Death of an Elgin Marble (30 page)

‘Of course,’ said Powerscourt with a smile, ‘I was mistaken. I thought it was called something else. Forgive me.’

‘Don’t worry, Lord Powerscourt. Are you going to bid for it tomorrow?’

Fitzwilliam inspected his visitor carefully as if he could tell by the cut of the suit if the man had sufficient funds to meet the asking price.

‘I’m not sure,’ Powerscourt laughed. ‘I shall certainly come, mind you.’

‘You are an investigator, are you not, Lord Powerscourt, currently looking into the disappearance of the British Museum Caryatid? Your name is well known in these parts. There isn’t anything wrong with the painting, is there?’

‘I’m sure there’s not, Mr Fitzwilliam. Could I ask who the vendor is, and what price the picture is expected to fetch?’

‘You may be surprised to learn that all I know of the vendor is that the work is described in our brochure as the property of a gentleman. Sometimes people don’t want the bidders to know exactly who the owner is. There might be thieves about who would learn where to break in and steal. You may also be interested to learn that the sale has been arranged in a great hurry. We were only instructed last week.’

‘Indeed. How very interesting. And the price?’

‘Sorry, Lord Powerscourt. I forgot to answer that part of your question. I did the valuation myself and I could be wrong, of course. It’s surprising how often we are wrong in questions of cost. But I can tell you, privately, that the reserve is eight thousand guineas and we expect the winning bid will be well over ten thousand guineas.’

The auction room at Linfords was nearly full. There were over forty-five people present for the morning sale. The porters and attendants bustled about, bringing paintings in and out as if they were vergers in some great church or cathedral. Looking around, Powerscourt thought the Caryatid inquiry was pretty well represented. Inspector Kingsley was there, flanked by a young constable with a fresh notebook and a battered pen. John Hudson of the
New York Times
was also present, with an older notebook and a newer pen. Lady Lucy was by his side. Johnny Fitzgerald had returned to Warwickshire. Powerscourt wondered how many of those present were regulars. He remembered a veteran auctioneer telling him of one pair of old ladies who never missed a sale, always sitting demurely at the back and keeping their hands very close to their persons so nobody could think they were trying to put in a bid. There were a number of art dealers here from the famous houses, no doubt, eyes trained to spot a bargain at the far side of a saleroom.

Rupert Fitzwilliam strode into the room as the clock struck eleven. He was wearing his dark blue suit with a plain white shirt and a pale grey tie. If the porters were the vergers in this cathedral auction room, Powerscourt thought, Fitzwilliam must be the dean, possibly the Bishop. He addressed his congregation as if they were old friends, nodding from time to time to show it was time to take one picture off the display easel and put another one on. He warmed up with a couple of early Constables and a Benjamin West. By the time he reached a late Joshua Reynolds, he was in full flow, playing his audience as carefully as a great comedian in the music halls. Nods, raised hands, an upright umbrella, a lifted hat revealed how the prices were rising. Lady Lucy had confessed to Powerscourt over breakfast that she found bidding at auction so exciting she could hardly stop herself. Once her hand went up, she said, she found it impossible to bring it down. Francis was to ensure that her fingers did not move this morning.

At a quarter to twelve it was the turn of the Turner, the last item on the catalogue.

‘And now, ladies and gentlemen—’ Rupert Fitzwilliam had lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper ‘—we have the finest painting of the morning, if not of the month, if not, even, of the year,
August Riverside
. I can say without hesitation that this is the finest Turner I have ever had the pleasure to handle. Shall we start the bidding at five thousand guineas?’

Three hands went up simultaneously.

‘Five thousand.’

A top hat was raised in the front row.

‘Thank you, sir, at five thousand five hundred.’

A rolled auction brochure went up from the back row.

‘I’m obliged to you, sir. Six thousand guineas.’

A pen this time, belonging to a very tall man stretching his legs in the front row.

‘I’m grateful, six thousand five hundred. Six thousand five hundred guineas.’

‘What do you think it will go for, Francis,’ Lady Lucy whispered, holding her hands together very tightly, ‘eight, ten, eleven?’

‘Keep counting, my love. I’m sure it’ll go beyond that.’

The top hat was back.

‘Seven thousand, seven, thank you, sir.’

Back came the rolled brochure. The price shot up to 9,500 guineas in a series of rapid exchanges that only lasted a couple of seconds. Then a new player entered the ring. A folded copy of
The Times
in the second row raised the stakes yet further.

‘Ten thousand guineas, I’m grateful to you, sir.’

Powerscourt wondered if the rise to five figures would force some of the bidders out of the contest. They might have decided to go up to the high nine thousands and no further. The brochure kept on going.

‘Ten thousand five hundred guineas with you, sir, thank you.’ Rupert Fitzwilliam seemed to be growing calmer as the prices went higher. His eyes roamed across his auction room, looking for movement. He raised an eyebrow to the man with the pen and the long legs in the front row. The pen shook its head.

‘Ten thousand five hundred to the gentleman in the back row.’

The Times
wasn’t giving up after just one round in the ring.

‘Eleven thousand. I’m in your debt, sir.’

There was a pause. The man with the top hat was having a hasty conference with the man beside him, as if seeking further instructions. He held a hand up as if asking for an adjournment. John Hudson was writing furiously in his notebook. Inspector Kingsley was looking closely at the man with the top hat, as if he suspected him of some criminal activity. Lady Lucy was holding Powerscourt’s arm very tightly.

The brochure went up again. ‘Eleven thousand five hundred guineas with the gentleman in the back row.’ Top Hat shook his head furiously and glowered at his neighbour, who seemed to have turned the bidding off.

‘Twelve thousand guineas, twelve.’
The Times
was just getting into his stride.

‘Twelve thousand five hundred.’ The brochure sent the ball back over the net at once.

‘Thirteen thousand, thirteen.’
The Times
was moving from lawn tennis to ping-pong, firing off his replies faster and faster. Powerscourt thought this was a really dangerous moment for both bidders. They could get so caught up in the auction that the will to win would conquer common sense and previously agreed ceilings.

‘Fourteen thousand, thank you, sir.’ The brochure was still in business, jumping the price up by a thousand rather than the usual five hundred. Rupert Fitzwilliam’s good manners were unperturbed by the bidding frenzy in his auction room.

‘And five hundred.’
The Times
was aloft once more. The thousand pound increase hadn’t worked.

‘Fifteen thousand.’ The brochure wasn’t giving up yet.

‘Fifteen thousand five hundred.’
The Times
returned fire immediately. There was a pause. Everybody in the room turned to look at the man with the brochure. He was now writing something on the front page and shook his head at the auctioneer.

‘At fifteen thousand five hundred guineas, fifteen thousand five hundred, with you, sir.’ Rupert Fitzwilliam nodded to the gentleman with the newspaper as if they were old friends.

‘Are there any more bids, ladies and gentlemen?’ Powerscourt thought this was like the
Jane Eyre
moment in the wedding service when the vicar asks if anyone present has just cause or impediment as to why these two people should not be bound together in the bonds of holy matrimony. Fitzwilliam looked around very slowly,

‘Going.’ He raised his gavel with his left hand.

‘Going.’ There was a hush in the room now. The union of the Turner and
The Times
was almost complete.

‘
August Riverside
, by Joseph Mallord William Turner, with you sir, for fifteen thousand five hundred guineas, gone!’

He banged his gavel twice and began collecting his papers. The pen and the rolled brochure went up to
The Times
to congratulate him. The top hat made a hasty departure through the back exit. The auction was over.

Fifteen minutes later Powerscourt and the Inspector were closeted with Rupert Fitzwilliam in his office. He looked carefully at his visitors. Inspector Kingsley introduced himself.

‘So there is something wrong with the painting then. Otherwise why are you gentlemen here?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with the actual painting, if that’s what you mean,’ said Powerscourt. ‘We have no reason to think it’s not genuine.’

‘It’s more a question of where it came from,’ Inspector Kingsley put in, ‘and where it’s going, if you follow me.’

‘I see,’ said Rupert Fitzwilliam. ‘I did look up our details on the vendor, actually. The Turner was offered by a small antique dealer in Burford. I presume he was acting for somebody else.’

‘Did you say Burford? Not Burford Antiques by any chance?’

‘Why, that is absolutely correct, Lord Powerscourt. There are two such shops in the town, but Blakeways is where it came from.’

‘And what about the purchaser?’ Inspector Kingsley was looking at Rupert Fitzwilliam as if he wanted to arrest him on the spot.

Fitzwilliam laughed. ‘The final battle was between the biggest art dealers in London. The rolled-up brochure was from Andersons and
The Times
spoke for Houranis. I’m sure they were both acting for private buyers who wanted to remain anonymous. I’d be very surprised if the Turner isn’t sold on within the week.’

Powerscourt arranged to meet George Blakeway in the back room of the Mermaid in Burford at six o’clock the day after the auction. For some reason Blakeway didn’t want to meet at the antique shop. You could see what he must have been like as an auctioneer, Powerscourt said to himself, as Blakeway strode into the bar ten minutes late. More flamboyant than Rupert Fitzwilliam, possibly not so polite. He was smartly dressed in a plain blue suit with a white shirt and well-polished black boots. He had a cheerful air as if he was friends with all the world.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, ‘got delayed in Oxford.’ He went to the bar and collected a couple of drinks. ‘How can I help you, Lord Powerscourt? You said on the phone that it was a matter of some importance.’

‘As it happens, Mr Blakeway, there are a couple of things I’d like to ask you about. My sister-in-law, who’s married to a Greek businessman, is thinking of sending her sons to the Hellenic College.’ Please forgive me, Lucy, he said inwardly to his wife, suddenly converted into a sister-in-law, it’s all in a good cause. ‘I’d welcome your opinion of the place.’

‘I’d be delighted to help,’ said Blakeway, ‘and the other thing?’

‘That has to do with your antique shop here in Burford.’

‘It’s not my antique shop any more, Lord Powerscourt. I sold the place three months ago.’

‘But I looked in there recently, and the young man told me you weren’t there but that you popped over to see them at the weekend. At least, I think that’s what he said.’

‘I never told Skinny Simon I’d sold the place. His mother is the biggest gossip in the county. Might as well have put it on the front page of
Jackson’s Oxford Journal
.’

Powerscourt wondered if the man was lying. If he was, he was pretty convincing. But if all he had heard about Blakeway was even half true, he’d had years of practice. Even so, if it was three months ago that he sold the antique business, then he could have nothing to do with
Mortlake Terrace
or
August Riverside
coming to the auctioneers. Or could he?

‘Really, Mr Blakeway? I presume you popped in to see if the new man had made any changes to the place?’

‘Absolutely, Lord Powerscourt. How clever of you to have worked that one out.’

‘And has he?’

‘That’s the curious thing. The fellow said he wanted to spruce the place up a bit, make a bit more noise on the High Street, those were his very words. All he seems to have done is to sack the cleaning woman. The shop has now got more dust lying about than the storerooms at the Ashmolean.’

‘That’s a pity,’ said Powerscourt, still wondering if the man was telling the truth. ‘Tell me about the Hellenic College, Mr Blakeway. My sister-in-law said she’d seen you teaching there when she went to look at the school.’

‘We were doing Byron with the senior class,’ said Blakeway. ‘The College is always keen to emphasize his links with the struggle for Greek freedom.’

‘He died fighting for it, if I remember right,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Well, in a manner of speaking. He wasn’t actually killed in battle, though I’m sure he would have preferred that. He caught a fever and that was the end of him.’

‘Anyway, tell me about the Hellenic College. Would you recommend it?’

George Blakeway took a draught of his beer and stared at Powerscourt for a moment. ‘I don’t find that an easy question to answer, oddly enough.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, let me put it like this. If you wanted your children to be brought up in an English tradition, the Hellenic is not the place for you. If you want them to be brought up in a very particular Greek fashion, then it might be. The people who run the place – I wouldn’t describe them as fanatics, that would be going too far – but they are very pro Greek, evangelists for Greek culture and Greek rights and all that sort of thing. They think Greece is special because of all that Homer and the historians and the playwrights and people like bloody Socrates droning on in Athens over two thousand years ago. I’m not sure it makes any difference nowadays whether your long distant ancestors were discussing Plato’s cave or the best way to kill a deer with a bow and arrow. I suspect some of the Greek teachers over in the College might even believe in the ancient Greek gods rather more than in English Christianity but I’m not sure.’