now, then we’ll go to see Svenson again.”
Billy helped her into her mackintosh, took his coat and hat from the hook, and opened the door. “Why do we need to see ’im again?”
“Corroboration, Billy. And, if I’m right, to organize a very special exhibition.”
THE LOCK-UP WAS in what Maisie would have called an “in-between” area. It was neither a slum nor was it considered a desirable neighborhood, but it was instead a series of streets with houses that, one might think, could have gone either way. Built a century before in a convenient location on the south side of the river by a wealthy merchant class, the houses had been grand in their day, but in more recent years many had been divided into flats and bed- sitting-rooms. Once-tended gardens were gone, though there were some patches of green from an abandoned lawn here or a rose turned to briar there. Pubs and corner shops were still well frequented, and people on the street did not seem as down-at-heel and wanting as those in the neighborhood where Billy lived. Another year of economic strife, though, and life could change for the locals.
They saw only one other motor car, a sure sign that they had left the West End. A coster went by atop his horse-drawn barrow, calling out the contents of his load as he passed. He waved to other drivers—of carriages, not motor cars—as the horse lumbered down the street.
Slowing the MG to a crawl, Maisie squinted to read the street names on the right, while Billy, clutching a piece of paper with the address they were seeking, looked out on the left.
“It should be along here, Billy.”
“ ’old up, what’s this?”
They had just passed a corner pub, and on a strip of land before the next house, a one-story brick building with double doors at the front was partially hidden behind an overgrowth of grass and brambles. A broken path led to the doors and a number had been painted on the wall.
“Yes, this is it.” Maisie drew the MG to a halt and looked around. “I would rather no one knew we were here.”
“Let’s park the old jam jar back there, nearer where we made that first turn. There was a bit more traffic there. Little red motor like this stands out a bit round ’ere.”
Maisie drove to the spot suggested by Billy and they walked back to the lock-up.
“Who do you reckon owns this place?”
“Probably the publican, or the brewery. I would imagine Nick walked around looking for a place like this, and the rent would have been welcomed by the owners if it was sitting here unused.”
They stepped carefully along the path, where Maisie knelt down and opened her black document case. She removed the envelope found under the carriage floorboard and took out the key. She leaned closer to the lock, pressed the key home and felt the tumblers click.
“Got it, Miss?”
She nodded. “Got it!”
Together they pulled back the doors, entered the lock-up and closed the doors behind them again.
“I imagined it would be darker in here.”
Maisie shook her head. “I didn’t. The man needed light, he was an artist. And I doubt if those skylights were there when he rented the place—look, they seem quite new, and raising them up like that would have cost a penny or two. He intended to use this for a long time.”
They spent a moment inspecting the skylight, which ran the full length of the lock-up—a not insignificant thirty-odd feet—and both commented on the way it had been raised first, then constructed into a pointed roofline. Maisie looked around the room, for it certainly seemed more like a room than a glorified shed.
“In fact, I would say he put quite a bit of money into this place.” She pointed to indicate her observations. “Look over there, the way the crates are stacked and held back. And the shelving for canvases and paints. There’s a stove and cupboards, an old chaise, the carpet. This was not only a place where he worked on the larger pieces, but this was his workshop—that’s a drafting table, look, with plans for exhibits. If Dungeness was his coastal retreat, then this was his factory. This is where it was all put together.”
“And everything’s in its place.” Billy’s eyes followed Maisie’s hand. “I tell you, Miss, I bet there’s more room ’ere than in our little ’ouse. In fact, I wonder why ’e didn’t make a bit of a garden out there? Doesn’t seem like ’im to let it stay wild like that.”
She shook her head. “A garden would have attracted attention. I suspect he wanted to come in, go to work, leave again…and all on his own time.” Maisie took off her gloves and surveyed the room again. “Right, I want to search every nook and cranny, and I want to ensure we’re not disturbed. We’ve good light, thanks to those”—she pointed to the skylights—“and I’ve brought my small torch with me. Now then, I’m anxious to see if my suspicions are right about those crates over there.”
They walked over to a series of crates of differing sizes, though each was approximately eight inches wide.
“Let’s see how many there are first.” Maisie nodded to Billy, who already had his notebook in hand. “And keep your ears open for voices. We have to be as quiet as we can.”
“Right you are.” Billy nodded in agreement, then shrugged as he touched a number on the top of a crate. “What d’you reckon these are for?”
Maisie scrutinized the numbers, which were marked 1/6, 2/6 and so on until the final crate, which was marked 6/6. “All right, this looks fairly straightforward, though we won’t know until we get inside. This has to be the main piece for the exhibit and the numerals suggest that it comprises six pieces.”
“So, it’s not a triptych then?”
“We’ll soon find out.”
“Are we going to open all of them?”
“Perhaps. Then we must search this place for anything pertaining to the placement. Nick gave Alex and Duncan
