strings, so if that younger one wanted some money from his brother, he’d be more likely to get it if he was standing in his bank, if you know what I mean.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I do. So, tell us about the scaffolding, about what they did next.”
“Meticulous, I would say. Mr. Bassington-Hope was very careful, measuring, testing the strength of the trestle. He knew that, once it was up, he’d be here on his own working on placing and securing the pieces. He said to me, ‘Last thing I want is to break my painting arm, Arthur.’ Mind you”—he looked at Maisie to ensure she was listening carefully—“mind you, he also knew the scaffolding was temporary, that it would probably only be used again to dismantle the exhibit, so it’s not as if it were made like you were building a house underneath. You couldn’t go jumping all over it with a hod of bricks or anything. But it was sturdy enough for the job, and with a barrier along the back, so he could lean—lightly, mind—and check the placing of the anchors and, of course, the paintings.”
“When did everyone leave?”
“Well, there was that dust-up in the afternoon, and I’m sure you’ve heard all about that, what with Mr. Bradley doing his nut because Mr. Bassington-Hope wouldn’t sell that main piece. Then they left, and the men worked on until, oh, must’ve been eight o’clock.”
“And do you know when Mr. Bassington-Hope intended to collect the main pieces?”
“Now, I leave at nine, as a rule, only I stayed a bit, but Mr. Bassington-Hope said he’d lock up and I should get home, because the next day would be a long one. I asked if he was sure, what with having to lug the pieces up the stairs on his own, and what have you—”
“Lug the pieces up the stairs?”
“You see these here staircases?” He pointed to a staircase at either side of the storage room, in the center of which was a tunnel-like corridor that snaked through to the main gallery. “They lead out onto the balconied landings in the gallery. There’s a door at either side. He would have had to carry the pieces up these stairs, then lift them over the balcony to the scaffolding. Then he’d either hop on over or climb up from below, but this would definitely have been the easiest way to do the job. And he wanted the downstairs door to the gallery locked, didn’t want anyone coming in to disturb him.”
“What time did Haywood and Courtman leave again?”
“Reckon about eight. Courtman wanted to get going, had a ladyfriend waiting somewhere, and so Haywood asked for a lift on his motorbike.”
“And no one else came to visit between eight and the time you left?”
“Mr. Svenson came in again, but eventually he left before me. He was very anxious, but he’s also very good with his clients, you know. He works with their temperaments, I think you would say. And he trusted Mr. Bassington-Hope.”
“Could anyone have entered the gallery?”
“The downstairs door was locked, definitely, but the upstairs door was unlocked—but you’d’ve expected that, what with him having to go back and forth.”
“Did he pull the van in?”
“The van was on the street. And of course he hadn’t collected the main pieces. I can only think he was running behind a bit, though he would have wanted to bring them in late, I would have thought, on account of him wanting to keep them a secret.”
Maisie paced back and forth. “Mr. Levitt, tell me about the morning when you found Mr. Bassington-Hope.”
“It was long before seven, and I expected him to be here to make sure that no one could eyeball the exhibition before the opening. The van was parked on the street here and the outside door was unlocked, so that’s when I thought he was already in. I put the kettle on”—he pointed to a small gas stove—“and I went down the corridor here, where the door was still locked, with the key in it on the other side. I banged on the door to let him know it was me, only there was no answer. So I went upstairs, hoping he’d left that door unlocked, and he had. But when I opened it and went out onto the balcony, that’s when I saw him. The scaffolding had broken where the poor man had lost his balance and fallen back.” Levitt choked. Maisie and Billy were silent, waiting for him to settle into the story again. “I ran downstairs as quick as I could to get to him. He was stone cold. I could see straightaway that it was a broken neck. I opened the door to the back—keys in the lock as I thought—and I ran into Mr. Svenson’s office, it’s off the corridor there, I have a spare key—and telephoned the police. That’s when Detective Inspector Stratton came to the gallery.”
Maisie cleared her throat. “Do you know what happened to the van?”
“The chap he borrowed it from found out what had happened and claimed it from the police. They released it after a day or two. Nothing in it but a few tools, though.”
“And what about a key or set of keys? Mr. Bassington-Hope must have had a key to his lock-up.”
Levitt shook his head. “You’d probably be best to ask Miss Bassington-Hope. But to tell you the truth, I don’t know if there was anything.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, I was standing there, talking to Detective Inspector Stratton while two other policemen were going through Mr. Bassington-Hope’s belongings, you know, patting down his body. And there was no key there or I would have heard them. You see, I was listening for that. I’m a caretaker, Miss Dobbs. You’d sometimes think I’m the chief jailer, with a key for this and a key for that. And, apart from a key to the van, which he’d put on that shelf over there, there was no other key found that morning, or since then.”
“Does that strike you as strange?”
The man sighed. “To tell you the truth, Miss Dobbs—and I haven’t said as much to anyone else—I thought the whole thing was strange, something about it just didn’t sit right with me. But there again, if you were there, you’d’ve probably thought it was an accident too.”
Maisie inclined her head. “Would I, Mr. Levitt?”
MAISIE AND BILLY took a brief sojourn in a pie and mash shop, where a hearty helping of eel pie, mashed potato and parsley “likker” brought some color back to Billy’s hollow cheeks. As they stood on the street ready to part company, he declared himself “well up” for the afternoon ahead.
