. Turning her attention to Levitt again, she continued. “Mr. Levitt, perhaps you could tell me what you remember about the day Mr. Bassington-Hope died.”
He was silent for a moment, squinting as he looked out the high window of the storeroom at the back of the gallery.
“He was here early. Came in a van.”
“Was that unusual?”
Levitt nodded. “He came on his motorbike, as a rule, kept it spick-and-span, he did. It was a Scott Flying Squirrel. He and Mr. Courtman—I’m sure you know who he is—would be in here joshing with each other about who had the best motorbike—his Scott, or Mr. Courtman’s Brough.”
Billy looked up. “Very nice, I’m sure,” he muttered.
Levitt noticed the sarcasm, but continued. “He didn’t use the bike that day because he had too much to carry, his tools and so on, so he came in an old van he’d borrowed.”
“I see. Go on,” Maisie encouraged the caretaker.
“I was here before seven, so I reckon he came at about eight. There was a lot of unloading. He’d picked up Mr. Haywood on the way, from his sister’s, so I understand, and Mr. Courtman followed on the Brough.”
“I thought Mr. Bassington-Hope had been at his sister’s flat the night before.” Maisie looked down, directing her words to the ground, rather than to Billy or Levitt.
“Yes, miss, that’s right, but apparently he’d left early to go to his lock-up, where he loaded up, then came here. He reckoned he’d go back again later to pick up the final piece, what everyone’s been calling a triptych.”
“How did he spend the day?”
“First of all they all got stuck in and put up the main part of the exhibition, which was easy, to a point. I reckon it would’ve been a very good show, but there was nothing there for anyone to purchase, on account of Mr. Bradley buying up the lot.”
“So I understand. Tell me about the scaffolding and what happened next.”
“Well, as soon as they had put up the works that had been brought over in the van, Mr. Bassington-Hope went back to his lock-up to collect more paintings, and the other two went out for a bit of something to eat. Mr. Courtman did ask if he needed help, but he said that he didn’t. There was more preparation, and then the wood and so on for the scaffolding was delivered, and they all worked for the rest of the day on that.”
“Were there visitors?”
“Well, yes. There was family dropping in throughout the day, and, of course, Mr. Svenson was flapping a bit, giving everyone directions. Mind you, he always drew his neck in a bit with Mr. Bassington-Hope. Could be sparky, he could—you know, get touchy if he was told to do something he didn’t want to do, and he wasn’t shy when it came to telling Mr. Svenson off. Saw him do it in company once, which was a bit strong. Between us, it embarrassed Mr. Svenson—made him fume, to tell you the truth. I thought to myself at the time that one day he would push Mr. Svenson too far. No, Mr. Bassington-Hope never pulled back from anything. He was a bit like his brother in that regard. And those two sisters of his, come to that.”
“You knew his brother?”
“I’ve been here years, miss. Seen all the family paintings one way or another. The mother is very talented, of course. I think it’s only that older sister who can’t wield a brush to save her life.” He scratched his head, remembering the question of Harry. “As far as the brother goes, I’d seen him come and go a couple of times when Mr. Bassington-Hope was here for an opening or when his work was exhibited.” He pressed his lips together, as if weighing how much to reveal. “What you’ve got to remember, Miss Dobbs, is that Mr. Svenson holds the purse
