MAISIE LEFT THE flat just as it was getting dark, a wintry smog swirling around outside. By the time she reached the MG, a dark sense of sadness had enveloped her, a feeling that she had anticipated and knew presaged the devastation that awaited Georgina Bassington-Hope and her family. She wondered if she had another choice, whether she could turn back the clock and lie to protect others. She had made such decisions before, but…She rested in the driver’s seat for some moments, considering her position. There it was again, the game of risk and chance, only this time her loyalty was to the dead artist, and to the truths that moved him. Would it have been different had the paintings not touched her so? She would never know now, though she understood that even from beyond the grave, it was as if Nick Bassington-Hope’s dream of his work being viewed by the widest possible audience had caught her imagination, and now she was a conspirator, a speculator with the lives of others, in the quest to make that wish come true.
HAVING STOPPED AT a telephone kiosk to leave a message at Scotland Yard for Detective Inspector Stratton, it was no surprise to see his Invicta motor car waiting upon her return, parked on the flagstones in Fitzroy Square. She tapped on the window as she passed, whereupon Stratton stepped from the motor and followed her up to her office.
“I do hope you have something I can use, Miss Dobbs.”
“I’ve some more information for you, Inspector; however, I need some assistance in return. I think you’ll find it a fair exchange.”
Stratton sighed. “I know I won’t hear a word unless I agree, so—against my better judgment, and in the hope that your request will not compromise my position—you have my word.”
“Far from compromising your position, I think you might expect some congratulatory comments later on. Now, here’s what I’ve learned about the smuggling operation in Kent.” Maisie pulled two chairs in front of the gas fire and ignited the jets. When they were both settled, she began.
“Let me start at the beginning. The artists, Nick Bassington-Hope, Duncan Haywood and Quentin Trayner, have all been involved in the smuggling operation on the coast. They were helped in their quest by three fishermen—two from Hastings, men with a boat large enough for their purposes, and one from Dungeness, an older man with, I am sure, a knowledge both deep and broad when it comes to the coves, caves and other secret places along the coast. And of course he was the linchpin, the go-between who recruited just the right locals for the job.”
“Go on.” Stratton did not take his gaze from Maisie.
“Now, the thing about this operation is that there was nothing strictly illegal, so to speak—not in the way you may think. Of course, this is conjecture on my part, gleaned from various sources and a sense of the mission—and I mean exactly that—taken on by the artists.” Maisie paused to see how her words were being received. “As you may know, the most valued art collections here in Britain and across the Continent are being plundered by a select group of American buyers, those who still have money, and who are keen to take advantage of an aristocracy weakened by war, by economic disaster and by the fact that lines of succession were effectively cut off for so many of the families that owned those collections. And investment in art is currently looking a good deal safer than stocks and shares, so a lot of valuable and beloved works of art are making their way across the Atlantic, and our museums can only afford to save so many. Then you have the artists, people like Bassington-Hope, like Trayner, like Haywood, artists who have seen an exodus of the paintings that inspired them as young men. Nick, especially, was touched by the power that the wealthy wielded in the art market. Of course, he did well from such expenditure, but was also angered by what was happening. And that’s not all.” She paused, assessing Stratton’s interest. “There are others who have good reason to fear for the future of their property. I am not sure, to tell you the truth, which group came first for the artists, but it is of no great consequence.” Maisie pressed her lips together, choosing her words with care. “As you know, politics in Germany have become increasingly influenced by the new party, the one led by Adolf Hitler. There are those who have become fearful, who have, to all intents and purposes, seen the writing on the wall. They predict that their property will be taken from them. And there are others who want to help. I have discovered that valuable works of art are being distributed throughout Europe, taken to safety until such a time as they can be returned in confidence to their owners. And the owners know it may be years, possibly decades, before that sense of safety returns once more. The artists have two contacts, one in France, one in Germany, and possibly more, who receive and prepare the items for evacuation. Once in safe hands, the valuables are then placed with sympathizers who will keep them hidden until claimed by their rightful owners when this unsettled time has passed. There is no law against that, but they obviously do not want the departure of the paintings to be observed by those who might want them, whether that person is an investor intent upon ownership against the wishes of an extended family or a political party set upon disenfranchisement of a segment of the population.”
“That’s all very well, Miss Dobbs, but the men we’re after aren’t interested in paintings.” Stratton leaned forward, holding out his hands toward the fire.
“I know, but they are interested in diamonds, aren’t they?” Maisie replied as she leaned down to turn up the jets.
Stratton was silent.
“As I said, much of what I have gleaned came from a comment here, an overheard conversation there, perhaps an observation that led to a lucky guess, but here’s what I think happened to interest the men you’re looking for.”
“Go on.” Stratton pulled his hands back, and pushed them into his coat pockets.
“Harry Bassington-Hope was in trouble—”
“For goodness sake, we know that!”
“Bear with me, Inspector,” continued Maisie. “Harry was in trouble—a not uncommon occurrence. His back against the wall, he revealed a secret that, at some point, his brother must have confided in him: that the artists were moving paintings and other artworks from the Continent across the Channel for safekeeping. Such things are of little consequence to criminals who prefer to trade in what they already know, and who deal only with that which can be handled easily via contacts who can move the goods and make money on them. One thing they know is the market in precious stones, particularly diamonds. Bringing in the gems from their own overseas contacts therefore became a much easier proposition—lean on Nick Bassington-Hope, make it clear that his brother will suffer if he doesn’t play the game and you have a leader who will see that his partners acquiesce. In short, Nick had already created the means to traffic valuables, he had the system in place, so your criminal element simply piggybacked on the scheme—and the threat to Harry Bassington-Hope’s life ensured that mouths remained shut. And once the system was proven to work, steady payments from the men pulling Harry’s strings ensured that everyone was well and truly ensnared in the net.”
“Assuming you’re right, Miss Dobbs—and that remains to be proven—how the hell did you discover all this?”
“I paid close attention, and of course, I was lucky in places—being in Dungeness at the right time, seeing the operation first-hand. And my assistant and I have spent hours at the Tate, learning about art. Ultimately, though, one has to take that leap of faith, that risk. It’s a bit like placing a bet.” Maisie paused, smiling. “And of course, I saw the diamonds being removed from the back of a painting, and handed over, so I knew what was happening. And so did the Excise, yet—as far as I know—they haven’t yet caught your criminals. But they will soon be there first with the bracelets. I should add that I was questioned in some detail by your fellow government servants, and I think I may have told them just about everything I’ve told you.”