Death of an Elgin Marble (20 page)

The secretary of the Chiswick Literary Society did not actually live in Chiswick. Martin Boyd’s home was a small late Victorian house in the streets off Brackenbury Road in Hammersmith. But he worked in Chiswick, as an English teacher in the local secondary school. Shakespeare, he informed Powerscourt, was the great love of his life. His own wife, he admitted, as he showed his visitor into the little sitting room on the ground floor, claimed that he loved the Bard more than he loved her.

‘Never mind Shakespeare for now,’ he said, ‘you said in your note you wanted to talk to me about the Society’s visit to Mrs Wilson’s house eighteen months or so ago. The place with the Turner? Is that right?’

‘That is correct, Mr Boyd. There are certain questions arising from the theft of the painting which took place some months after your visit. Do you remember how many people went to Norfolk House?’

‘I have thought about that, Lord Powerscourt. I have here the little book where I keep notes of the Society’s events. I have to write a report on our activities for the members at the end of the year, you see.’

‘And what do your records tell us?’

The page was already marked. The secretary obviously believed in doing his homework. ‘There were fifteen of us, including the hosts,’ he said. ‘Mr Wilson gave a most illuminating talk about the picture. Mrs Wilson gave us tea, it says here, with some splendid cake. We left about a quarter to five. The Turner was so peaceful and it was good to see it so close to where it was painted.’

‘Forgive me, Mr Boyd, were all the people who went to the Wilsons’ house known to you?’

The teacher consulted his book once more. ‘Williams was there, Cook, Ferguson, Smith, the other Smith with the spectacles, Richards, Hall, Peters, O’Malley, Cameron, I knew all of those quite well. Most of them have been members of the society longer than I have.’

‘And the other two? I think you said there were fifteen altogether.’

‘Well, I have made a note of them too, I see. One of them is described as the thin young man from the bookshop. We have a very good bookshop in Chiswick. The thin young man is still there.’

‘And the other one?’

‘I have put him down as the bald man with the posh voice. That’s all I’ve got. No name, I’m afraid.’

‘Can you recall how he came to be there? How did he know you were going to see the Turner?’

‘I remember now, he said he’d heard of it from a friend of his who is also a member but couldn’t make the visit to Norfolk House. Do you know, I don’t think he gave me the name of his friend at all. You don’t suppose he was making it up, do you, Lord Powerscourt?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, Mr Boyd. Could you describe him at all?’

Boyd paused and stared at the lines of Shakespeare plays that sat on his bookshelves. Powerscourt thought they had been arranged in order of composition but he couldn’t be sure. Boyd scratched the back of his head.

‘Average height, bald, as I said. He was wearing a dark blue suit, I think. I can’t remember anything about the shirt or the tie, I’m afraid. Black shoes, well polished, I remember that for some reason.’

‘And his voice? Was there anything remarkable about that?’

‘He was well spoken, Lord Powerscourt. I would have said that he enjoyed a position of some authority, if you know what I mean. He didn’t sound like “the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school.” He was more like a man of the world.’

Boyd looked at his Shakespeares once more. ‘I know what he sounded like, Lord Powerscourt. He sounded like a man who would be at home in clubland, leaning on the fireplace in the Garrick, taking port with his friends in the Carlton, that sort of man.’

‘I see,’ said Powerscourt. ‘And tell me, how did he behave in Norfolk House with the Wilsons? Was there anything remarkable there?’

‘Nothing at all, except that he seemed very knowledgeable about the Turner. He asked Mr Wilson if it was a companion piece to the Mortlake Terrace view in New York. I remember wondering how on earth he knew that. Unless—’ Boyd looked as he had been visited by a flash of inspiration ‘—unless he knew all about art; maybe he was a critic or a connoisseur.’

Or a thief, Powerscourt said to himself. Here in Hammersmith there were lumps of pure gold.

‘Anything else you can remember, Mr Boyd? Your information is most useful, I must say.’

‘Thank you, thank you very much, Lord Powerscourt. I don’t think there is anything else. His hands were rough, unlike the rest of him which was very smooth, if you see what I mean. As if he’d been doing a lot of gardening or digging in his spare time. It’s probably nothing.’

‘You’ve been more than helpful, Mr Boyd. May I wish you and your society every good fortune in future. I am most grateful to you.’

As he headed back towards Chelsea, Powerscourt wondered about a bald man who might have come from the art world with roughened hands. Martin Boyd wondered why he had forgotten to ask the one question all the members had urged on him. Why had Powerscourt come? Why the interest in a visit to a painting that had been stolen so long ago? Had it been found at last?

A bald man, well spoken, who knew a lot about art. Powerscourt asked himself how many of those were walking the streets of London? A dead man who might have been pushed under a tube train. Got to go to the High City. A broken statue in the waters of a Greek harbour which might or might not have been the Caryatid. The Isles of Greece. Shades of the prison-house. The Caryatid connection was proving elusive, to say the least. Powerscourt was on his way to see a painter who might help him identify the bald man. Lord Rosebery had effected the introduction and the appointment.

‘He knows everybody in the London art world, Francis. He knows all the rich patrons – he’s painted portraits of most of them and many of their wives and mistresses for God’s sake. He’s even done a portrait of me. He studied in Paris in his younger days so he’s probably well aware of the latest developments in the theft of the
Mona Lisa
. And he travels regularly to his native country of America so his expertise straddles the Atlantic. I can’t think of a better brain to pick than that of Josiah Wills Baker.’

The great artist lived in a huge house in Eaton Square with a studio running the entire length of the first floor. He greeted Powerscourt in his drawing room one floor below, the walls lined with some of his earlier compositions. He was in his seventies now, the hair and beard that had been such a distinctive feature in his younger days now snow white.

‘Good of you to come and see an old wreck like me, Lord Powerscourt. Any friend of Rosebery’s is welcome here. Forgive me if I remain seated. It’s my eyes, they’re going. They’ve nearly gone, come to think about it. So I might be able to get up but I’m not sure about sitting down again. I might miss the chair and end up on the floor.’

‘I’m sorry to hear about your eyes, Mr Baker. And I’m most grateful to you for sparing me your time this morning.’

‘Time,’ said Baker with a bitter laugh, ‘time is the one property in this world of which I have a surfeit. If you can’t see, you can’t paint. If you can’t paint, after a lifetime devoted to the study and practice of art, your reason for living seems to have gone away. And there are no signs that it will come back. However, let there be no selfpity in my house. Rosebery tells me you are investigating the theft of the Caryatid from the British Museum. How can I be of service?’

Powerscourt gave the old man a brief history of his involvement, the Greek porters at the British Museum, one killed under a train, the other one vanished in the Adriatic, the fallen statue in the harbour at Brindisi, his visits to the houses with the unsolved thefts and the mysterious visitor to the Turner in Norfolk House, described as bald and well spoken by the Secretary of the Chiswick Literary Society.

Josiah Wills Baker’s sight might have been fading fast. His mental powers were not.

‘Would I be right in thinking that you suspect this bald person may have been conducting a reconnaissance on the painting? Collecting information that would enable him or his associates to steal it?’

‘You would be right, Mr Baker. Absolutely right. One of the things I would like to ask you about is this. I know it is a very long shot. Have you any idea who this bald man, age about forty, might be? Even a list of possibilities would be useful.’

‘I fear that’s rather a tall order, Lord Powerscourt. I’ve painted a couple of bald men in my time, both too old for your purposes, I fear. Far too old. It’s always difficult to get the light right on the bald patch itself. It’s like painting a boiled egg in a spotlight.’

The old man looked round at the paintings lining his walls. Delightful young girls played in a garden with flowers. Important statesmen stared out of the frame with an air of great authority. Grand patricians stood in front of their pillared halls resplendent in the Order of the Bath or the Order of the Garter. Groups of children were draped around an empty living room in tribute to Velasquez’s
Las Meninas
. Rosebery had told him that Wills Baker held the record for the most portraits painted of members of one family. He had produced twelve separate portraits, man, wife and all ten children for a leading London art dealer. Powerscourt suddenly realized that the old man couldn’t see any of his own work hanging in this room any more. They must be mere blurs on what was left of his sight.
Sic transit gloria mundi
.

‘We know he was never seen again at any meeting of the Chiswick Literary Society. Nor has he been seen again in Chiswick itself.’

‘Maybe we could look at the thing in another way, Lord Powerscourt. Why would anybody want to steal the Caryatid? Insanity? A rather special kind of insanity would be needed to work out the organization and logistics of such a theft. They rather suggest to me a logical criminal with a definite plan, not some strange eccentric with visions and voices in his head.’

‘Could you sell her? Who would want to buy a statue you could never display? Surely all the art galleries in the world would report you to the British Museum immediately?’

‘They would, they would indeed. But they aren’t the only people who might want her. Let’s try to think of the collectors who might be happy to part with their money for a Caryatid. Years ago now I painted a couple of portraits for a lord and a lady with a fifty-room mansion in Berkeley Square. Fifty rooms! Think of it! But that was just the start. Their house in Yorkshire, sitting right on top of a coalfield, had 365 rooms, one for every day of the year. And a man whose full-time job it was to circumnavigate this place every day winding the clocks when their time came, once a week or a fortnight. That took him all day every day of the week. You could hide any number of Caryatids in there. Or in any of the other great houses with more rooms than people.’

‘But what would you charge? Surely you couldn’t ask for a lot of money for something you couldn’t even show to your friends?’

‘You might be right and you might be wrong there, Lord Powerscourt. I rather suspect you’re wrong. Pretend I’m the salesman, and you’re the buyer. Not only am I offering you a rare example of a classical Greek statue, among the most famous in the world, but think of this. You are the only person in the country who will be able to look at her. She is yours, yours alone, to adore, to wonder at, to fall in love with, who knows. There’s just you with that special privilege, like the lovers who want to lock their lady away so that nobody else can even see her. That’s worth a penny or two.’

‘Dollars?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘Dollars too?’

Wills Baker smiled. Powerscourt saw that his teeth, like his eyesight, were almost gone. ‘I should say. Many of these millionaires are pretty secretive fellows, as you know. I’ve painted enough of them, God knows. They pay very badly, did you know that? They all try to get the lowest possible rate and then you almost have to send for the bailiffs to get the money out of them when you’ve finished. I’ve often thought of writing an article about it for the art magazines. But I can just see some of them lapping up the secrecy, deriving a great deal of pleasure from it. Not only can you see her, but none of your fellow millionaires can. They’re losers. You’re not. You’ve got the Caryatid all to yourself.’

‘How much money are we talking about?’

‘God knows, Powerscourt. A lot of money. A Caryatid, like the stolen
Mona Lisa
from the Louvre, is priceless.’

‘What else do you think might have happened to her, Mr Baker?’

‘Ransom perhaps? That’s a possibility. She could be a hostage. Even then she would be worth a great deal of money. Think of the crowds flocking to see her when you announce she’s come home again! I know the British Museum doesn’t charge for admission as a rule, but I’m sure it could get round that. Put the Caryatid in a special section with lots of security men. Say the cost of guarding her is so high you have to make a small charge for people to come and see her. Exceptional circumstances for an exceptional work of art. You and I could write the announcement in five minutes.’

Powerscourt wondered if it was time to go. The old man was looking tired, as if the discussion about the Caryatid had worn him out. The eyes looked blanker than when he had arrived.

‘Could I ask one last favour, Mr Baker?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’d like you to think about this affair. Not only who the bald man could be, but the whole question of who might want to buy the Caryatid. Could you do that? I could come back at the same time next week, if that would suit.’

‘I’d be delighted to help. It’ll be a change to think I’ve got something to do. I’ve just got one word of advice for you, as you go about your business.’

‘What’s that, Mr Baker?’

‘It’s this. However unlikely your conclusions are in this affair, don’t be concerned. The art world is capable of the most extraordinary surprises. Things happen that you could not possibly imagine. I look forward to seeing you next week.’

The twins liked trains. They liked sitting by the window and watching the world go past. They liked trams too. Sometimes when they had nothing better to do, they would take the top floor of the number 27 up to Trafalgar Square and back, just for the ride.