Death of an Elgin Marble (21 page)

Richard and Robert Haskins were identical. You could have swapped the dark brown hair and the grey eyes and the thick legs over and nobody would have noticed the difference. People said that their trouble must have started at birth. Some people claimed that they had been born with some sections of their brains missing. Others said they had been cursed in their cradle. The God-fearing and the teetotal believed their troubles stemmed from the fact that both of their parents drank more gin and whisky than was good for them.

School did not suit the twins. They learnt to read and write with great difficulty. They were never likely to find a job in insurance or banking where numbers counted for so much. For a time they worked as building labourers, but that work didn’t suit their temperament. They were bored too easily. Walls or windows that were meant to be completed by the end of the day were left unfinished. They tried to join the Army but the military wouldn’t have them. ‘Mentally defective’ was the comment scribbled on the side of an assessment form by the recruitment staff.

Richard and Robert found their true vocation by accident. Even as small boys they were always fighting, not each other, but against anybody who crossed their path. As they grew older their reputation grew so that people all over Deptford knew that it didn’t pay to interfere with the Haskins twins. In that part of London it was inevitable that they would come into contact with the criminal underworld one day. During a particularly brutal episode of gang warfare one of the leaders appointed them as his private bodyguard. He paid quite well. Then he realized that the twins might be more use to him in an offensive rather than a defensive capacity. He sent them out to do battle with his enemies. One broken nose, one bruised wrist later, the twins returned from the field, their foes nursing broken bones, broken teeth, broken arms. The gang leader realized what nobody else had seen before. The twins liked violence. They enjoyed inflicting pain like other people enjoyed chocolate or roast beef. As the gangster prospered and became respectable, his income from protection rackets and gambling houses growing ever larger, the twins prospered with him. After one particularly horrible beating nobody refused to pay for a year and half.

The train was well out of London now, passing through the bare countryside on its route to the West Country. The twins were happy to wait. They knew that their final destination was somewhere in South Wales. They had been given the name of the station and the time they were due to arrive there. They had been told they would be met at the station.

‘It’s really quite remarkable, Lucy, I never knew it until today.’ Lord Francis Powerscourt was sitting in his favourite armchair by the fire in the drawing room in Markham Square, inspecting an old catalogue from one of London’s leading art auctioneers that had arrived in the post that morning.

‘Knew what, my love? I don’t understand.’ Lady Lucy was reading a long letter from one of her great-aunts who was housebound now in her cottage in the Peak District and spent her time composing longer and longer letters to her relations.

‘Why, paintings have records, rather like houses. When you buy a house you may end up with the legal titles of all those who had it before. Turner’s
Mortlake Terrace, Early Summer Morning
, the twin of the Hammersmith Turner, has a pedigree like a racehorse. I wondered if any of the details might help us in our inquiries. I know it’s a long shot, but we could do with one or two long shots at the moment. Twelve years after Turner painted it,
Mortlake Terrace
was sold for eighty-four pounds to somebody or some firm called Allnutt, who were probably dealers of some sort. Allnutt mean anything to you, Lucy?’

‘Nothing at all. Eighty-four pounds doesn’t seem very much money. Don’t paintings start to grow more valuable the older they are? My aunt who claimed to know about art told me that Old Masters cost so much precisely because they were old. Who ever heard of a Young Master, she used to say. Turner was still alive in 1838, wasn’t he? How long before the
Terrace
was sold again?’

‘It says here in brackets, as if they’re not quite sure, that the picture belonged to a painter called Fripp. At any rate it was sold in 1864 and ended up with Agnews the art dealers. That’s no use to us at all.’

‘How much did it sell for this time?’

‘Well, it’s really begun to take off now. It went for £1,102 10s, then it doubled in price in ten years and was sold to a man or firm called Price for £2,200 ten years later. Do you have any thoughts on the Price person, Lucy? Price relatives in rural seats?’

‘None that I can think of, I’m afraid. Didn’t you say that the painting is now in New York, Francis?’

‘I did. It went through a New York dealer called Knoedler for £13,230 three years ago and ended up with a rich industrialist called Frick, Henry Clay Frick.’

‘Can people go and see it? Could some thief have passed by one day and realized that the sister painting would be worth a fortune?’

‘I don’t think so. Not unless he was a friend or relation of Mr Frick’s. And Mr Frick himself is so rich that he could afford to buy the sister painting for an enormous sum and hardly notice. He’s one of the richest millionaires in New York, but I can’t see him organizing a break-in at the house in Hammersmith, I really can’t. It’s all very interesting, the life and times of
Mortlake Terrace
, but I can’t see how it helps us. There is one interesting fact, mind you.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Well,’ said Powerscourt proudly, ‘if you had held on to the painting all the time, from 1838 to 1908, your investment would have gone up by a factor of 157. That’s your one pound seventy-four years ago turned into one hundred and fifty-seven pounds today.’

Lady Lucy looked at her husband suspiciously. ‘Did you work that out yourself, Francis?’

‘Work what out?’

‘All that one hundred and something times whatever it was. I don’t think you did, I really don’t.’

‘Oh ye of little faith,’ said Powerscourt, ‘how sharper than a serpent’s tooth to have a thankless wife.’

‘But you didn’t, did you?’

‘Didn’t do the arithmetic, you mean? Well, no I didn’t, actually, now you come to mention it. Thomas did it for me, before he went out this morning. It seemed to take him about three seconds, scribbling on the back of an envelope.’

‘Please don’t tell anybody this, not even your wife. You mustn’t tell a soul.’

One hour after the 157 times tables Powerscourt was being rushed to an emergency meeting at the British Museum. Inspector Kingsley looked as though he hadn’t slept properly for days. He hadn’t yet told Powerscourt the reason for their journey, driven at top speed across the capital by one of the Inspector’s sergeants.

‘Very well, Inspector. You have my silence. Does what you want to say have to do with the Caryatid?’

‘Not directly, no.’

‘What do you mean, not directly?’

‘I’m going to resign, that’s what I mean. I’ve decided.’

‘What do you mean? Today? Tomorrow? Next week?’

‘Oh, I’m not going to do anything as drastic as that. Once this case is over I’m going to leave and start afresh. I’m going to write my letter of resignation this evening and hand it in later. I’ve talked it through with the wife.’

‘Could I ask about the reasons, if they’re not too private?’

‘You can, of course you can. I feel I’ve failed in this case. That’s just the start. I can’t help thinking about that poor Greek man smashed to bits under the train. If I’d solved the case, maybe that wouldn’t have happened. I’m sure there are going to be more deaths before the end of this affair. I can feel it in my bones. I don’t care about everyday crimes, burglary, fraud, gangland fights. It’s the deaths I can’t stand.’

Powerscourt remembered the despair in Inspector Kingsley’s voice when he had talked about the strain of conducting three murder inquiries in a row. He felt that a diversion might be the best course for now.

‘I’m sure we could talk about your resignation later this evening. Perhaps we could have dinner together. But just for now could you explain why we are going at Derbywinner speed across London to the British Museum?’

‘Sorry, my lord, of course. I have been too wrapped up in my own affairs. It’s Deputy Director Ragg. He’s running out of patience. He may be running out of sense. You remember we advised him not to go and meet that man who might or might not have been a blackmailer? The one who claimed he wrote his letters from the Ritz?’

‘I certainly do. Has the man from the hotel turned up? Carrying a large Gladstone bag to put the fifty-pound notes in?’

‘Not quite. It’s still pretty bad though. Ragg wants to set up a meeting.’

‘With the blackmailer?’

‘With the blackmailer.’

‘God in heaven! Has he lost his wits?’

‘We’re just about to find out, Lord Powerscourt. Unless I am very much mistaken, the next turning leads us into Great Russell Street and the British Museum. Ragg is waiting for us. If we cannot persuade him otherwise, he says he will send a note to the Ritz first thing after lunch and suggest a meeting this evening.’

‘God help us all, Inspector. That’s all I can say. God help us all.’

The Deputy Director of the British Museum, Theophilus Ragg, did not look like a man who had lost his wits. He looked as though he had been wrestling with a thorny problem for a long time. Now he has found his answer and the decision has set him free.

‘Good of you to come, Lord Powerscourt. I thought our friend the Inspector would bring some reinforcements. I know I am going against your advice. Would you like me to go through the reasons for my decision? I presume you know what it is? Good. I have to tell you, my mind is quite made up.’

‘I’d be honoured to hear your reasons, Mr Ragg,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Please carry on.’

‘Thank you. I think it would be useful if I touched on the different responsibilities the three of us face in this matter. For you, Inspector, this is a matter of professional pride, a case to solve, a theft to be cleared up and taken off the books of the Metropolitan Police. For you, Lord Powerscourt, you have very kindly agreed to investigate this robbery for a fee. That is perfectly proper. Securing the return of the Caryatid for you is a matter of honour, a badge of success. Like the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, I believe, you both like to say that you always get your man. Success for both of you is the same. But failure is, I suggest, rather different for the two of you than it is for me. The public will forget the theft of the statue in a couple of months. It will be replaced in the newspapers and the popular imagination by another set of stories and scandals we do not yet know. You will be at work on other cases, solving other crimes. A few people may remember that the Caryatid was never recovered, but you both have long and successful careers behind you. This affair will be just a pause in a long trajectory of professional achievement. After all, who can recall the names of the detectives who failed to catch Jack the Ripper? Do you follow me so far, gentlemen?’

‘Perfectly,’ said the Inspector.

‘Clear as day,’ added Powerscourt.

‘Good,’ said Ragg, smiling a wintry smile at his visitors. Powerscourt had been watching Ragg’s right hand, twirling a fountain pen round and round as he talked. ‘But for me, I think, the position is rather different. You both come from institutions quite separate from the British Museum. I am, for the moment, in charge of this ancient body. It is my responsibility to bring the Caryatid home. By that yardstick I shall be judged, in this life at any rate, if not in the next. As long as ships sail the oceans people will remember that the Captain of the
Titanic
was called Edward Smith. If the Caryatid does not come home future generations will always remember me as Ragg, the man who lost the Elgin Marble and couldn’t get her back.’

The Deputy Director paused to take a pinch of snuff. ‘I know that you two gentlemen think little of this purported blackmailer.’

Powerscourt smiled to himself at the words ‘purported blackmailer’. It was good, very good. He would tell Lucy about it later.

‘You both believe,’ Ragg went on, ‘that it would be unwise and unhelpful to open negotiations with him. I have to tell you that I have given the matter considerable thought and I disagree with you, I disagree with you very strongly. It is my responsibility to do everything I can to bring the Caryatid back. I would be failing in my duty if I did not do whatever I think is necessary to secure her return. I know your objections, gentlemen. I reject them. My mind is made up.’

With that, Theophilus Ragg put his cap on his pen and leaned back in his chair.

‘Surely you must realize—’ Inspector Kingsley sounded as if he were talking to a small child ‘—that we have no way of knowing if the man from the Ritz is the real thief or not? That he could be just a common blackmailer? And what are you going to do when he asks you for £150,000 or whatever figure comes into his head?’

‘I do not regard the question of money as relevant at this point,’ Ragg replied. ‘My first duty is to make contact with this man. I hope his address remains the same.’

Powerscourt thought the Deputy Director’s statement about the money not being relevant was strange, to say the least. What could be more relevant, in this mercenary age, than £150,000? Then a thought struck him with the force and speed of a lightning bolt. Perhaps the money didn’t matter because the Deputy Director knew where he could get his hands on it.

‘Mr Ragg,’ Powerscourt began, choosing his words carefully and looking Ragg directly in the eye. His gaze was not to leave the Deputy Director’s face during the rest of the conversation. ‘Let me put a suggestion to you, if I may. The money always seemed to be an obstacle, a very considerable obstacle, when we talked about this in the past. Now your position seems to have changed somewhat. The money, you say, is not relevant. Is that because you have found a way of putting your hands on £150,000 at short notice? There are, in my view, only two ways you could have secured a guarantee of such a considerable sum. One would be a very rich benefactor. I rather doubt that, myself. Rich benefactors might put up a great deal of money to buy another Caryatid, one that could take physical shape in the museum here in a special room named after the benefactor. I doubt they would hazard their wealth on the gambler’s throw of meeting a man who might have nothing in the foyer of the Ritz.’