Now, with the contract signed by both Maisie and Georgina Bassington-Hope and poor weather preventing all possibility of a walk, Maisie suggested the trio move to the table by the window to continue the conversation.
Later, after the new client had left, Maisie and Billy would unfurl a length of plain wallpaper across the table, pin the edges to the wood, and begin to formulate a case map of known facts, thoughts, feelings, hunches and questions. As the work went on, more information would be added, with the mosaic eventually yielding up previously unseen connections pointing to the truths that heralded closure of the case. If all went well.
Maisie had already jotted some initial questions on an index card, though she knew that many more would come to mind with each response from her new client. “Miss Bassington-Hope—”
“Georgina, please. ‘Miss Bassington-Hope’ is a bit of a mouthful, and if we are to be here for any length of time, I would rather dispense with the formalities.” The woman looked from Maisie to Billy.
Billy glanced at Maisie in a way that made his discomfort at the suggestion obvious.
Maisie smiled. “Yes, of course, as you wish. And you may call me Maisie.” Though she was not at all sure she was really open to such an informality, her client’s preference must be honored. If she were relaxed, information would flow more readily. Both women now looked at Billy, who blushed.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stick to your proper name.” He looked at Maisie for guidance, then turned to the woman again. “But you can call me Billy if you like, Miss Bassington-’ope.”
Georgina smiled, understanding the predicament she had placed them in. “All right, then, Billy—and how about just ‘Miss B-H’ for me.”
“Right you are. Miss B-H it is.”
Maisie cleared her throat. “Well, now that we have that little conundrum out of the way, let’s get on. Georgina, first I want you to tell me as much as you know about the circumstances of your brother’s death.”
The woman nodded. “Nick has—had—been preparing for this exhibition for some time, over a year, in fact. His work was becoming very well known, especially in America—there are still a fair few millionaires and they are buying up everything from poor old Europe, it seems. Anyway, Stig Svenson of Svenson’s Gallery on Albemarle Street—he’s more or less Nick’s regular dealer—offered him a special exhibition that comprised both earlier and new works. Nick jumped at the chance, especially as he thought the gallery would be the ideal place to unveil a piece he has been working on, one way or another, for years.”
Maisie and Billy exchanged glances, and Maisie interjected with a question. “Why was it perfect for his work? What did the gallery have that made him so excited?”
“Stig had just had the whole place ripped apart and painted—and Nick had already made it clear that he needed a certain amount of room for the new pieces.” Georgina held out her arms to help describe the gallery. “Essentially, there are two sort of square bay windows at the front—they’re huge—with a door in between, so you can clearly see in from the street, though you cannot view each individual piece. Svenson has—as you might imagine—a very modern, Scandinavian idea of how to use room. It’s very bright, every inch of his gallery modeled to display a piece to its advantage. He’s had the latest electric lighting installed, and fittings that direct beams in such a way as to create shadows and light to draw buyers in.” She paused, to see if her audience of two were keeping up. “So, at the far end there is one huge blank wall almost two floors high for larger pieces, then on both sides a galleried landing, so that you walk in as if you are walking into a theater, only there are no seats and you are not on a gradient—and it’s completely white. You can go to either side, up stairs to the landings, but there are screens to divide the room in sections so that you never actually see the whole pièce de résistance—if there is one—until the end. All very clever.”
“Yes, I see.” Maisie paused, tapped her pen against the palm of her left hand, then spoke again. “Would you describe his ‘pièce de résistance’ for us?”
Georgina shook her head. “Actually, I can’t. As far as I know, no one had seen it in its entirety. He was very secretive about it. That was why he was at the gallery until late—he wanted to construct it himself.” She paused thoughtfully, her hand on her mouth, then she looked up. “The only thing I know about it is that it was in several pieces.”
“But I thought you said he was working on it when he died. Wouldn’t it still be at the gallery?”
“Sorry, what I meant was that he was working on scaffolding, placing the many anchors that would secure the pieces when he brought them in. He had them in storage in London—frankly, I have no idea where.”
“Who would know where? Svenson?”
She shook her head. “That’s a bit of a mystery at the moment. No one can find the key, and no one knows the address. We just knew he had a lock-up or something somewhere. I know he wanted it all to be kept under wraps until the last moment so that it would draw even more attention—I think he imagined the gasps, if you know what I mean.”
“I see, and—”
“The trouble is,” Georgina interrupted, “he had already promised most of the collection—except that main piece—to a collector of his work, sight unseen.”
“You mean, someone made an offer without first viewing the collection?”
“They’d seen preliminary sketches, but not of the centerpiece.”
“Was it a significant offer?”
The woman nodded. “Some tens of thousands of pounds, to my knowledge.”
Maisie’s eyes grew large and, glancing at Billy, she thought he might pass out.
“…For a painting?”
Georgina Bassington-Hope shrugged. “It’s what people will pay if they think the work will dramatically increase in value. And the buyer has the money, had already paid a deposit, which Svenson retains until delivery.”
“Who was the buyer?”
“A man called Randolph Bradley. He’s an American living in Paris, though he also has a home in New York. One of those back-and-forth people.” She ran her fingers through her hair and looked away.
Billy rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll put the kettle on again.” He stood up and left the room, taking the tea tray with him. Maisie said nothing. Though she understood his annoyance at such amounts of money passing hands in such troubled times, she was dismayed that he had felt it necessary to leave the room. Maisie made small talk, a series of barely consequential questions, until he returned.