“I think the bare walls are there to stay for a while, Billy. Furniture is top of my list for the new flat at the moment.” Maisie laughed as she buttoned her coat, collected her hat, scarf, gloves and document case. “Now then, let’s go and find a triptych or two. With a bit of luck we’ll find an amenable curator who will educate us about the people who can afford to buy such things without even looking at the goods or balking at the price!”
Two
Maisie and Billy left Fitzroy Square at half past nine the following morning, each wrapped up in a heavy coat, scarf and hat.
“Nippy, innit, Miss?”
Maisie’s eyes watered. “Yes, and the so-called central heating system in my flat is not working properly—mind you, I thought it was too good to be true.”
Billy stood aside for Maisie to go through the turnstile at Warren Street tube station before him, then they stepped onto the wooden escalator, one behind the other.
“P’raps the main boiler weren’t put in right, what with the builder goin’ bust like ’e did.”
Maisie turned around to continue the conversation as the escalator clattered down to the platforms. “Wouldn’t surprise me. I jumped at the chance to buy when the flats came up for sale, but there’s no proper system yet for those collective repairs, such as the heating that isn’t! I have discovered that bankers aren’t very good at being managers of property. They were probably thrilled when buyers came along but didn’t really think about what came next, only about recouping their money. Thank heavens there’s a gas fire, because my radiators are stone cold!”
Billy put his hand behind his ear. “Aye-oop, Miss, ’ere we go, train coming in.” Stepping off the escalator, they ran to the platform and clambered aboard the waiting carriage, each taking a seat before Billy continued. “We’ve ’ad the fires going nonstop. Doreen’s been rushed off ’er feet, what with the nippers going down with one thing after the other. O’course, I don’t think that coal smoke is good for you at all, but our little Lizzie is a bit poorly now.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Maisie had a soft spot for the Beales’ youngest child, who was barely two years old.
“Doreen thinks it’s a bit of a chill. Both the boys’ve ’ad chesty colds, so we think that Lizzie ’as copped it now. Poor scrap, even turned ’er nose up at a bit of bread and dripping for ’er tea yesterday.”
The train slowed to a halt, and as they alighted to change trains for Green Park, Maisie instructed Billy, “Look, when we’re finished here, we’ll go back to the office to get everything on the case map, then you should go home early to give Doreen a hand. And keep an eye on Lizzie’s cold—there are some nasty things going round and she’s young to have to fight some of them off. Keep the windows closed and put some Friars Balsam in a bowl of hot water next to her cot—that’ll clear all your noses!”
“Right you are, Miss.” Billy looked away. Lizzie was the apple of his eye and he was clearly worried about her. They continued on their way in silence.
As they walked down Albemarle Street, their talk was of the terrible state of London traffic and how it was easier now to ride by tube or travel by “shanks’s pony” rather than use the motor car or even a bus. They noticed Svenson’s Gallery some yards before coming to a halt alongside the building, for the once-red bricks had been painted bright white.
“Gaw, I bet the neighbors ’ad something to say about that. Bit stark, innit?”
“Yes, I think I much prefer the original brick with a white sign for contrast. This is rather clinical, if you ask me.” Maisie looked both ways, anticipating the arrival of Georgina Bassington-Hope, then turned to Billy. “Look, I want you to find your way to the back of the building—there must be some kind of alley, an entrance for deliveries and so on. See if you can locate the caretaker. I want you to get to know him, talk to him about the gallery, see if you can get some inside information regarding Svenson, and also—needless to say—the night of Nicholas Bassington-Hope’s death.” She paused, reaching into her case. “You might need a few shillings to oil his vocal cords, so take this—” Maisie handed Billy several coins. “We don’t want to overdo it, this is man to man, you and him having a chin-wag together—all right?”
Billy nodded. “Consider it done, Miss. I’ll come back to the front ’ere to find you when I’m finished.”
“Good. You’d better be off before Miss B-H gets here.”
Billy cast a glance in either direction and continued on down Albemarle Street. As she watched him leave, Maisie saw him bear the weight of concern for his daughter, as if carrying a burden across his shoulders. She hoped the child would improve soon, but knew the East End of London to be a breeding ground for disease, with its proximity to the damp and filth of the Thames and with houses and people almost on top of one another. She understood that Billy was worried about the cost of a doctor, if it came to it, and how they would manage. Not for the first time, she was thankful that her business was doing well and that she was able to employ Billy—she knew he might be in a line at the assistance office if the situation were different.
“Good morning, Maisie!” A taxi-cab screeched to a halt, and Georgina Bassington-Hope was calling to Maisie from the open window.
“Ah, good morning, Georgina. How was your journey?”
The woman alighted onto the pavement, paid the driver and turned to Maisie. “You wouldn’t think it would take so long to get from Kensington to Albemarle Street. Heaven only knows where the traffic comes from—and they thought the horseless carriage would be the answer to London’s congestion problems!”
Maisie smiled and held out her gloved hand toward the gallery. “Let’s go inside.”
Georgina placed her hand on Maisie’s arm. “Just a moment—” She bit her lip. “Look, it would be best if Stig isn’t told who you are. It would give him an attack of the Viking vapors if he thinks I’ve asked a professional to look into Nick’s ‘accident.’ He’s bound to come out of his office—he’s always on the lookout for a sale—so we’ll let him think you are an interested buyer.”
Maisie nodded. “All right. Now then, I’m freezing out here—”
The two women entered the gallery and were immediately met by Svenson. As befitted his profession, he was impeccably turned out. His gray trousers were pressed so that the front crease appeared sharp enough to cut a mature cheese. He wore a blue blazer-style jacket, a white shirt and pale blue tie with a matching kerchief placed in the chest pocket with a certain panache. Maisie suspected he dressed with immense care, knowing that he must convey the flair of an artist along with the perceived gravity of a businessman.
Svenson ran his fingers through his silver-blond hair as he walked toward the women. “Georgie, darling, how
