by Roy Lewis
He turned back to Grout.
‘While I’m down south you get on with the footslogging. Check the photographs, check at Chesters again … you know the drill. We don’t want to miss anything relevant. We need to know exactly why Rigby was at Chesters. So concentrate on that. It will probably take time. The Roman Wall wasn’t built in a day, you know.’
Grout was aware that Cardinal’s classical allusions were few and far between, and usually inaccurate. There must have been something in his eyes that exposed his views to Cardinal.
The senior officer scowled contemptuously. ‘Ah, hell. You know that stuff is all Greek to me!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Grout spent most of the next morning working through Gilbert’s statement, and checking the photographs that Gilbert had taken during his wanderings in Cumbria. In spite of himself, he was impressed by the quality of the man’s work but in a sense that made his task somewhat more difficult; the artistic arrangements and the effects of light and shade often did little to help identification of the actual sites, and he was forced to check through Gilbert’s notes carefully, to ensure he could match up the photographs with the noted locations.
By the end of the morning, he had set aside some forty prints which seemed to have come from the storeroom at Chesters and other areas in the close vicinity of the Roman fort. Armed with these, he set out once more for Chollerford. He stopped for lunch at Scotch Corner, then drove north up into the Cumbrian hills. It was a bright afternoon, with occasional clouds that darkened the fells with patches of shadow, and as he drove he caught occasional glimpses of buzzards circling on the upward spirals of warm air and sparrowhawks hovering at the roadside, searching for roadkill. He arrived at Chesters in the mid-afternoon.
The curator was helpful, even accommodating. It seemed he had been energized by the killing at the fort; the death of Rigby had caused an increase in visitors, all wanting to get a glimpse of the site where a man had lost his life in suspicious circumstances. The curator was more than pleased to offer what further assistance he could … the result might mean an even greater surge in popularity for visitors to the site. The macabre nature of the renewed interest seemed to have escaped him.
‘Who knows?’ he said almost gleefully. ‘You might even find another body.’
He was joking, of course, Grout concluded. One was enough to get on with. ‘If you can just check these prints with me and note whether what we see in them is still in the storeroom, that could be of great help.’
The curator preceded him into the downstairs storeroom and together they checked the prints against the articles that remained in the storeroom. The curator identified some items as having been held in the main exhibition room upstairs; meticulously he then checked through the others as Grout ticked them off on the list he was compiling.
‘You were here, I suppose, when Gilbert was doing this work?’ Grout asked.
The curator wrinkled his brow. ‘Some of the time. I had other things to attend to, you understand, but I came down from time to time to check on what Mr Gilbert was up to. He took quite a long time, as I recall. He just didn’t take shots at random. He moved some stuff so he could get a better angle or whatever. He had lights set up down here, of course, and was much concerned with the shadows that he arranged. And in that corner …’
Grout looked at him. The curator’s lips were pursed in thought. ‘I remember he was particularly fussed about that far corner. The lintel was a problem, and though he wanted to take a photograph of the item there in the end he gave up. He moved the piece, finally, and set it up over there, as I recall, and …’ His voice died away as uncertainty crept into his tone. ‘Can I see that print again?’
‘Which one?’
‘The one of the Mithraic head.’
Grout frowned. ‘It’s not one of the clearest shots he took. This one, you mean?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. Except …’
‘What?’
‘Well, he took this close-up of the Mithraic head, but there was something else, here you can see it in the photograph, that he used as a sort of background, so it’s not very clear.’
‘It’s called an artistic arrangement,’ Grout observed cynically. ‘The item is not supposed to be in focus.’
The curator frowned. ‘Yes, but you see the focus is too … wrong, to be able to make out the lettering on that military piece. It’s half-hidden by the head itself, and the lettering, all you can make out really is DI, and just there VE …’
‘So what’s important about that?’ Grout asked sceptically.
‘Well, I don’t know. It’s a legionary piece, of course, of little intrinsic importance, for finds like these have been common along the Wall, but there’s something about it I should remember, something that struck me at the time, when we moved it for Mr Gilbert’s use …’
‘I don’t follow you,’ Grout muttered.
‘No. That’s right,’ the curator murmured in a mystified tone. ‘But as you see from this photograph it’s quite a heavy piece. In some ways it’s a typical item of statuary, some two feet high, the man thick-wristed, heavy-jowled, quite typical of the period. I remember thinking at the time, though, it should not really have been down here in the storeroom, it’s in a decent condition, but I suppose it was down here because no one had got round to determining its provenance. At least, that’s what I was thinking, but I was still puzzled. And now—’
‘So where is it now?’ Grout asked, glancing around the storeroom.
The curator scratched at his ear. ‘Ah, well, that’s it, isn’t it? We moved it away from that lintel and over here for the photograph. And there’s the Mithraic head that Mr Gilbert was using. But the other piece of statuary …’
‘Is no longer here.’
‘Can’t understand that, can’t understand that at all. It was a heavy piece, you know. And who would want to take it? I mean, as I said, it’s not an important piece, or it wouldn’t have been down here, if you know what I mean. You see, the articles down here are of unproven worth, doubtful provenance …’ The curator suddenly brightened. ‘Ah, but, well, yes … that will be the solution. Doubt.’
Grout waited as the curator smiled in self-congratulation.
‘You’ve lost me,’ he said at last.
‘Well, that’s it, you see. The item was down here because it was of doubtful origin.’
Grout wasn’t certain he understood, for a moment. Then it dawned on him. ‘You mean the statuary might have been a fake.’
‘No, I’m not saying exactly that. It was just that, probably, the piece had not been properly authenticated.’ The curator shrugged. ‘It’s some years ago, and I can’t quite recall … It wasn’t worthy of display in the showroom and … wait a minute … there was a discussion of the piece, it was published, now where was that…?’
He picked absent-mindedly at his lower lip with his fingers and made a little bubbling sound. Grout waited, staring fixedly at the photograph of the statuary. The legionary was half-hidden by the piece of inscribed pottery, and Gilbert had caught the sunlight lancing through the room and past the pottery. Dust hung in the air, minute spots of light; Gilbert had used the theme in the title he had written at the foot of the print, a suggested caption: Dust of Centuries.
The curator snapped his fingers. The sound echoed in the narrow room. He turned to Grout, a smile breaking out happily on his features, delight in solving a puzzle. ‘Of course, of course, I recall it now. I read the piece some four years ago. It was discussed in a monograph, that was reprinted from a somewhat longer work. It was … let me think … but of course, it was Professor—’
‘Godfrey,’ Grout supplied and headed for the door.
‘Professor Godfrey?’
The female secretary was perhaps forty years of age, slim, flat-bosomed and decidedly making no concessions to fashion behind her horn-rimmed glasses and determinedly plain blouse. She bore an air of overall efficiency that stamped her as a career woman – albeit against her
secret wishes. She looked at Grout with cold eyes, as though inspecting a species of unimportant worm and the dissection of her glance was underlined by the stony edge to her tone.
‘I’m afraid Professor Godfrey is unavailable,’ she announced primly.
‘Where can I contact him?’ Grout asked.
The worm having been dissected was of little importance. The secretary turned back to the pile of papers on her desk. ‘I’m afraid you can’t.’
‘Why not?’
The secretary grimaced, and leaned forward, her nose like a predatory beak, ready to tear at her insistently annoying prey. In a supercilious tone she announced, ‘The professor has gone south to collect some of his materials and make final arrangements for his trip to Europe.’
‘Where precisely is he going?’
She clearly felt it was none of his business, but rather than suffer his presence longer than was necessary she heaved a theatrical sigh and in an icy tone said, ‘Professor Godfrey is undertaking a short lecture tour of Austria, Germany and Holland. He speaks at The Hague next week. He has specifically informed me he desires no matters to be raised with him regarding work—’
‘This isn’t work.’
‘—and he then intends taking a short holiday, after which he goes to the United States,’ she said, ignoring his intervention and almost spitting out the words.
Grout caught an odd inflection in her tone, a wistfulness behind the ice, as though she regretted that Godfrey had not seen fit to ask her to be a travelling companion. Secretaries often adored their bosses; perhaps this one fell into that category, one of hopeless, suppressed desire. The fact he had not seen fit to take her with him may well be accounting for her bad temper now.
‘Perhaps in the circumstances you can help me, nevertheless,’ Grout suggested in an emollient tone.
‘It’s unlikely,’ she suggested in an ungracious voice.
‘I understand that Professor Godfrey is an acknowledged authority on antiques, is he not?’
The eyes behind the glasses glittered, at the thought that anyone should even ask such a ridiculous question of such an eminent man in his field.
‘Of course he is,’ she snapped. ‘You must have seen him on television, even if you have never read any of his works.’ She clearly felt reading of academic texts was beyond the capabilities of the inferior man standing in front of her. ‘The TV people are after him at the moment, want to offer him a contract to do a series on his own collection of artefacts – it’s unique, quite valuable, you know, built up over the years – but it demonstrates what kind of a man he is when he keeps them waiting for a decision while he takes a lecture tour, and then a holiday… . Apart from which it’s my understanding that Professor Godfrey has no interest in showing off his collection – he said it would almost be like committing adultery to allow the public to fawn over his favourite pieces.’
Her eyes had widened suddenly as the thought of adultery floated around at the back of her mind. Grout decided she was a very vulnerable woman, as far as Professor Godfrey was concerned. And he could hardly believe Godfrey would have made such a comment. His secretary probably read romantic novels in her spare time.
‘Well, I suppose as an academic he needs the money from his lecture tour—’
‘Professor Godfrey hardly concerns himself with such fees,’ she snapped. ‘He’s quite well off, what with television, and his private collection. I sometimes think it must hardly be worth his while to continue at the university, but he is a man of principle and feels he has a duty …’ She broke off suddenly, frowned, glared at Grout. Almost defensively, she added, ‘He’s been thinking of leaving the university, nevertheless. I’d go with him, of course, he would need me.’
But you’re not with him now, Grout thought to himself. He murmured, ‘I’d really called to ask him if I could take him up on his earlier offer and borrow the book he had offered to lend me.’
‘Book?’ She was unconvinced, suspicious.
‘Yes. He offered it to me when we met here on my last visit. He’d written a monograph about Chesters Fort, and Hadrian’s Wall and a chapter of it was reprinted in book form. He said I could borrow it.’
She hesitated. ‘He has a very good library.’ She sniffed. ‘But if he let everybody borrow from him—’
‘It was his suggestion.’ Grout smiled. ‘He did offer to lend it to me.’
‘He’s not here to offer it now.’
Grout had suddenly suffered enough humiliation. He folded his arms and glowered at her. ‘Look, I came here to take up his offer. The offer was freely made. If you doubt it, ring him, I’m sure an efficient secretary like you would keep in touch. However, one way or the other I intend to borrow it. And I’m staying here until you go fetch a copy. So fetch one. Now.’
Her eyes had widened at his change of tone and she was intimidated. He could see in her eyes the thought that perhaps she had made a mistake: he wasn’t a worm at all. He was just an ill-mannered pig.
Grout took the monograph back to York with him. He stopped for a cup of coffee at a small café in Wetherby and glanced briefly through the text while he sipped at the hot drink. It was not a large work, with perhaps 10,000 words on the subject of Chesters Fort itself, and about another 5,000 or so on the museum and the treasures it contained.
He soon found the section that he wanted to check through. It was not particularly informative but it contained all he wanted to know and it gave the reason for the relegation to the storeroom of the piece in which Grout was interested.
The Wall itself has suffered the depredations of farmers over the centuries and it was only in comparatively recent times that the museum was able to identify and recover quite important items that had been scattered throughout Cumbria and Durham, and, occasionally, Northumberland. Among the many treasures, however, there are certain items of curiosity value. One piece comprises a legionary carving inscribed with the legend DIBUS VETERIIBUS. It was donated to the museum by way of a collection gathered by the Tapper family. It is interesting to note that the piece was at one time used as a mere doorstep in the Tapper home; it was finally handed over to the museum in 1925.
There can be little doubt that the artefact is a manufactured one, in other words, it is not what it claims to be at first sight. The stone used is quite different from that normally used in statuary carved for use on the Wall. Also, I am confident that the piece dates from a period considerably later than its appearance and inscription would suggest. The cement used to repair a crack is of a different texture than that used in ancient times; sand and ox-blood did not possess such durability. So it must remain an interesting, if largely unimportant puzzle: why would anyone take the trouble to forge a piece of Hadrian Wall statuary when there was so much more freely available and of true historical interest in or near the fort at Chesters …
Grout closed the book, sat back and thought for a while as he finished his coffee. His mind was still churning as he made his way back to his car. He agreed with Professor Godfrey – why would someone go to the bother of forging a piece of statuary? Godfrey had regarded the piece as an uninteresting curiosity, but Grout wondered, just how secure was Godfrey’s opinion?
The opinion was perhaps brought into question by the fact it seemed someone had taken a considerable amount of trouble to remove the piece of statuary from the museum … when Rigby was killed in the vicinity. Were the two facts really linked?
It could be that there was a connection, but for the moment, Grout was unable to see what it might be.
He returned to headquarters in a thoughtful mood. When he reached his office he sat down, took out Gilbert’s folder and stared at the prints it contained. After perusing them carefully, he turned back to the monograph the icy secretary had reluctantly released to him. He read again Godfrey’s account of the museum and its holdings. There was something wrong, he felt it in his bones, but he was unable to put a finger on what was bothering him. He turned to Philip Proud’s notebook and read the list written
at the back. The legionary piece was not mentioned. Maybe it hadn’t been there when Proud made his notes – in which case it had been placed in the storeroom relatively recently. Or was it that Proud hadn’t noticed the piece, or simply thought it unworthy of attention?
Grout’s head was buzzing. He felt he was getting nowhere, and he began to doubt the wisdom of trying to follow a lead that probably took him nowhere. He flipped over to the front of Proud’s book, to check through the scribbled notes he had made on his thesis. Most of it was gibberish to Grout, and of course it had nothing to do with legionary statuary. The account in Proud’s thesis was postulated on events in Italy, not Northumberland. His thesis concerned mediaeval Italy, not the Roman Wall.
He felt depressed. As far as he could see there was nothing further to go on. He was wasting his time. He had hoped the day would give him something to present to Cardinal, he could visualize the glowering look he’d get from the chief inspector when he reported what was effectively failure.
The thought made him bad-tempered. When the telephone rang he grabbed at the receiver and snarled his number into it.
‘My, my,’ came a light and cheerful voice. ‘Wrong side of the bed, Grout? Or was it the wrong bed?’
‘Proud,’ Grout said grumpily, recognizing the voice and the inanity of the man’s humour.
‘The very same. I’ve been trying to contact you.’
‘And now you’ve done so. I suppose you want your notebook back.’
‘Hell’s flames, stuff the bloody thing into the dustbin if you like! No, there’s something else I wanted to mention to you. Funny, really. It’s something I’ve been puzzling about for a couple of days.’
‘Tell me,’ Grout said, hoping he wouldn’t.