Messenger of Truth Read Online Free PDF Page B

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