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Maisie made her way back toward the path that led out onto the Lydd Road. Then she ran to the MG, unlocked the door and took her place in the driver’s seat, her teeth chattering against the bitter cold. She sat in silence for a moment, to ensure she hadn’t been seen or followed, then she rubbed her gloved hands together and started the motor car, setting her course toward the road the lorry had taken when she had observed it before. Only this time, she planned to reach the destination first.

She’d had no time to conduct an initial reconnaissance, depending instead upon her supposition that the route taken by the lorry would lead to a barn, or some other building where goods could be stored until later, when—as the saying goes—the coast was clear. Or perhaps the barn took the role of a clearinghouse, where booty was divided between the man from London and the artists. Again she chose a spot where the MG would be hidden by one of the leaning trees common to the Marshes, and made off on foot. Unlike the beach, this road was muddy underfoot, and even as she walked, Maisie could feel the cold wet earth squelch through her brown leather walking shoes. Her toes were beginning to tingle and, after a brief respite, her fingertips were once more becoming numb. She lifted her hands to her mouth and blew warm air through her gloves. A dog barked in the distance, and she slowed her pace, listening to the quiet of the night as she made her way along the farm road.

Though the night was pitch-black, she could ascertain the outline of a barn set among the fields. She ran the last few yards to the side of the barn and waited for a minute. The upper walls seemed as if they had been constructed of old ships’ timbers centuries before, though Maisie guessed that, once inside, the bones of the building would reveal a medieval beamed structure, wherein each piece of wood would be identifiable with roman numerals scratched into the grain by the original artisans. Panting now, and rubbing her arms for warmth, Maisie knew she had some time before the lorry rumbled along the road. She must find a hiding place.

Though double doors had been added at each end of the barn, Maisie suspected there would be a smaller doorway, designed for a man to enter if he were coming in alone, with no bales on his cart or livestock to herd. Locating such a door, she listened, then pulled it open. Without waiting to survey the surroundings, she closed the door and, flashing the torch once, she saw that an old delivery van was already hidden inside the barn. She stepped quickly toward the rough ladderlike staircase leading into the loft and rafters. Climbing up, she found a cubbyhole space under the eaves, alongside bales of hay from summer’s harvest. From her vantage point she would be able to see any activity at the far end of the barn where she expected the men to enter. The van was clearly parked in such a way as to be ready to have crates transferred from another vehicle. Yes, it’s all going according to plan. She breathed a sigh of relief—she had gambled upon there not being anyone waiting for the containers to arrive and was glad to discover that she had been correct. Now she would wait, again.

Silence. Was it a half an hour that passed? An hour? Maisie waited, her heartbeat slowing to a pace that was almost normal. Then, in the distance, the sound of an engine revving, a bump, a rumble, the lorry coming closer along the rutted road. The occasional roar as the driver accelerated to clear a mudhole suggested that the vehicle was being maneuvered in reverse gear. Soon she would have another piece of the puzzle. Soon she would know what Nick had known.

With a shudder the lorry stopped, then after some manipulation of forward and reverse gears, was brought into position, finally scrunching to a halt beyond the doors at the far end of the barn. Men’s voices were raised for a moment, then the double doors were pushed open. The canvas flap at the back of the lorry was drawn back, and Duncan and Quentin jumped out. Though she didn’t recognize the driver when he joined the men, Maisie thought that it might have been one of those she had seen with Harry’s assailant.

The wooden containers were unloaded. As expected, each container resembled those she’d seen at the back of Svenson’s Gallery, where Arthur Levitt unpacked and shipped artwork.

“Right then, you two, we’ll take what’s ours and we’ll be on our way. You know which one our stuff’s in, so get a move on,” instructed the driver.

Quentin pointed to two of the containers, and as he did so, Maisie noticed that the top of each was numbered in black paint and also bore a name. She managed to read only three names: D. ROSENBERG, H. KATZ, and another marked STEIN. Quentin took the crowbar that Duncan held out to him and ripped the slats of wood apart. She craned her neck as he reached inside and pulled out what was clearly a painting, but wrapped in a light linen cloth, and then a layer of sacking. Duncan helped Quentin to unwrap the work. They both hesitated for a moment as they caught a first glimpse of the painting.

The gang leader prodded Quentin. “Get a bleedin’ move on, for gawd’s sake! You can admire the fancy bits later.”

The artists exchanged glances and together laid first sackcloth, then linen, on the floor to protect the painting, which they placed on top of the cloth, facedown. Maisie leaned forward, trying to see what was happening yet without making a sound.

Duncan took a knife from his pocket and handed it to Quentin. “Be careful, old chap.”

Quentin smiled. “Of course.” Then he leaned down, with his knife piercing the heavy paper at the back of the painting. He laid a hand against the frame to steady the blade, then proceeded to remove the backing. Ah, it’s false. Maisie chewed her bottom lip as she watched the scene unfold before her. From the place between the original cover at the back of the painting and the false cover, Quentin pulled out a small pouch. He threw the pouch to the gang leader and then repeated the exercise with the second selected piece.

“There, you can tell your boss that that’s the last one, Williams. There will be no more deliveries for a while, if at all. We’ve done all that we can, for now.”

The man shook his head. “Nah, you don’t expect me to believe that, do you, my little artsy-fartsy darlings? Mr. Smith don’t like to be lied to. Anyway, that German fella ain’t finished yet, no, not by a long chalk, so I reckon them heirlooms will keep on coming. Only just started, he has, so there’ll be a lot more where that came from, wanting to be tucked away safely.”

Quentin shook his head. “The point is, Williams, that we aren’t doing this anymore. It was more or less straightforward until you came along, and now it isn’t. Makes it tricky for everyone—especially our friends in Germany and France.”

“Well, I ain’t got the time to chin-wag about this with you boys. But I’ll be in touch. Oh, and here’s another little something, just for your trouble.” Williams took a roll of banknotes from his pocket and threw it to Duncan. “Thanking you.” He smiled, nodded to his driver, and turned as if to go. Then he looked back. “And if I was you, I wouldn’t leave it long before you move this little lot. Never know who might be watching you, you don’t.”