“Laid out what?”
“Plans, Miss.” Billy shook his head and leaned back against his desk. “There ain’t nothin’ ’ere for us, is there? Look at the place, look at it. I’ve got a trade, Miss, I’ve got this work with you, doin’ inquiries, under me belt, and look at me, I can’t keep me nippers safe. No, Miss, we’ve decided. We’re savin’ up, you know. To emigrate.”
“Emigrate?”
“Well, Miss, mate of mine in the war, ’e went over to Canada afterward. It was them Canadian boys tellin’ ’im all about it, you know. Took ’im until ’21 to afford passage.” Billy shook his head, recalling his friend. “Me mate wasn’t one to write, not the sort, but I got the odd postcard, you know, with ‘Hands Across the Miles’ on the front, and ’e says there’s a good life for men like me, men what ain’t afraid of a bit of ’ard graft, men what’ll work to make a better life for their families. I reckon we can put a bit by, me and Doreen—it’ll be easier when we ain’t got the extra mouths to feed—and we’ll go over there. Fred’s doin’ well, you know, got work, nice place to live, not all cramped up like we are in the East End, with all that river filth.”
Maisie was about to say something about acting in haste, about waiting for the weight of their loss to lift before leaving home behind them, but instead she smiled. “You’re a good father, Billy. You’ll do what’s best. Now then, unless you’re planning to sail to Canada this afternoon, we’d better get on. I have to leave for Dungeness later, but I want to ensure this is all put away and clear again before I go.” She turned to the desk. “Oh, and you’ll need these—keys for the new lock.”
Billy caught the set of keys Maisie threw to him. “Did we lose anything important, Miss?”
Maisie nodded. “The case map.”
SOME TWO HOURS later, Maisie and Billy had brought order to the chaos and were now sitting at the oak table in front of a length of pristine white lining paper of the type usually used by decorators, which they proceeded to pin to the wood.
“There, clean slate, Billy. We might see some links, some clues that have evaded us thus far.”
“I ’ope so, Miss. Bloomin’ lot of ’ard work down the drain if we don’t.”
Maisie took a red pen and began to draw a circle with Nick Bassington-Hope’s name in the center. “I want to see Arthur Levitt this morning, Billy, and I also want you to talk to your Fleet Street friend this afternoon, if you can.”
“Right you are, Miss.”
“All right then, let’s get on…”
They worked on the map until ten o’clock, whereupon the length of paper was rolled up and secured with a piece of string. Both Billy and Maisie looked around the room.
“Like I’ve said before, Miss, my old mum always said to ’ide somethin’ in plain view.”
“Well, in my haste I already did that, and look where it got me! No, we need a very safe place—and I don’t want to take it home.”
“I’ve got an idea, Miss.” Billy walked over to the fireplace, carefully edged out the gas fire that had been fitted to stand in front of an original grate designed for logs and coal. “Long as we don’t weaken the old gas line by pulling the fire back and forth, this should work for us, the old ‘up the chimney’ trick.”
“Seems a bit obvious to me, Billy, but until we think of something better, it will have to do. Here you are.”
Billy pushed the case map behind the gas fire, moved the fire back into position and checked to ensure the fuel line was not compromised by the exercise.
Scrutinizing the door several times to check the integrity of the lock, the pair were finally satisfied that the office was secure.
“Of course, you know the irony of all this checking and double-checking, don’t you?”
“What’s that, Miss?” Billy pulled up his collar against the wind.
“The men who broke into the office may well have what they want. And if they don’t, they’re going to try somewhere else.”
“Reckon you should get that Eric bloke ’round to do the lock on your flat.”
“I will. As soon as I get back from Dungeness.”
Slamming the passenger door of the MG behind him in a way that always made Maisie cringe, Billy added a final two-penn’orth of advice. “Of course, you know what you need, a woman alone in your position, don’t you, Miss?”
“What’s that?” Maisie might usually have reminded Billy that she was quite capable, thank you very much, but she was mindful of his fragile state and allowed him to continue.
“A bloomin’ great dog. That’s what you need. A big ’airy thing to mind you from these ’ere criminal types.”
She laughed as she drove toward Albemarle Street.
SEEING BILLY’S ARMBAND, Arthur Levitt removed his flat cap. “Everything all right, son?”
Billy pressed his lips together and Maisie could see him struggling. She knew that every time he uttered the truth of the family’s bereavement, the anguish wrenched his heart as if for the first time. He shook his head. “We lost our youngest, Mr. Levitt.”
“I’m sorry, son.”
“We’re not the first, and we won’t be the last. My old mum lost four babies, all of ’em under two. You’d think all that’d be in the past, wouldn’t you? Anyway, just got to get on. There’s the boys to look after, and my wife’s sister is about to ’ave another one, so she’s got plenty to take ’er mind off it.” He changed the subject quickly. “Arthur, this is Miss Dobbs, my employer.”
Maisie stepped forward, extending her hand. Levitt raised an eyebrow but was courteous.
“What can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”
“Mr. Levitt, I am conducting an informal inquiry on behalf of Miss Georgina Bassington-Hope into the death of her brother at this gallery. Miss Bassington-Hope feels that there are a few places where information regarding the events leading up to his death is rather thin, hence my interest in speaking to you—in confidence.”
“Well, Miss Dobbs, I don’t know.” He looked around. “Mr. Svenson isn’t here, and he won’t like it, I’m sure.”
“I’ve already spoken to Mr. Svenson.” It was true enough, though Maisie was quite aware that her words suggested that he had given her leave to speak to his caretaker. “And I know you’ve given a statement to the police regarding the discovery of Mr. Bassington-Hope’s body, but I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”
Levitt looked back and forth between Billy and Maisie, then sighed. “Right you are. Probably no harm in it, and if it helps Miss Bassington-Hope, then it’s all to the good.”
“You liked Mr. Bassington-Hope?”
He nodded. “Very nice man. Always thoughtful, always respectful. Not like some of them, the airy-fairy types who flap back and forth like a finch in a thunderstorm. No, Mr. Bassington-Hope was more of your feet-on-the-ground type. Not afraid to do the heavy lifting—mind you, he preferred to do it, was very protective of his work, you know.”
“Yes, so I understand.” Maisie glanced at Billy, who was busy taking notes. She saw that his hands were shaking, and wondered when he had last taken food. Turning her attention to Levitt again, she continued. “Mr. Levitt, perhaps you could tell me what you remember about the day Mr. Bassington-Hope died.”
He was silent for a moment, squinting as he looked out the high window of the storeroom at the back of the gallery.
“He was here early. Came in a van.”
“Was that unusual?”
Levitt nodded. “He came on his motorbike, as a rule, kept it spick-and-span, he did. It was a Scott Flying Squirrel. He and Mr. Courtman—I’m sure you know who he is—would be in here joshing with each other about who had the best motorbike—his Scott, or Mr. Courtman’s Brough.”
Billy looked up. “Very nice, I’m sure,” he muttered.
Levitt noticed the sarcasm, but continued. “He didn’t use the bike that day because he had too much to carry, his tools and so on, so he came in an old van he’d borrowed.”