The New Collected Short Stories (27 page)

‘Shoulder arms!’ said a sharp voice. ‘Try to remember that we are not savages.’ A smartly dressed army captain stepped forward and saluted. ‘I am sorry for any
inconvenience you have suffered, First Secretary,’ he said, in a clipped Sandhurst voice, ‘but be assured that we wish you no harm.’

Henry didn’t comment, but continued to stare down at the dead President.

‘As you can see, Mr Pascoe, the late President has met with a tragic accident,’ continued the captain. ‘We will remain with him until he has been buried with full honours in
the village where he was born. I’m sure that is what he would have wished.’

Henry looked down at the prostrate body, and doubted it.

‘May I suggest, Mr Pascoe, that you return to the capital immediately and inform your masters of what has happened.’

Henry remained silent.

‘You may also wish to tell them that the new President is Colonel Narango.’

Henry still didn’t voice an opinion. He realised that his first duty was to get a message through to the Foreign Office as quickly as possible. He nodded in the direction of the captain
and began walking slowly back to his driverless car.

He slipped in behind the wheel, relieved to see that the keys had been left in the ignition. He switched on the engine, turned the car around and began the long journey back down the winding
track to the capital. It would be nightfall before he reached St George’s.

After he had covered a couple of miles and was certain that no one was following him, he brought the car to a halt by the side of the road, took out his mobile phone and dialled his office
number.

His secretary picked up the phone.

‘It’s Henry.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad you phoned,’ Shirley said. ‘So much has happened this afternoon. But first, Mrs Davidson has just called to say that it looks as if the church bazaar
might raise as much as two hundred kora, and would it be possible for you to drop in on your way back so they can present you with the cheque? And by the way,’ Shirley added before Henry
could speak, ‘we’ve all heard the news.’

‘Yes, that’s what I was calling about,’ said Henry. ‘We must contact the Foreign Office immediately.’

‘I already have,’ said Shirley.

‘What did you tell them?’

‘That you were with the President, carrying out official duties, and would be in touch with them just as soon as you returned, High Commissioner.’

‘High Commissioner?’ said Henry.

‘Yes, it’s official. I assumed that’s what you were calling about. Your new appointment. Congratulations.’

‘Thank you,’ said Henry casually, not even asking where he’d been appointed to. ‘Any other news?’

‘No, not much else happening this end. It’s a typically quiet Friday afternoon. In fact, I was wondering if I could go home a little early this evening. You see, I promised to drop
in and help Sue Paterson prepare for her husband’s fiftieth.’

‘Yes, why not,’ said Henry, trying to remain calm. ‘And do let Mrs Davidson know that I’ll make every effort to call in at the bazaar. Two hundred kora should make all
the difference.’

‘By the way,’ Shirley asked, ‘how’s the President getting on?’

‘He’s just about to take part in an earth-moving ceremony,’ said Henry, ‘so I’d better leave you.’

Henry touched the red button, then immediately dialled another number.

‘Bill Paterson speaking.’

‘Bill, it’s Henry. Have you exchanged our quarterly cheque yet?’

‘Yes, I did it about an hour ago. I got the best rate I could, but I’m afraid the kora always strengthens whenever the President makes his official trip back to his place of
birth.’

Henry avoided adding ‘And death’, simply saying, ‘I want the entire amount converted back into sterling.’

‘I must advise you against that,’ said Bill. ‘The kora has strengthened further in the last hour. And in any case, such an action would have to be sanctioned by the High
Commissioner.’

‘The High Commissioner is in Dorset on his annual leave. In his absence, I am the senior diplomat in charge of the mission.’

‘That may well be the case,’ said Bill, ‘but I would still have to make a full report for the High Commissioner’s consideration on his return.’

‘I would expect nothing less of you, Bill,’ said Henry.

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Henry?’

‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘And while you’re at it, I also require that the kora we are holding in the Contingency Fund be
converted into sterling.’

‘I’m not sure . . .’ began Bill.

‘Mr Paterson, I don’t have to remind you that there are several other banks in St George’s, who for years have made it clear how much they would like to have the British
government’s account.’

‘I shall carry out your orders to the letter, First Secretary,’ replied the bank manager, ‘but I wish it to be placed on the record that it is against my better
judgement.’

‘Be that as it may, I wish this transaction to be carried out before the close of business today,’ said Henry. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

‘You most certainly do,’ said Bill.

It took Henry another four hours to reach the capital. As all the streets in St George’s were empty, he assumed that the news of the President’s death must have been announced, and
that a curfew was in force. He was stopped at several checkpoints – grateful to have the Union Jack flying from his bonnet – and ordered to proceed to his home immediately. Still, it
meant he wouldn’t have to drop into Mrs Davidson’s bazaar and pick up the cheque for two hundred kora.

The moment Henry arrived back home he switched on the television, to see President Narango, in full-dress uniform, addressing his people.

‘Be assured, my friends,’ he was saying, ‘you have nothing to fear. It is my intention to lift the curfew as soon as possible. But until then, please do not stray out onto the
streets, as the army has been given orders to shoot on sight.’

Henry opened a tin of baked beans and remained indoors for the entire weekend. He was sorry to miss Bill’s fiftieth, but he felt on balance it was probably for the best.

HRH Princess Anne opened St George’s new swimming pool on her way back from the Commonwealth Games in Kuala Lumpur. In her speech from the poolside, she said how impressed
she was by the high diving board and the modern changing facilities.

She went on to single out the work of the Rotary Club and to congratulate them on the leadership they had shown throughout the campaign, in particular the chairman, Mr Bill Paterson, who had
received an OBE for his services in the Queen’s Birthday Honours.

Sadly, Henry Pascoe was not present at the ceremony, as he had recently taken up his post as High Commissioner to the Ascensions – a group of islands which isn’t on the way to
anywhere.

‘Y
OU MAY WONDER
why this sculpture is numbered “13”,’ said the curator, a smile of satisfaction appearing on his face. I was
standing at the back of the group, and assumed we were about to be given a lecture on artists’ proofs.

‘Henry Moore,’ the curator continued, in a voice that made it clear he believed he was addressing an ignorant bunch of tourists who might muddle up Cubism with sugar lumps, and who
obviously had nothing better to do on a bank holiday Monday than visit a National Trust house, ‘would normally produce his works in editions of twelve. To be fair to the great man, he died
before approval was given for the only casting of a thirteenth example of one of his masterpieces.’

I stared across at the vast bronze of a nude woman that dominated the entrance of Huxley Hall. The magnificent, curvaceous figure, with the trademark hole in the middle of her stomach, head
resting in a cupped hand, stared out imperiously at a million visitors a year. She was, to quote the handbook, classic Henry Moore, 1952.

I continued to admire the inscrutable lady, wanting to lean across and touch her – always a sign that the artist has achieved what he set out to do.

‘Huxley Hall,’ the curator droned on, ‘has been administered by the National Trust for the past twenty years. This sculpture,
The Reclining Woman
, is considered by
scholars to be among the finest examples of Moore’s work, executed when he was at the height of his powers. The sixth edition of the sculpture was purchased by the fifth Duke – a
Yorkshireman, like Moore – for the princely sum of £1,000. When the Hall was passed on to the sixth Duke, he discovered that he was unable to insure the masterpiece, because he simply
couldn’t afford the premium.

‘The seventh Duke went one better – he couldn’t even afford the upkeep of the Hall, or the land that surrounded it. Shortly before his demise, he avoided leaving the eighth
Duke with the burden of death duties by handing over the Hall, its contents and its thousand-acre grounds to the National Trust. The French have never understood that if you wish to kill off the
aristocracy, death duties are far more effective than revolutions.’ The curator laughed at his little
bon mot
, and one or two at the front of the crowd politely joined in.

‘Now, to return to the mystery of the edition of thirteen,’ continued the curator, resting a hand on
The Reclining Woman
’s ample bottom. ‘To do this, I must first
explain one of the problems the National Trust faces whenever it takes over someone else’s home. The Trust is a registered charity. It currently owns and administers over 250 historic
buildings and gardens in the British Isles, as well as more than 600,000 acres of countryside and 575 miles of coastline. Each piece of property must meet the Trust’s criterion of being
“of historic interest or natural beauty”. In taking over the responsibility for maintaining the properties, we also have to insure and protect their fabric and contents without
bankrupting the Trust. In the case of Huxley Hall, we have installed the most advanced security system available, backed up by guards who work around the clock. Even so, it is impossible to protect
all our many treasures for twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year.

‘When something is reported missing, we naturally inform the police immediately. Nine times out of ten the missing item is returned to us within days.’ The curator paused, confident
that someone would ask why.

‘Why?’ asked an American woman, dressed in tartan Bermuda shorts and standing at the front of our group.

‘A good question, madam,’ said the curator condescendingly. ‘It’s simply because most petty criminals find it almost impossible to dispose of such valuable booty, unless
it has been stolen to order.’

‘Stolen to order?’ queried the same American woman, bang on cue.

‘Yes, madam,’ said the curator, only too happy to explain. ‘You see, there are gangs of criminals operating around the globe who steal masterpieces for clients who are happy
that no one else should ever see them, as long as they can enjoy them in private.’

‘That must come expensive,’ suggested the American woman.

‘I understand that the current rate is around a fifth of the work’s market value,’ confirmed the curator. This seemed to finally silence her.

‘But that doesn’t explain why so many treasures are returned so quickly,’ said a voice from the middle of the crowd.

‘I was about to come to that,’ said the curator, a little sharply. ‘If an artwork has not been stolen to order, even the most inexperienced fence will avoid it.’

He quickly added, ‘Because . . .’ before the American woman could demand ‘Why?’

‘. . . all the leading auctioneers, dealers and galleries will have a full description of the missing piece on their desks within hours of its being stolen. This leaves the thief in
possession of something no one is willing to handle, because if it were to come onto the market the police would swoop within hours. Many of our stolen masterpieces are actually returned within a
few days, or dumped in a place where they are certain to be found. The Dulwich Art Gallery alone has experienced this on no fewer than three separate occasions in the past ten years, and,
surprisingly, very few of the treasures are returned damaged.’

This time, several ‘Whys?’ emanated from the little gathering.

‘It appears,’ said the curator, responding to the cries, ‘that the public may be inclined to forgive a daring theft, but what they will not forgive is damage being caused to a
national treasure. I might add that the likelihood of a criminal being charged if the stolen goods are returned undamaged is also much reduced.

‘But, to continue my little tale of the edition of thirteen,’ he went on. ‘On September 6th 1997, the day of Diana, Princess of Wales’s funeral, just at the moment the
coffin was entering Westminster Abbey, a van drove up and parked outside the main entrance of Huxley Hall. Six men dressed in National Trust overalls emerged and told the guard on duty that they
had orders to remove
The Reclining Woman
and transport her to London for a Henry Moore exhibition that would shortly be taking place in Hyde Park.

‘The guard had been informed that because of the funeral, the pick-up had been postponed until the following week. But as the paperwork all seemed to be in order, and as he wanted to hurry
back to his television, he allowed the six men to remove the sculpture.

‘Huxley Hall was closed for the two days after the funeral, so no one gave the incident a thought until a second van appeared the following Tuesday with the same instructions to remove
The Reclining Woman
and transport her to the Moore exhibition in Hyde Park. Once again, the paperwork was in order, and for some time the guards assumed it was simply a clerical error. One
phone call to the organisers of the Hyde Park exhibition disabused them of this idea. It became clear that the masterpiece had been stolen by a gang of professional criminals. Scotland Yard was
immediately informed.

‘The Yard,’ continued the curator, ‘has an entire department devoted to the theft of works of art, with the details of many thousands of pieces listed on computer. Within
moments of being notified of a crime, they are able to alert all the leading auctioneers and art dealers in the country.’