Billy nodded. “Consider it done, Miss. I’ll come back to the front ’ere to find you when I’m finished.”
“Good. You’d better be off before Miss B-H gets here.”
Billy cast a glance in either direction and continued on down Albemarle Street. As she watched him leave, Maisie saw him bear the weight of concern for his daughter, as if carrying a burden across his shoulders. She hoped the child would improve soon, but knew the East End of London to be a breeding ground for disease, with its proximity to the damp and filth of the Thames and with houses and people almost on top of one another. She understood that Billy was worried about the cost of a doctor, if it came to it, and how they would manage. Not for the first time, she was thankful that her business was doing well and that she was able to employ Billy—she knew he might be in a line at the assistance office if the situation were different.
“Good morning, Maisie!” A taxi-cab screeched to a halt, and Georgina Bassington-Hope was calling to Maisie from the open window.
“Ah, good morning, Georgina. How was your journey?”
The woman alighted onto the pavement, paid the driver and turned to Maisie. “You wouldn’t think it would take so long to get from Kensington to Albemarle Street. Heaven only knows where the traffic comes from—and they thought the horseless carriage would be the answer to London’s congestion problems!”
Maisie smiled and held out her gloved hand toward the gallery. “Let’s go inside.”
Georgina placed her hand on Maisie’s arm. “Just a moment—” She bit her lip. “Look, it would be best if Stig isn’t told who you are. It would give him an attack of the Viking vapors if he thinks I’ve asked a professional to look into Nick’s ‘accident.’ He’s bound to come out of his office—he’s always on the lookout for a sale—so we’ll let him think you are an interested buyer.”
Maisie nodded. “All right. Now then, I’m freezing out here—”
The two women entered the gallery and were immediately met by Svenson. As befitted his profession, he was impeccably turned out. His gray trousers were pressed so that the front crease appeared sharp enough to cut a mature cheese. He wore a blue blazer-style jacket, a white shirt and pale blue tie with a matching kerchief placed in the chest pocket with a certain panache. Maisie suspected he dressed with immense care, knowing that he must convey the flair of an artist along with the perceived gravity of a businessman.
Svenson ran his fingers through his silver-blond hair as he walked toward the women. “Georgie, darling, how are you bearing up?” He leaned to kiss Georgina on both cheeks, taking her hands in his own and speaking with only the barest trace of an accent.
“I’m as well as can be expected, Stig.” She turned to Maisie, withdrawing her hands from his grasp. “This is an old friend from my days at Girton, Miss Maisie Dobbs.”
Svenson leaned toward Maisie, and as he took her right hand, instead of the expected handshake, he pressed his lips to her slender knuckles. Like Georgina, she withdrew her hand quickly.
“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Svenson.” Maisie looked around at the paintings exhibited, chiefly landscapes depicting country scenes. “Your gallery is most impressive.”
“Thank you.” He held out his hand for the women to walk farther into the gallery. “Are you a collector, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie smiled. “Not a collector, as such, though I have recently moved and have a few bare walls to do something with.”
“Then I am sure I can help you fill them; however, this entire collection was purchased yesterday.”
“The whole collection? Goodness me!”
“Yes, as fast as the old families are selling off their collections, so the American new money is buying it up—even in an economic slump, there are always those who continue to do well, who still have money to spend.”
“Is it usual for one person to buy a whole collection, Mr. Svenson?” Maisie was surprised, but conceded that her knowledge of the art world was limited—two hours at the Tate gallery yesterday afternoon notwithstanding.
“Yes and no.” He smiled at Maisie in a way that suggested he had embarked upon such conversations many times and had pat responses up his sleeve ready to present at a moment’s notice. “Yes, in that once a collector becomes enthusiastic about a given artist, they look out for more of his work, especially if that artist is on the cusp of a wider fame.” Svenson turned to Georgina. “Such as our dear Nicholas, Georgie.” He brought his attention back to Maisie. “However, there are also complete collections from certain families or other collectors that are extremely valuable and of great interest when they come onto the market—such as the Guthrie collection here.”
“What makes this one valuable?” Maisie was genuinely interested.
“In this case”—he swept his hand around to indicate the paintings throughout the gallery—“it is not only the name of the collector, but their reputation and the interesting blend of pieces. Lady Alicia and her late husband, Sir John Guthrie, never had children and both inherited substantial collections from their respective families. Each was a sole heir. Sir John died last year and Lady Alicia’s solicitors have persuaded her to sell in order to set up a trust to support their property in Yorkshire, which I understand has been bequeathed to the county. An American investor was drawn to this collection given its provenance and the fact that some interesting and influential artists are represented here.” He smiled again, as if he were about to make a joke. “Not to put too fine a point on it, it’s new money buying an instant connection to old money. I am amazed they haven’t pressed Lady Alicia to sell the estate, or even her title.” Svenson laughed and both Maisie and Georgina indulged the Swede with a brief chuckle.
“Is Nick’s work safely in storage now?” Georgina changed the subject.
Svenson nodded. “Yes, indeed, although not for long. A buyer—another American—wants to view and purchase other works not previously exhibited. He’s even interested in sketches and partials, and is very keen. I tried to telephone you this morning—in fact, I gave a message to your housekeeper, but you had already left. A confirmatory telegram has been received and I await your instructions. No doubt you will need to speak to your family.”
“Does he think he’s getting a chance to purchase the triptych?”
“Ah, a thorny subject, especially as we don’t know the whereabouts of the main piece at the present time. The buyer has spoken of recruiting a private detective to find the piece, but frankly, I find that rather low, if you don’t mind me saying so. I also think our friend Mr. Bradley should have first refusal.”
Georgina nodded. “Let me have the full details of the offer so that I can discuss it with the family this weekend. I think they may be interested, though I do not wish to include the triptych—Nick was vehement about it.”
“Georgie, I must advise you—”
“No, Stig. No triptych. When we find it, I will decide what to do with it.” She held up her hand and looked at Maisie, as if to underline the personal value of the piece.
Maisie spoke up, asking a timely question to diffuse the situation. “Mr. Svenson—”
“Stig, please.”
She smiled accord, then beckoned her companions toward the back of the room, where she pointed to the wall. “Tell me, Stig, is this where the triptych was to be exhibited?”
“Indeed, yes, though do remember, we may not be correct in our assumption that it was a triptych.”
“What do you mean?” Georgina’s tone seemed short with Svenson as she joined Maisie.