Bradley accompanied Maisie into the foyer of the hotel.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Bradley. You have been most helpful, most kind to allow me so much of your valuable time.”
“My pleasure, Miss Dobbs.” He handed her a calling card. “Call me if you need any more information.” He laughed. “In fact, call me if you find that darn painting. I want it and I’ll pay the family whatever they want for it—Nolly Bassington-Hope knows that—in fact, she can’t wait to get it out of the country!”
Maisie drew a breath to put another question to the American, but he had turned and walked away. And though he appeared to move in an easy fashion, he walked with some speed, for in an instant he was gone.
MAISIE KNEW SHE was struggling with the case. Already the loose threads threatened to unravel before she could even distinguish a pattern. There were points she was missing and she understood that all the thinking in the world wouldn’t make the task any easier. She had to continue working away, trusting that each step taken would be like another drop of water on stone, gradually wearing down the hard shell that time and circumstance had wrapped around clarity. Except that she didn’t have time for gradually. Of course, it would have helped had she been able to set out right from the start with a letter of introduction from Georgina to the effect that she was investigating Nick Bassington-Hope’s death with her permission. But Georgina had not initially wanted her to reveal the nature of her inquiry, thus she had left the first interview with the caretaker to Billy, rather than question him herself. However, that might have been a good strategy, though she must speak to the man personally tomorrow, with Billy there to ease the path of conversation.
Nick’s three closest friends, according to Georgina, were still in London and, as far as she knew, Alex Courtman would be at Georgina’s flat this afternoon. As she traveled to Kensington, Maisie was struck by the fact that all three men were moving on, with two of them appearing to have recently become financially better heeled, which was interesting if one considered that an artist created something to be acquired on the basis of sheer desire, not need. On the other hand, thought Maisie, she had already seen that there were plenty of people who could still afford such luxuries and perhaps those people who bought art were viewing this as a time to build their collections at a lower cost than might otherwise be the case. She shook her head as she walked, wishing she understood the art world a little better.
The places where Nick Bassington-Hope chose to live were desolate. His past was desolate, as were the natural landscapes that drew him. There were women—girls, as Georgina described them, but his work was his life, his true love. And he too seemed to be financially secure, to have enough money to help Harry with his debts. Georgina said that Nick’s art was selling well, and of course Maisie knew that Bradley had spent a considerable amount feathering Nick’s nest. But could there be another source of revenue? And what was the relationship between Nick, Harry and the man who drove the motor car that followed the younger brother to the party? She knew the man by appearance already, and suspected—though she had no hard evidence—that Stratton was wrong when he assumed that the underworld known to Harry Bassington-Hope had not beaten a path to Nick’s door.
She parked the MG, walked to Georgina’s flat and rang the bell. A housekeeper answered, then showed her into the drawing room and went to summon Alex Courtman.
“Ah, Miss Dobbs, the dancer. How charming to see you again.” Alex Courtman held out his hand. He appeared even more youthful today, dressed in gabardine trousers, a white collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a reddish-brown cable-knit pullover. He did not wear a tie and did not seem unduly concerned about his casual appearance, which was exaggerated by unruly dark hair that appeared not to have had the benefit of a comb that morning.
“I wonder if you would be so kind as to oblige me with a moment or two of your time, Mr. Courtman?”
“Of course.” He extended his hand toward an armchair, then sat down on the end seat of the chesterfield, close to Maisie, who glanced around before turning to face him. There had been so many people at Georgina’s party, she had hardly looked at the room, which now seemed quintessentially bohemian, though perhaps not as outlandish as the Bassington-Hope family seat. There were antique pieces that immediately suggested a connection to old money, but instead of the gravity an ill-lit room might inspire, this interior was bright with windows flanked by heavy swags of pale gold silk. In one corner a carved screen was draped with fabrics from Asia, and a collection of masks from around the world were displayed on a wall.
Maisie felt comfortable in the room, now that she was able to pay attention to the details. The walls were painted a pale yellow, the picture rails and mantelpiece white; nondescript colors chosen to provide an accommodating backdrop for the works of art. There were three paintings by Georgina’s brother, and several others by artists unknown to Maisie.
“How may I help you, Miss Dobbs?”
“As you know, I am working on behalf of Miss Bassington-Hope to discover more about the circumstances of her brother’s death. To that end, I must find out more about his life. You were one of his dearest friends, so I thought you might be able to”—she smiled—“paint a picture of him for me, by answering some questions?”
“Fire away!” He leaned back into the chesterfield, a move that caught Maisie’s attention. It occurred to her that she felt as if she were on a stage with Alex Courtman, who, having just read his words from a script, was now waiting for her to play her part. Instinctively she wanted to unsettle him.
“You’re all moving on now. Nick’s dead, of course, but Duncan has his house in Hythe, Quentin’s bought a flat ‘with his thrice-wed paramour,’ and you’re spending more time here than in Dungeness. It couldn’t have all been planned since the accident.”
Courtman answered calmly. “Well, these things tend to happen all at once, don’t they? It just takes one to step off the boat and everyone else gets itchy feet. Duncan was courting for ages, poor girl must have wondered if he was ever going to make an honest woman of her. Then Quentin grasped his opportunity to make a dishonest woman of someone else—the woman’s still married to husband number three—and I found myself up here more and more.” He looked out the window, then back at Maisie. “I’ll probably get my own flat soon.”
“You’ve all done very well with your work, haven’t you?”
He shrugged. “Nick’s work sold very well, and I do believe we were affected simply by being associated with him, as if some of that stardust flaked off onto us. And, frankly, Svenson makes the most of the friendships. If you stick around him long enough, you’ll hear him talk about the ‘Bassington-Hope school’ and how our work was influenced by Nick.”