“Please, Mr. Vance, I am about to tell you all that I know, though it is precious little, I’m afraid.” She had deliberately undermined him, addressing him by the common “Mister,” but to correct her would make him seem churlish.
“Continue, Miss Dobbs, we are anxious to hear what you have to say.” Stratton remained calm.
“Let’s take them down to the station, that’s what I say.” Vance flashed a look at Maisie, then Billy. Then he sat down again.
Maisie ignored the comment and continued, directing her explanation at Stratton. “The Excise are interested in the same people, though perhaps for different reasons. I know only that they are keeping Harry Bassington-Hope in their sights, along with those who would use such a naive person for their own ends. His gambling debts have left him—and his family, without their knowledge—vulnerable. I would imagine—”
Vance leapt to his feet. “Come on, Stratton, we haven’t got all bloody day to listen to her. We’ll find out more on our own, now that we know the Excise boys are on to them.”
“I’ll be there in a moment, keep the engine running.” Stratton turned toward Maisie as Vance left, waiting until the footsteps receded and the front door banged shut before speaking, his tone subdued. “What has all this to do with Nick Bassington-Hope’s death? You must reveal anything you’ve discovered. I realize my reputation may be compromised, but if his death was a result of his brother’s fraternization with these hard nuts…”
Maisie shook her head. “I do not believe there was a direct link.”
“Thank God. At least his sister will rest when she hears that you’ve come to the conclusion that it was an accident after all.”
“That’s not what I said, Inspector.” She paused. “You’d better be off, it sounds like Vance is rather impatient, with that insistent motor horn. I will be in touch.”
Stratton was about to speak again, then seemed to think better of it. He left with a nod to Maisie and Billy.
“BLIMEY, MISS, I was amazed, the way you ’andled them two coppers.” Billy shook his head. “Mind you, you don’t reckon you let the cat out of the bag a bit soon, you know, showed your hand premature?”
“Billy, I barely told them a thing. They can fight it out between themselves, and then with the Customs and Excise. Revealing something of what I know gets them off my back for now—no, let them all come off their high horses and put their cards on the table, then they might achieve something instead of treading on one another’s shoes or being afraid that one department will bag the laurels first.”
“So, what’s been going on—and what do we do next?”
Maisie returned to the table by the window and looked down at their original case map. She picked up a pencil and struck a line through words and scribbled ideas that pertained to the smuggling operation, then she circled the notes remaining, looping them together with a red pencil. Billy joined her and ran his finger along the new lines that charted the progress of her thinking.
“I would never ’ave guessed that, Miss.”
Maisie frowned, her eyes clear, her voice low as she responded. “No, neither would I, Billy. Not at first, anyway. Come on, we’ve got work to do. I won’t be able to prove this without more legwork on our part.” She walked to the door and reached for her mackintosh. “Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I? I know where the lock-up is. We’re going there now, then we’ll go to see Svenson again.”
Billy helped her into her mackintosh, took his coat and hat from the hook, and opened the door. “Why do we need to see ’im again?”
“Corroboration, Billy. And, if I’m right, to organize a very special exhibition.”
THE LOCK-UP WAS in what Maisie would have called an “in-between” area. It was neither a slum nor was it considered a desirable neighborhood, but it was instead a series of streets with houses that, one might think, could have gone either way. Built a century before in a convenient location on the south side of the river by a wealthy merchant class, the houses had been grand in their day, but in more recent years many had been divided into flats and bed-sitting-rooms. Once-tended gardens were gone, though there were some patches of green from an abandoned lawn here or a rose turned to briar there. Pubs and corner shops were still well frequented, and people on the street did not seem as down-at-heel and wanting as those in the neighborhood where Billy lived. Another year of economic strife, though, and life could change for the locals.
They saw only one other motor car, a sure sign that they had left the West End. A coster went by atop his horse-drawn barrow, calling out the contents of his load as he passed. He waved to other drivers—of carriages, not motor cars—as the horse lumbered down the street.
Slowing the MG to a crawl, Maisie squinted to read the street names on the right, while Billy, clutching a piece of paper with the address they were seeking, looked out on the left.
“It should be along here, Billy.”
“ ’old up, what’s this?”
They had just passed a corner pub, and on a strip of land before the next house, a one-story brick building with double doors at the front was partially hidden behind an overgrowth of grass and brambles. A broken path led to the doors and a number had been painted on the wall.
“Yes, this is it.” Maisie drew the MG to a halt and looked around. “I would rather no one knew we were here.”
“Let’s park the old jam jar back there, nearer where we made that first turn. There was a bit more traffic there. Little red motor like this stands out a bit round ’ere.”
Maisie drove to the spot suggested by Billy and they walked back to the lock-up.
“Who do you reckon owns this place?”
“Probably the publican, or the brewery. I would imagine Nick walked around looking for a place like this, and the rent would have been welcomed by the owners if it was sitting here unused.”
They stepped carefully along the path, where Maisie knelt down and opened her black document case. She removed the envelope found under the carriage floorboard and took out the key. She leaned closer to the lock, pressed the key home and felt the tumblers click.
“Got it, Miss?”
She nodded. “Got it!”
Together they pulled back the doors, entered the lock-up and closed the doors behind them again.
“I imagined it would be darker in here.”
Maisie shook her head. “I didn’t. The man needed light, he was an artist. And I doubt if those skylights were there when he rented the place—look, they seem quite new, and raising them up like that would have cost a penny or two. He intended to use this for a long time.”
They spent a moment inspecting the skylight, which ran the full length of the lock-up—a not insignificant thirty-odd feet—and both commented on the way it had been raised first, then constructed into a pointed roofline. Maisie looked around the room, for it certainly seemed more like a room than a glorified shed.
“In fact, I would say he put quite a bit of money into this place.” She pointed to indicate her observations. “Look over there, the way the crates are stacked and held back. And the shelving for canvases and paints. There’s a stove and cupboards, an old chaise, the carpet. This was not only a place where he worked on the larger pieces, but this was his workshop—that’s a drafting table, look, with plans for exhibits. If Dungeness was his coastal retreat, then this was his factory. This is where it was all put together.”
“And everything’s in its place.” Billy’s eyes followed Maisie’s hand. “I tell you, Miss, I bet there’s more room ’ere than in our little ’ouse. In fact, I wonder why ’e didn’t make a bit of a garden out there? Doesn’t seem like ’im to let it stay wild like that.”
She shook her head. “A garden would have attracted attention. I suspect he wanted to come in, go to work, leave again…and all on his own time.” Maisie took off her gloves and surveyed the room again. “Right, I want to search every nook and cranny, and I want to ensure we’re not disturbed. We’ve good light, thanks to those”—she pointed to the skylights—“and I’ve brought my small torch with me. Now then, I’m anxious to see if my suspicions are right about those crates over there.”