Death of an Elgin Marble (40 page)

‘Do you think you will solve the last mystery now, my love?’ asked Lady Lucy, half an hour before her husband had to set off.

‘I think there are two last mysteries, myself. If you mean will we learn which one is the real Caryatid, then I hope so, Lucy, I really do. Maybe the Director has some special knowledge.’

‘And your other mystery, Francis?’

‘Why, I should have thought that was obvious. Who fired the shots that saved my life from Rokesley Church? I was going to write to Mackenzie but I have thought better of it. I feel almost certain that he was the gunman, but that he’s reluctant to admit it in case somebody brings charges against him.’

Lady Lucy smiled. ‘Well, that’s all right then.’

The Prime Minister was late for the meeting in the upstairs drawing room at Ten Downing Street. Dr Cronan entertained Powerscourt with stories about his adventures in Mesopotomia and the villainous camel drivers he had met. ‘Far worse than London cabbies, far worse,’ had been his verdict. ‘The sense of direction of a bat and the morals of the seraglio.’

The Prime Minister’s hair had turned white since Powerscourt had last met him. He was quick to offer congratulations. ‘I am told, Lord Powerscourt, that you have performed another act of valiant service to your country. As if we were not deeply in your debt already. Without you, I am told, we would not have the Caryatid back at all.’

Powerscout did not say that the statue had been returned thanks to an act that could only be described as blackmail, and that the last drama in the affair had been ended by an act that could easily be classed as murder.

‘It was nothing, I assure you,’ he murmured.

‘There is, however, one thing the Director and I feel that you should be aware of. He and I are the only two people in the country who are in on the secret. I know I can count on your discretion.’

‘Of course,’ said Powerscourt. What on earth was coming next? The Prime Minister coughed, as if playing for time. He looked briefly at Cronan.

‘The Caryatid that was stolen from the British Museum was not the real one,’ he began. ‘She was not the one brought back to this country by Lord Elgin.’

‘God bless my soul. Am I allowed to ask why?’

‘You may, of course you may. Some time before the
Mona Lisa
was stolen, Dr Cronan came to see me, very concerned about the thefts of works of art and the attacks on valuable exhibits in museums across Europe and America. In a world populated by more and more mad men, he said, he felt that leaving some of these invaluable works on show is too risky. Dr Cronan suggested we make a substitution of the Caryatid for a trial period of six months. Six weeks later the Leonardo walked off the walls in the Louvre.’

‘So where is the real one, Prime Minister?’

‘The real one is in a deep vault underneath the Cabinet Office. There are one or two other valuables down there.’

‘Correct me if I am wrong, Prime Minister, but are all the Caryatids I have been chasing recently fakes? The one in America? The one that fell into the sea in Brindisi? The one that was carried up to the Acropolis the other day? The one at the Hellenic College? The one sent back to the museum? Are they all, every single last one of them, copies of the copy made to replace the original?’

‘I’m afraid so, Lord Powerscourt. That is correct.’

‘And what will you say to the Greeks? What will you tell the people of Athens?’

‘That is in hand,’ the Prime Minister replied. ‘I have personally informed the Greek authorities that the Caryatid now on the Acropolis is not the real one.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘They complained a great deal, of course, like the tiresome and emotional people they are,’ said the Prime Minister wearily. ‘They jumped up and down and shouted a lot. They are going to blame perfidious Albion, Greece raped of her glories once by Lord Elgin, now deceived by the treacherous British. Don’t trust the English, I said to them, even when they come bearing gifts.’

‘I see,’ said Powerscourt. ‘How soon are you going to put the real one back on her plinth?’

‘Dr Cronan?’ said the Prime Minister.

‘Well,’ said the Director of the British Museum, ‘well, for the moment, with the
Mona Lisa
still missing and so on, I think we’ll leave the real Caryatid in her vault underneath the Cabinet Office. Just for now, anyway. Better safe than sorry, don’t you think?’

Powerscourt was going to take Lady Lucy out to dinner that evening to celebrate the end of the case. ‘I feel slightly cheated, you know,’ he said, on his return from Downing Street, ‘all that effort for a fake.’

‘Nobody knew it was a fake, Francis. Even that poor man Ragg didn’t know, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t. It doesn’t really matter which one was sent back to the British Museum, does it? They were all copies, or copies of copies, heaven help us all. That young American, Lodge, deserves a medal, don’t you think?’

‘Why do you say that, Francis?’

‘Well, he was right way back at the start of this affair when he told Ragg that the Caryatid on display wasn’t the real thing. And he was right at the very end when he told Ragg that the one that came back wasn’t the real thing either. They should give him a medal.’

‘Perhaps they will, though that would mean admitting they were wrong at the start.’

‘Who knows? Do you realize, Lucy, how much I have been thinking about the ancient Greeks since the start of this case? I began reading Pericles’ Funeral Speech on the train to Italy, the one where he talks about the Athenians who died in the battle having the whole earth as their memorial. The end of the speech – I was reading it in bed last night – is very downbeat and very moving. Maybe it’s a fitting close to the death of an Elgin Marble. Pericles sings the praises of those who died for the honour of Athens and have the whole earth as their memorial. It’s the high point and the epitaph for Athens’s glory.’

Powerscourt went over to a table by the fireplace and opened a well-thumbed copy of Thucydides’
The Peloponnesian War
.

‘“Such then were these men and the glory they brought their city. For the time being our offerings to the dead have been made and for the future their children will be supported at the public expense by the city until they come of age. This is the crown and prize which she offers, both to the dead and their children, for the ordeals they have faced. Where the rewards of valour are the greatest, there you will find also the best and bravest spirits among the people. And now, when you have mourned for your dear ones, you must depart.”’

There was a ring at the front door. Rhys the butler showed Inspector Kingsley into the drawing room.

‘I’ve left the parcel in the hall,’ he said. ‘I don’t see that we need to hang on to it any more. Anyway, I have some news.’

Powerscourt felt desperately sorry that he was not allowed to tell his colleague the truth about the Caryatids.

‘What is that, Inspector?’

‘I’ve done it at last. I’ve handed in my resignation. It will become effective at the end of the month. The Commissioner has been very good about it, I must say.’

‘Congratulations on becoming a civilian, or being about to become a civilian,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘I’m going to write a book,’ said the Inspector. ‘It’s going to be about a policeman and I’ve already had promising talks with a publisher about it.’

‘What sort of policeman?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘Constable? Sergeant? Inspector? Commissioner?’

‘I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that it’s going to be an Inspector, my lord. He’s going to be like Conrad’s Lord Jim. He makes one terrible mistake and gets away with it. Then he has to seek redemption and salvation on the streets of London and in a showdown on Hackney Marshes.’

‘Splendid,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘We look forward to reading it.’

Half an hour later Powerscourt parked the Silver Ghost outside Norfolk House on Chiswick Mall. He picked up the parcel, still in its layers of wrapping paper. He had warned Mrs Wilson that he would be dropping by. He happened to be in the neighbourhood, his note said.

Powerscourt left his parcel in the hall as the maid showed him into the huge room with the view out over the river.

‘Lord Powerscourt, how nice to see you again,’ said Mrs Wilson. She seemed to have shrunk since Powerscourt last saw her. The white hair was, if anything, even whiter than before. ‘You look tired. Have you been working too hard? I’ll order some tea. That should set you up.’

‘That’s very kind, Mrs Wilson. How have you been yourself? Keeping well?’ Powerscourt remembered that Mrs Wilson’s husband, Horace, had died a few months after the theft.

‘I can’t complain, Lord Powerscourt. The eyesight is going some of the time and my memory isn’t what it was. I was trying to remember, after I got your note, how long it was since you called the first time. Do you know, I couldn’t put a date on it at all. I know it happened, of course, but it could have been last month or last year for all I can recall now.’

The tea arrived. The blank space was still there above the fireplace, the picture hooks still in place on the wall.

‘I’m sure your memory is fine, Mrs Wilson. Don’t worry about it. Now then, I’ve brought you a present, a sort of present anyway. Would you like to see it now?’

Mrs Wilson sounded young again as she thought of presents and happy birthdays long ago. ‘Yes, please, Lord Powerscourt. How very exciting!’

He brought the parcel in from the hall. It measured about three feet high by four feet across.

‘That looks very impressive, Lord Powerscourt. Could you be very kind and open it up for me?’

Armed with his penknife, Powerscourt untied the string and put the brown paper into the waste basket. The painting was the wrong way round, the back facing the lady of the house.

‘Oh, Lord Powerscourt, I’m so thrilled! Have you brought me a new painting to replace the one we lost? How very kind!’

Powerscourt smiled. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t brought you a picture to replace the one you lost, Mrs Wilson,’ he said, turning it round very slowly. ‘I’ve brought back the one that was stolen. This is Turner’s
Mortlake Terrace, Summer’s Evening
. It’s come home for you to enjoy it again.’

Mrs Wilson stared at the painting. She shook her head very slowly. She began to cry.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she sobbed into Powerscourt’s shoulder. ‘I’ve dreamt of this moment for so long. It can’t be true, it can’t be.’

Powerscourt held the old lady very tight. ‘It’s true all right,’ he murmured, ‘your Turner is back. It’s home again. I’m so pleased.’

Mrs Wilson pulled back. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t go on crying into your nice jacket,’ she said. ‘Could you do me a favour, Lord Powerscourt? I’d be so grateful.’

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘Could you hang the picture back on the wall where it was before? The hooks are still there, you see.’

Very carefully Powerscourt put the painting back where it belonged. Mrs Wilson poured herself another cup of tea.

‘Just think,’ she said, ‘I’ll be able to look at it last thing at night. I’ll be able to look at it first thing in the morning. Horace will be so pleased. I’m sure he can see it too, wherever he is.’

Powerscourt felt a great wave of happiness. He was glad he had decided to bring the painting back in person.

Fifteen minutes later the sun came out as he was navigating his way along Chiswick Mall towards Hammersmith Bridge. The light sparkled on the waters of the Thames. On the far side, the light, Turner’s light, Turner’s glory, glittered and shone on the river by William Moffatt’s house in Mortlake Terrace.