Death of an Elgin Marble (31 page)

‘You sound as if you don’t altogether approve of the standards of the place,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Don’t get me wrong, Lord Powerscourt, I’m as big a fan of Sophocles and Lord Byron as the next man. And some things they are very good at, science and mathematics and that sort of stuff is taken very seriously, much more so than it would be at an English school.’

‘Good to know that the spirit of Euclid and Archimedes lives on in the Chilterns,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Quite so. And the children are all very keen to learn, even when it comes to performing the rituals of ancient Athens, that’s always an advantage. So on the whole I would advise your sister-in-law to send her children there as long as she is sure she wants them to have a very Greek education.’

‘Thank you very much, Mr Blakeway.’ Powerscourt was wondering how on earth he could ask about Blakeway’s past. He didn’t think a straight question along the lines of ‘Weren’t you in Wormwood Scrubs for eighteen months?’ would go down very well. And it would certainly imply that he knew rather more about the man’s previous activities than he was letting on. ‘Do you enjoy teaching? Have you done it before your current spell at the Hellenic?’

‘I’ve done all sorts of things in my time, Lord Powerscourt, art dealing, auctioneer, antiques, I’ve dabbled in them all. And now, if you will forgive me, I must go. I have to be on call at the College this evening. If you will excuse me.’

Blakeway departed, shaking hands as he left. Powerscourt wondered if the man was telling the truth. And one other thing struck him. The Headmaster had told Lady Lucy that Blakeway had been hired on the express recommendation of Tristram Stanhope, Head of Greek and Roman Antiquities at the British Museum and consultant to the College. But Blakeway hadn’t mentioned his links to Stanhope at all. How significant was that?

Word spread fast around the cafés and the bars and the brothels of the port of Brindisi. Captain Dimitri, captain of the circus ship, The
Isles of Greece
, was back. People never tired of telling each other and any strangers who could be persuaded to listen the tale of the package that fell into the sea. Some said it contained cannon, others held that it was a consignment of marble for a sculptor on the neighbouring island of Levkas, one or two maintained that the broken image was a statue of the risen Christ destined for the church further up the coast. Nobody, not even small and curious boys, had managed to dive down deep enough to discover what it really was.
The Isles of Greece
was back too, the lion still mangy, the monkeys querulous, the jugglers and the clown still aboard.

But the Captain had company on this, his return journey. Four young Greek Orthodox monks from the monastery on the island of Kythnos were with him now. They had no obvious circus talent, they could not cross the ship on a high wire or play the fool with the children in the audience. They were serious. They had brought their very own icon with them, of a sad and mournful Christ who looked too young to be taking on the sins of the world. They would take him to the end of the pier and kneel in prayer as the sun set across the bay. People wondered who was in charge. Were the monks holding Dimitri and
The Isles of Greece
prisoner? Were they going to take over the vessel for a pilgrimage to some sacred spot in the islands? Or had the Captain recruited the monks to act as cover for some spectacular, if unspecified, act of piracy?

This time, the telegraph boys noted sadly, the Captain wasn’t waiting for a message from their office. Whatever he was doing there, he seemed to know the appointed hour. The man who owned the bar believed that they would wake up one morning and find the mooring empty and
The Isles of Greece
a small dot on the distant horizon. But when, or with whom, the appointed hour was, the Captain kept to himself.

August Riverside
, with its delicate sunshine and the curve of the Thames, was now gracing the window of Houranis, the art dealers, in New Bond Street. Sylvester Hourani, the third member of his family to become Managing Director of the firm, showed Powerscourt and Inspector Kingsley into his boardroom, the walls hung with portraits of earlier Houranis and their families.

‘Rupert Fitzwilliam said you would be coming my way,’ he said with a smile, ushering Powerscourt into a chair by a coffee table laden with the latest art magazines. ‘He thinks you suspect all is not well on
August Riverside
. Is he right?’

‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I do have some concerns. And I will tell you precisely what they are since anything suspicious or illegal probably took place before you were involved with the picture. My first problem is with the name. I think this painting is not called
August Riverside
, but
Mortlake Terrace, Summer’s Evening. Mortlake Terrace, Summer’s Evening
was stolen from a property on Chiswick Mall called Norfolk House over a year ago. What do you say to that, Mr Hourani?’

‘Well, I don’t know, I’ve never heard of such a thing. As far as we knew when we bid for it, the painting was called
August Riverside
. Perhaps you’d better take that up with Linfords. It was their auction after all.’

‘Very well,’ said Powerscourt. ‘We shall have to conduct further inquiries. I have another problem, Mr Hourani. Can you tell me where
August Riverside
is going?’

‘I can, indeed I can. I received permission to tell you that only this morning. Rupert said you were bound to ask. The painting is going to the United States, Lord Powerscourt. I am going to take it there myself the day after tomorrow. We were acting at the auction for an American firm called Knoedler, Alfred Knoedler, who have a high reputation for Old Masters at Old Masters prices. They, in turn, are acting for one of America’s great collections, the Huntington Library in California, built, endowed and stuffed to the rafters with railway money. Henry Huntington, the founder, is so wealthy that he feels sure that if it is known that his library is interested in a work, the price will rise automatically and I dare say he is right. This is not the first time we have acted for him through Knoedler. He must keep them in profit, he buys such a lot through them.’

Inspector Kingsley looked like a man who has just solved a mathematical problem in his bath. It was the mention of a possible departure the following day that spurred him into action.

‘You may be going to the United States the day after tomorrow, Mr Hourani,’ he announced, ‘I’m afraid the painting will be staying here. I’m arresting the picture called
August Riverside
or
Mortlake Terrace
. It will remain in police custody pending further considerations.’

‘You can’t, you can’t do that,’ Hourani spluttered. ‘The tickets are booked and everything. I have one dinner appointment at the captain’s table, for heaven’s sake!’

‘The painting stays here. And so do you, Mr Hourani. For the moment you are going nowhere. Count yourself lucky you’re not being arrested as well.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘Receipt of stolen goods. We believe the painting was taken over eighteen months ago. The theft was reported to the police. Until we have further information I must ask you to remain in London until further notice.’

It was the mention of the report to the police that sent Powerscourt’s brain working in a totally different direction. ‘Inspector, I’ve just thought of something,’ he said, the words tumbling out very fast, ‘this could be the reason why the name has changed. The theft was reported to the police at the time. Customs departments, the people who grant export licences, police authorities, art dealers and experts all over the Western world will have been told of the theft of
Mortlake Terrace, Summer’s Evening
. They will have been told to watch out for her. They will have been asked to notify the authorities in their own country if they see the painting or hear any trace of her. They will not have been asked to look out for
August Riverside
. That could sail through without anybody taking any notice at all. So the whole purpose of the auction may have been just that, to change the painting’s name. Maybe our American friend was worried about being in receipt of stolen goods. So he organized this charade instead. What do you think?’

‘I think that’s very plausible, my lord,’ said Inspector Kingsley. ‘But why wait for so long? Why didn’t he do it before?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe he thought the warning ran out after a year. Maybe it had to be renewed. Maybe there were circumstances in his own affairs that caused the delay. I’m sure we can find out.’

‘For now,’ said Kingsley, ‘I’m going to take the painting away. My sergeant is going to organize a parade of experts to inspect it. I shall look into the question of the renewal of the theft notification.’

‘And I,’ said Powerscourt cheerfully, ‘shall get in touch immediately with the
New York Times
European art correspondent and ask him to launch some enquiries in that city.’

Sylvester Hourani watched sadly as
August Riverside
or
Mortlake Terrace, Summer’s Evening
was removed from his window and his bank account and taken into police custody. Powerscourt wondered where Inspector Kingsley was going to keep her. If only, he said to himself, if only she could share a cell with the Caryatid.

‘We’ve found him! We’ve found Lucas Ringer!’ Inspector Davies’s voice was breaking up on the telephone line from Wales. Inspector Kingsley, fiddling with his pen in the little office he shared with two other inspectors, was delighted that the lost undertaker had been located.

‘Where did you find him?’ he asked.

‘I’m in Aberystwyth. The local police found him sleeping rough near the seafront. You’ll never guess what’s happened.’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

‘Friend Ringer has turned the rules of police procedure upside down. Most people can’t wait to get out of a police cell once they’ve been inside it. Lucas doesn’t want to leave. He says the prison cell is the only place in the whole of Wales where he feels safe.’

‘And are you going to let him stay there, Inspector Davies?’

‘I’ve offered him a bargain. If he agrees to talk, to tell us everything that was going on before, he can stay in the cell for the time being.’

‘Well done.’

‘I’ve been thinking about this, mind you. In my opinion Ringer will say more to somebody he doesn’t know than he will to somebody he does. I don’t live in the same town but I’m not that far away. I think he suspects that anything he says to me will, sooner or later, get passed round the community. His granny or his auntie will be spreading the news within the week. Word gets round fast in Wales. People talk. So I think it would be best, certainly best for your investigation, if you came to talk to the man yourself.’

‘The fact that I’m a policeman won’t matter? He won’t think that I would tell you and word would get out that way?’

‘I don’t think so. Once you’re in plain clothes he won’t necessarily think of you as a policeman at all. Aberystwyth is quite bracing at this time of year, my friend. A blast of sea air will do you good, “blast” being the operative word.’

‘Very well, Inspector Davies. I’ll pack my best bucket and spade and be with you tomorrow.’

Lucas Ringer looked like a man who had spent too many days and nights sleeping rough. He had shaved badly with a borrowed razor and spots of blood were all over his left cheek. The police had taken away his clothes and lent him some others which had been made for a much larger man so they hung off his frame. And, as Inspector Kingsley soon discovered, it was more than his body that had been affected. His brain was not what it had been either.

‘They kicked him to death, you know,’ were his first words to Inspector Kingsley in the little interview room in Aberystwyth police station the following afternoon.

‘I know,’ said Inspector Kingsley, desperately trying to work out how to handle this crucial witness who might be able to open the whole case up.

‘Cigarette burns too. On his arms.’

‘Indeed,’ Inspector Kingsley replied. One route to follow was the obvious one. Play the policeman –
Look here, you’ll be in real trouble if you don’t answer my questions, do you want me to throw the book at you, I could have you locked up for a long time
. Inspector Kingsley didn’t think that would work. Something softer, something gentler was required. He had plenty of experience of the first route and a little of the second. He would just have to work it out as he went along.

‘Do you remember leaving home?’ Inspector Kingsley asked in his mildest voice. ‘Could you tell me why?’

‘I was frightened.’ Lucas Ringer stared hard at the policeman from London. ‘Didn’t want to get kicked to death, I suppose.’

‘Well, nobody’s going to kick you to death in here, you know that. Nobody knows you’re here for a start. Inspector Davies and the local men haven’t said a word to anybody.’

‘One day he was alive all day. That evening he was gone. No one knows how long it took to send him from one state to the other.’

‘What do you think Carwyn would say to you now, what advice do you think he would give you?’

There was a long pause. ‘Don’t know, I’m sure.’

‘Well, I’m quite sure of one thing, Mr Ringer. He would want you to help us catch the people who killed your friend. Once they’re out of the way you won’t have to worry about being kicked to death any more. But we don’t need to think about that just at the moment. Is there anything we can do to help you just now?’

‘I’m frightened, see. Very frightened.’

‘I can quite understand that. I’d be frightened too if I were in your shoes.’ Inspector Kingsley wondered if that had been a mistake as soon as he finished saying it.

‘I’ve asked this before, but I don’t think they knew I was serious. Can I stay in my cell for a while? I feel safe here, you see.’

‘Of course you can. Don’t worry about that. It’ll be fine, just fine.’

Inspector Kingsley wondered suddenly if the undertaker was hungry. Certainly he looked as though he hadn’t had a square meal for some days.

‘Tell me, Mr Ringer, would you like something to eat? You must be hungry, surely, after all you’ve been through. Could I order some sandwiches for you from the canteen? Some tea perhaps?’