Billy was silent, then, for his thoughts had kept pace with Maisie’s. She set the sketchbooks to one side.
“Those are coming with us. I think we can go now.”
“Don’t we need to find the diagram thing that shows how all the bits of art are put together on the wall?”
Maisie shook her head. “No. From the pieces I inspected, each segment has a certain shape and will only fit logically in one place, just like a puzzle. It shouldn’t be difficult to work out.”
They ensured that everything in the lock-up was left as they had found it, then secured the doors and walked to the MG. Billy glanced sideways at Maisie and cleared his throat, ready to ask a question.
She responded before he uttered a word, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m all right, Billy. It’s just those paintings…”
Eighteen
It was midafternoon before Maisie and Billy arrived at Svenson’s Gallery, opening the main door to a flurry of activity as the Guthrie collection was in the midst of being taken down and packed for shipping to new owners. Svenson was ever dapper in another well-cut suit set off by a rich-blue cravat and bright-white silk shirt. He called across to Arthur Levitt, instructing him to oversee the movement of one particular piece, and as the visitors stood to one side waiting for him to notice them, he reprimanded a young man for having “fingers like sausages and a grip like a wet fish,” adding that the painting in his hands was worth more than his granny’s portrait over the mantelpiece at home.
“Excuse me, Mr. Svenson!” Maisie raised her hand to attract the gallery owner as he moved on.
“Ah, Miss…er, Miss…” He turned and smiled, giving additional orders as he approached.
“It’s Miss Dobbs, and this is my colleague, Mr. Beale.”
“Charmed to see you again, and to make your acquaintance, Mr. Beale.” He inclined his head toward Billy and brought his attention back to Maisie. “How may I be of service to you, Miss Dobbs? I trust that all is well with our friend Georgina.”
Maisie nodded. “Quite well, though it’s still early days, isn’t it?”
“Yes, poor Nicholas’s death hit Georgie particularly hard.” He paused, then remembering that there was clearly a reason for her visit, spoke again. “Forgive me, Miss Dobbs, but is there something I can assist you with?”
“May we speak in private?”
“Of course.” Svenson held out his hand in the direction of his office, then called to Levitt. “Make sure those gorillas are careful with that portrait!”
The office was, like the gallery, a bright room with white walls and furniture constructed of dark oak and shiny chrome. There was a cocktail cabinet in one corner, a system of filing cabinets in another, and in the center, a large desk with two trays of documents, one on either side of a leather blotting pad. A set of two crystal inkwells was positioned at the top of the pad, along with a matching container with a clutch of fountain pens, each one of a different design. A black telephone was within easy reach. Though there were two chairs in front of the desk, Svenson directed his guests to the right of the door, where a coffee table was surrounded by a matching settee and two chairs in black leather.
“So, what can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”
“First of all, I have to make a confession. My first visit to your gallery was not in the context of my friendship with Georgina. We were, indeed, both at Girton, though her purpose for being in touch with me was in connection with my profession. I am a private inquiry agent, Mr. Svenson, an investigator—”
“But—” The color rose in Svenson’s cheeks as he began to stand.
Maisie smiled. “Let me finish, Mr. Svenson, there is no cause for alarm.” She waited for a second or two, then, satisfied he would not interrupt again, she went on. “Georgina came to me several weeks after Nick’s death, essentially because she felt, in her heart, that his passing was not the result of a simple, unfortunate accident. Given my work, and my reputation, she wanted me to make some inquiries, and to see whether there might be any reason for doubt—she understood that her emotional state might render her unable to see the facts with clarity.” Maisie chose her words with care, so that Svenson felt no undue pressure from the weight they carried—after all, the man in question had died on his premises.
Svenson nodded. “I wish she had confided in me; I could have helped her, poor girl.”
Billy stole a glance at Maisie and raised his eyebrows. Maisie nodded in reply, then continued speaking to Svenson.
“Please, do not take this as an indication of my suspicions or findings, but I do have some questions for you. I understand that you came back to the gallery later in the day that Nick died, to speak to him—is that so?”
Svenson sighed. “Yes, I did. I came back.”
“But you did not tell the police?”
He shrugged, waved his hand to one side as if brushing away a troublesome fly and shook his head. “To tell you the truth, no one asked me. When Mr. Levitt found the body…” He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “I still cannot believe our beloved Nick is gone. I expect to see him walk in that door at any moment, full of some new idea, a piece finished, a complaint about the manner in which another piece is exhibited.” He paused. “Levitt summoned the police first, then placed a telephone call to my home. I reached the gallery shortly after the detective, Inspector Stratton, who seemed rather annoyed that he had been called to a clear-cut accident. The pathologist made an initial examination and away they all went, taking Nick with them. The silence after they had left was extraordinary. So much activity, then nothing.” He held out his arms. “A man dead and his legacy all around us—it was unbearably strange, such a vacuum.”
“So, you weren’t asked when you last saw Nick, that sort of thing?” Maisie was quick to bring the conversation back to her original question.
“Not specifically. To tell you the truth, I can barely remember. It was such a blur. There was much to do, the family had to be informed, the newspapers contacted, an obituary to compose—I was Nick’s agent, after all.”
“But you saw Nick on the evening of his death, didn’t you?”
Svenson sighed again. “Yes, I did. There was something of a contretemps between Mr. Bradley—who as you know was Nick’s most fervent supporter—and Nick, here in the gallery, earlier in the day. It was in connection with the triptych, a piece that Nick’s secrecy suggested would become a work of significant value and import. Nick, as
