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place for Nick.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “The space. The sheer enormity of the place.” He held out his arms to emphasize an expanse he could not properly describe. “And the possibilities there.”
    “Possibilities?”
    “Yes, this is most interesting to his collectors, that his techniques became so influenced by the American schools at the time, and influenced too, by the sheer geography of the country. Look at his sketches, and you will see the bold landscapes, the use of muted and vivid colors blended to achieve a quality of light that is seen nowhere else in the world. He went alone to canyons, to valleys, across prairies. His view of the world was cast from the dirt, filth and enclosure of the mud and blood-filled trench, to the clear air of the American West, especially Montana, Colorado, New Mexico, California. And that’s where he began to experiment with the mural, an extension of his interest in the triptych form of earlier years, if you will. Of course, the mural was being used by many of the emerging American artists at the time.”
    “And all these different styles”—once again, Maisie hoped she had chosen the correct term—“were on display here when he died? And the whole collection is now under offer, as good as sold?”
    “Yes, that’s right.”
    “Look, I hope you don’t mind me asking—after all, I haven’t seen Georgie in a long time, or Nick, so I am interested—but would you call his work offensive in any way, or controversial?”
    Svenson laughed. “Oh, yes, it was most certainly controversial in the art world, and the world outside, as you know.” His countenance became more serious and Maisie felt him begin to draw back, as if it had only just occurred to him that she should have known all of this if she were as close a friend as Georgina had suggested—and Georgina had hardly said a word for some time. Nevertheless, he continued, though only to bring the conversation to a close. “Nick drew the onlooker into his world with his paintings, then just at the point when you are lulled by a landscape, perhaps sun rising across a mountain lake, he could quickly challenge you with the next piece, a man screaming his way into death, impaled on the bayonet. That was how he presented his work, that was how he wanted to speak of the angelic and that which is evil. He confused people, he threatened.” He shrugged, his hands upturned. “But as you know, Miss Dobbs, that was Nick, and he was an angel when one met him, which is why those who were offended would melt in his company.”
    Maisie looked at her watch, pinned to the lapel of her jacket. “Oh, gosh, we should be getting on, shouldn’t we, Georgina? But I would love to look at the upper galleries before we leave.”
    “Please, be my guest.” Svenson gave a short bow toward Maisie, then turned to Georgina Bassington-Hope. “Georgie, a moment of your time, perhaps?”
    Maisie made her way to the galleried landing, then spent a moment standing alongside the balustrade to consider the wall where Nicholas Bassington-Hope was to have exhibited his masterpiece. Was it a triptych, as everyone assumed, or had the secretive artist something else up his sleeve? She leaned forward, squinting to better see certain parts of the wall in closer detail. Yes, she could identify where anchors had been placed in the plasterwork, anchors that had now been removed and the wall made almost smooth again. Fresh repairs were clearly visible, and Maisie wondered whether the damage had been due to the scaffolding, which must have dented the wall as it collapsed when the artist fell—if he fell. How high might the scaffolding have been, and which level had Nick Bassington-Hope been working from when he crashed down to the stone floor? From ground to ceiling, the wall must be some twenty-five feet high, not a height that would necessarily cause a life to be lost as a result of a fall, unless the victim were unusually unlucky. And if someone had