Death of an Elgin Marble (32 page)

Lucas Ringer nodded emphatically. ‘Ham?’ he said. ‘Do you think they have ham sandwiches? They’ve always been my favourite. Sometimes I have ham sandwiches for my lunch every day of the week.’

Inspector Kingsley departed to the front desk to be told the canteen would send them up directly.

‘We’re temporarily out of caviar and champagne, mind you,’ the sergeant on duty told him, ‘we hope to get fresh supplies next week.’

Ringer devoured one pair of sandwiches, then another. He finished a cup of tea and asked for a refill. The Inspector thought he began to look a little better. It was proving to be a most unusual interview.

‘What I’m going to do, Mr Ringer, is to tell you the little I know about what was going on. Then I would like you to fill in the gaps in my knowledge if you will.’

The undertaker gave a reluctant nod, but it was a nod, none the less.

‘Some strangers came, I don’t know how many. They were based either in one of the caves or at a great barn out on the Crickhowell Road. Neighbours heard a lot of banging in the night. You were asked by somebody, I don’t know who, to make an enormous coffin, much bigger than normal. The schoolteacher came up with the cover story about how it was going to send a statue to America. Something, we don’t know what, it might have been anything, was placed inside the coffin and it was sent off to Bristol.’

‘That’s good,’ said Lucas Ringer, tucking into the last pair of ham sandwiches, ‘there’s some things I know about and some I don’t. I don’t know anything definite about the strangers, it was all rumour and gossip. Some people said the people were foreign, but I’m not sure. I do know about the coffin. A man came from London to order that. At least he said he’d come from London. He gave me the dimensions of the thing. When it was finished, I was to drive it out to that big barn on the Crickhowell Road and wait while they put something inside it. Then I had to drive it back to my place and wait for the transport to Bristol.’

‘What sort of man was he? Well spoken? Did he sound like a Londoner? What sort of age, would you say?’

‘He looked about forty years old. He sounded like a professional man, rather like yourself, Inspector. His clothes were ordinary, as far as I remember. Dark blue suit, plain tie. He left me an address in London to write to if there were any complications. That was the address I gave to Carwyn Jones. I don’t know what part of London it was. But don’t you see?’

Lucas Ringer’s eyes took on that hunted look again. ‘If they came to kill Carwyn for what he knew, then why shouldn’t they come to kill me too? I know even more than he did.’

‘And the two men who came down to see Carwyn after he sent that letter? What can you remember about them?’

‘They were thugs, basically,’ Lucas Ringer said. ‘They made me feel uneasy, just looking at them.’

‘And you have no idea what was in Carwyn Jones’s letter?’

‘Not a clue.’

Inspector Kingsley thought that he had information now to banish most of the terrors that haunted the undertaker. If Ringer knew that Carwyn had been trying to blackmail the man from London, then he would surely feel safer. Always assuming he, Ringer, hadn’t been trying a bit of blackmail too. But there was one thought and one thought only uppermost in Inspector Kingsley’s mind. If he could get Ringer to swear in the witness box at the Old Bailey that the twins in the dock were the same people as those who had come to see Carwyn Jones on his last night alive, the twins would surely hang. Inspector Ferguson’s problem with the silent witnesses of Deptford would be solved. He couldn’t work out, for the moment, whether a very frightened Ringer would be more likely to identify them than a Ringer who was just a little bit scared. He resolved to think about the matter overnight.

‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Ringer. I think you have had enough for one day. I’d like to come back in the morning and we could have another talk. Is there anything else you can tell me before I go? Anything more about the man from London perhaps?’

‘I don’t think so, my mind has got confused. There is one thing, though. I think he was bald, the bloke from London, but I’m not sure. I could be wrong.’

Lady Lucy Powerscourt was opening the mail from the afternoon post in the drawing room in Markham Square. Her husband was reading a long account of the search for the Caryatid in the
Morning Post
.

‘Look, Francis,’ she said, ‘they’ve sent us a whole lot more information, the Hellenic College people. We’ve got details of the staff and where they come from, and a page of school news. This will interest you, my love. The new Erechtheion building will be officially opened on Saturday evening – that’s two days from now – by Dr Tristram Stanhope, Head of Greek and Roman Antiquities at the British Museum, and Classical Consultant to the Hellenic College. “Unfortunately,” the news goes on, “there will not be enough room for us to welcome parents and visitors on this important day, but we are sure you will wish us well on the happy occasion.” What do you think of that?’

‘Did you see the new building at all when you were there, Lucy? Is it very enclosed, perhaps?’

‘That’s the curious thing. The new Erechtheion is at the end of a long glade, a broad stretch of grass that runs between the trees up towards the Parthenon. You could put loads of people in there, I’m sure.’

‘Maybe they haven’t got enough chairs, Lucy.’

‘You can’t be serious. The people in that big house up the road must have heaps and heaps of chairs. They often have concerts and things like that by the side of the lake.’

‘Do they say what time the opening is going to be?’

Lady Lucy checked the news sheet on her lap. ‘Eight o’clock in the evening. It’s going to be quite dark. How odd, to open a new place when most people won’t be able to see it.’

Powerscourt strode downstairs to send an urgent message to Warwickshire.

Inspector Kingsley thought he was seeing quite enough of the country’s penal establishments. Aberystwyth police station the day before yesterday, one of London’s most notorious prisons today. His second interview with Lucas Ringer had been uneventful and yielded nothing apart from another round of ham sandwiches. He had left a set of recommendations with Inspector Davies.

‘The only thing that matters is that Ringer should be able to identify the Twins in court. Whatever we have to do to make him fit for that, we must do it. If he’s happy staying in the police station, so be it. If he wants to go home with a police guard, that’s fine. If he wants to go to a bloody hotel, the Met will pay. Let’s just hope we can keep him on track.’

The land surrounding Wormwood Scrubs Prison had once been the favourite place in London for duelling. The building itself, he had been told by the Governor on a previous visit, was constructed entirely by prison labour. There were two reasons for his visit today. He was going to see the convict he had sent there eighteen months ago, in a bid to raise the man’s spirits and, possibly, to save him from suicide. The other reason concerned the three men who had been sent to prison in recent years for fraud and other related crimes in London’s art world. Inspector Kingsley felt sure that at least one of them must have been incarcerated here in the Scrubs. He had sent a list of names to the Governor’s office on his return from Wales.

‘Easton, Kennedy, Blakeway,’ the Governor began, ‘they sound like a firm of solicitors, don’t they? Now then, I’ve had my people look them up and ask around about what we remember of these characters. We only had two of them, the records say that Easton was sent to Pentonville. I’ve written to my opposite number there to ask for any news.’

‘So what of Blakeway, Governor? Nicholas George Blakeway, former auctioneer and fraudster?’

‘Blakeway was an interesting character, Inspector. He seemed to fit into the prison routine from the day he arrived. Some people do. Perhaps he’d been to boarding school. He was rather an expert at cards. Most of the inmates refused to play poker with him after a while so he taught them whist instead. I remember him telling me that the criminal mind, for some unknown reason, had a natural ability to remember all the cards that have been played so far.’

‘Did he make friends with anybody in particular during his time here?’

‘I think you could have said he was friends with everybody and nobody at the same time. He got on well with most people but he didn’t get close to anybody.’

‘I see,’ said Inspector Kingsley. ‘What about the other man, Michael Moloney Kennedy?’

‘Ah, Kennedy. The man with his hand in the till. The inmates knew he had been called Trustworthy Kennedy the day he arrived. He was one of the strangest prisoners I’ve ever seen. From the day he came through the doors, he was miserable as sin. He used to rent out his services as a financial consultant with some success. Odd how the prisoners rate a man as better qualified if he’s actually been convicted for theft. But he was very unhappy at the beginning. Then, after three or four months in here, he cheered up. He got a letter in the post, Michael Moloney Kennedy, and after that he was as cheerful as the lark until the day he left.’

‘Do you know what was in the letter?’

The Governor laughed. ‘We only found out after he’d been released. Clever of him to have kept the good news to himself for so long. Some distant relation had died and left him a great deal of money. He would never need to work again apparently.’

‘Lucky man,’ Inspector Kingsley said, wondering if Kennedy’s retirement might have included the theft of a Caryatid. ‘I presume he didn’t make any special friends when he was here?’

‘He spent the last fifteen months of his time here not making any friends at all. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful to you.’

‘Well,’ said Inspector Kingsley, ‘at least we know what happened to those two here. Who knows what the news from Pentonville may be?’

John Hudson arrived in Markham Square at twenty past eight the following morning.

‘I’ve seen him!’ he panted to Powerscourt. ‘He’s in Paris!’

‘Seen who, in heaven’s name?’

‘Michael Moloney Kennedy, that’s who. He was at an auction.’

‘Was he indeed. You’d better come in and have some breakfast. Have you just arrived back from Paris?’

‘I have and I’m starving,’ said Hudson, sitting down with a slice of buttered toast. ‘I’ve not been home yet. The auction was at Drouot’s. They were selling a lot of Post-Impressionists. The auctioneer must have known him from some previous event as he kept referring to him as Monsieur Kennedy,
le monsieur Anglais
. That’s how I came to realize he was our man, he was the right age.’

‘What was he buying?’ asked Lady Lucy, sending out for more tea.

‘Cézannes. He bought three of them. That was what I talked to him about. I asked him if he was building up a collection of the man. He told me that he owned eight of them already and now he would be into double figures. When he got to twenty he was going to open a Cézanne gallery. So I asked if I could write an article about his plans for the
New York Times
. American visitors to Paris and London are always keen to go to see the latest thing.’

Powerscourt realized that if Hudson hadn’t been home yet he couldn’t have seen his request for information about the American railway magnate. That would have to wait.

John Hudson took a large gulp of fresh tea and carried on. ‘Well, Mr Kennedy asked me if I could wait until his plans were further advanced. He thought the publicity would be more useful to him just before his gallery opened. If I published now, he said, people would have forgotten my story by the time it opened. He’s probably right.’

‘So what happened then?’

‘I gave him my card,’ John Hudson said, making short work of a pair of coddled eggs, ‘and he said he would get in touch the next time he came to London. He said he always stays at the Ritz.’

The young reporter on the Brindisi newspaper hired by Powerscourt to report back on any further sightings of
The Isles of Greece
was a conscientious fellow. His immediate superior, the chief reporter and sub-editor on the
Puglia Messenger
, thought he would go far. Antonio Paravicini bought himself a second-hand bicycle with his very generous retainer. The chief sub-editor disapproved on principle of all modern devices, but he noted with gratitude that tyro journalist Antonio seemed able to report on more and more stories every week.

He had laid down his lines shortly after Powerscourt and Johnny Fitzgerald left the Hotel Mazzini with the owner of the bar on the quays and with the stationmaster in the square. Any fresh packages for the ship or fresh sightings of her would be reported to him on his next visit. If it seemed urgent, a message would be left for him at the newspaper office. Even with this proviso business never moved very quickly in the port or the freight department of Brindisi. It was a couple of days after the departure of
The Isles of Greece
before Antonio learnt of her absence and the strange addition to the crew of the four Greek Orthodox monks, praying nightly to their sad icon at the end of the pier. The ancient guardian of incoming and outgoing freight at the station told him that a package had certainly arrived, and had been delivered to the circus vessel. No, he couldn’t remember what it was, the old man told young Antonio. Of course it was only a short time ago, but nobody could expect a fellow to remember every bloody object that passed through his hands, could they? Even a drink, even many drinks in the taverna in the square, could not bring forth the memories of what it might have been.

Antonio had been improving his English in an evening class at his former school but he decided to write his telegram in Italian and ask his old teacher to translate it. The missive cost a quarter of the money left in Powerscourt’s original gift. It arrived in Markham Square at lunchtime:
‘Isles of Greece
back in port with four young Orthodox monks. Package delivered from station. Left Brindisi a few days ago. Thought to be going to Athens via Corinth Canal. Might be in Athens now. Regards. Antonio Paravicini.’

An urgent message brought Inspector Kingsley to Markham Square just before three o’clock. Lady Lucy thought he looked tired as he took his seat in the chair by the fire. She remembered being told of his dislike of murder inquiries and the three in a row he had completed before the start of this one.