Death of an Elgin Marble

by David Dickinson

  ‘Tall female creature, rather snooty looking, holding a temple on her head, that the one?’

  ‘Exactly so, Johnny.’

  ‘And you are telling me, Francis, that the dry old stick in charge isn’t letting the police interview anybody at all? The whole thing has to be hushed up?’

  ‘Right again, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt, ‘we have to approach the thing from the side and the edges, as it were.’

  Johnny Fitzgerald looked down at the carpet for a moment and then looked up at his friend with hooded eyes as if he were a bird of prey measuring the distance to its victim.

  ‘I see, Francis, I see. Now I know why all those messages have been left for me to get in touch at once. Most immediate, they said. It’s those auction house porters and the ones at the British Museum, isn’t it? You’re like some bloody elephant, Francis, you never forget. You’ve been thinking about that case years ago with Orlando the forger and that beautiful girl of his and the fake paintings up in Norfolk and me conducting negotiations with the art gallery porters all through the night in the Rat and Parrot at the back of New Bond Street.’

  Powerscourt tried hard not to smile.

  ‘Come to think of it,’ Johnny went on, ‘it wasn’t the Rat and Parrot, was it? What was that bloody pub called? It had a name to do with animals, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Fox and Hounds?’ offered Lady Lucy. ‘Pig and Whistle?’

  ‘Did you ever work out what the pig had to do with the whistle, Lady Lucy? No, it’s not that. Landlord came from Castlebar in County Mayo, I seem to remember, name of Cassidy and he had wooden legs. Slug and Lettuce? Three Horseshoes? Memory’s going, you know, definitely going.’

  ‘Spread Eagle? Red Lion? Green Dragon? Blue Boar?’ Powerscourt tried his hand through the colours.

  ‘No, no, you’re confusing me now.’

  Johnny Fitzgerald walked slowly over to the window. Nothing moved in Markham Square. Even the local birds seemed to have gone quiet. Johnny tapped quite loudly on the window.

  ‘The Black Swan! The Black bloody Swan! That’s what the pub was called! Thank God I’ve remembered it. I was beginning to feel quite flustered.’

  There was a hesitant, almost an inquisitive knock at the door. Rhys, the Powerscourt butler, coughed apologetically and handed Powerscourt a letter.

  ‘Just arrived, my lord. From the British Museum, my lord. Said to be very urgent. The porter person is below, my lord, waiting for a reply.’

  Powerscourt opened the envelope and whistled quietly to himself.

  ‘What is it, Francis?’ asked Lady Lucy. ‘Have the centaurs gone missing from the Parthenon frieze? The charioteers picked up their reins and walked?’

  ‘Much worse than that,’ her husband replied. ‘That dry old stick, as Johnny referred to him, Deputy Director Ragg has had a blackmail letter, asking for one hundred to two hundred thousand pounds. And he and his family have been threatened. That bloody Caryatid may have been dead over two thousand years but she’s still causing a lot of mischief.’

  As Powerscourt and Johnny Fitzgerald clattered down the stairs, one to the British Museum, the other to the Black Swan, Powerscourt thought Johnny Fitzgerald was saying his prayers.

  ‘Scopoli’s shearwaters,’ the murmur came, ‘stone curlews, Heuglin’s gulls, rock partridges, steppe grey shrikes . . .’

  The birds of Sicily were making a reverse migration to Markham Square and the fleshly delights of the King’s Road, Chelsea.

  Leisure time at the Hellenic College near Amersham was always busy. The college was the only boarding school for Greek boys and girls in Britain, founded for the parents of Greek merchants in London and the Home Counties who might have to relocate abroad for years at a time. The Greek Orthodox Church, well used to running schools attached to its places of worship, was the principal mover in the school, and the chairman of the governors and a third of its membership were priests or archimandrites of the Orthodox faith. There was even a small Greek Orthodox church on the site with the most ornate iconostasis in the south of England.

  The large estate had been built by one of the great devotees of Antiquity of the eighteenth century. He had filled his grounds with replica temples of every sort. There was a temple of Vesta by one of the three lakes, a temple of Apollo hidden in the woodland. A miniature Parthenon stood on top of a Chiltern hill and a tiny Pantheon by the side of the water. The house and the estate were a tribute to the eighteenth-century conceit that the classical world was superior to the present and the study of ancient Greece and Rome was the only path to a proper education. Stourhead and Stowe and Chiswick House outside London with their fabulous gardens were the templates for the Hellenic College.

  Boys and girls studied all the usual subjects taught in the English public schools with special emphasis on ancient Greek language and culture. The eighteen girls, who lived in Penelope House, were taught weaving and dressmaking in the Greek style, the boys in Patroclus House learned carpentry and model-making. Every year Penelope House had to produce a new peplos, a garment originally designed for the goddess Athena. The boys had to make a working chariot and four of their number had to learn to drive it.

  Powerscourt found Inspector Christopher Kingsley waiting for him on the steps of the British Museum.

  ‘Thought it might be a good idea,’ the Inspector said, ‘if we went in together. Move about in pairs like Father Christmases in the East End where the natives are liable to regard them as airborne burglars and treat them accordingly. Have you seen the actual letter yet?’

  ‘Not so far,’ said Powerscourt cheerfully and led the way inside.

  Deputy Director Ragg handed the letter over at once. Sitting side by side on the museum sofa, the detective and the policeman read it together.

  ‘Thank you for showing this to us so promptly,’ said Powerscourt.

  ‘I presume it came in the morning post?’ The Inspector was copying the letter into his notebook as he spoke.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ragg. ‘It’s a bloody outrage, that’s what it is. Ridiculous blackmailing person, threatening me and my family, asking for hundreds of thousands of pounds. How are we to know he has got the Caryatid anyway? He could be a fraud and a chancer in some back room, making it all up.’

  ‘How right you are, Mr Ragg.’ Inspector Kingsley was still scribbling as he spoke. ‘What would you like us to do about it?’

  ‘I do not intend to take this lying down. This museum has an international reputation. It is respected the world over for the breadth of its collections and the depth of its scholarship. Whatever steps are necessary for the apprehension and incarceration of this blackmailing criminal should be taken. I and my family will cooperate in whatever way you suggest. I am more than happy to take a crash course in firearms and carry a pistol at all times. If I should meet the miscreant, believe me, I should not hesitate to shoot on sight.’

  It was at this point that Powerscourt realized that he had underestimated Theophilus Ragg. Beached in the dusty backwaters of academe he may have been, but he had courage. He was like an earlier Queen before the coming of the Armada, who knew she had the body but of a weak and feeble woman; but she had the heart and stomach of a king.

  ‘Let me tell you, Mr Deputy Director, what the Metropolitan Police can offer you at this time,’ said Inspector Kingsley. ‘We shall maintain a discreet twenty-four-hour watch over the post room at the Ritz Hotel, though I fear the villain, if he is genuine, may already have private arrangements in place to intercept any communication addressed to the Friends of the British Museum. We shall keep watch over your house at all hours of the day and night. Your wife and children will not be able to take a step outside your front door without being watched by one of our plain clothes officers. I propose to send the letter – if you would allow us to borrow it for a day or so – to a couple of graphologists the Yard has used in the past. We do not like to advertise our connections with these people, but they have sometimes been useful in earlier cases.’

>   ‘That all sounds very efficient, Inspector. I am more than grateful. But tell me, what do you gentlemen think I should do about the blackmail? Should I reply to this letter? Should I offer to make an appointment to meet with this person? Are the British Museum and its Deputy Director to be turned into a human honeypot to tempt a passing blackmailer? I do hope not. Lord Powerscourt?’

  ‘I have to confess I have little experience of this sort of blackmail. If it were me, I should be happy to place myself in the hands of the police.’

  ‘I too, Mr Deputy Director,’ Inspector Kingsley added, ‘have little experience of these negotiations, nor of sums as large as these. But I do know that the Commissioner believes it is always a mistake for those directly involved to negotiate with blackmailers.’

  ‘I see. Thank you for that, both of you.’ Theophilus Ragg smiled a wintry smile as if two undergraduate essays had just found favour with their tutor.

  ‘And what, pray, do you make of the choice of the Ritz Hotel as headquarters?’

  ‘Good choice, I believe,’ Powerscourt replied. ‘It’s always busy, the pavements outside are always crowded, a man could operate happily from there without being noticed. I’m sure the Inspector here will check the guest list most carefully.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Gentlemen, thank you for your advice. I shall follow it to the letter and I am, as I said, most grateful for your assistance, Inspector. I suggest we meet again at four o’clock this afternoon. I have a meeting with the Sumerians in five minutes. Is there anything else you would like to say about the letter?’

  ‘I hope we shall not keep the Sumerians waiting,’ said Powerscourt, wondering if they were going to arrive in original costumes, ‘but there is one thing that concerns me. It has to do with the publicity and the threat of exposure of the loss of the Caryatid.’

  ‘Exactly so,’ put in the Inspector, ‘I too was going to mention the threat to tell The Times.’

  ‘If you are both in agreement, then my guests may have to wait a moment or two. Please continue.’

  Inspector Kingsley gestured to Powerscourt that the older man should pick up the baton.

  ‘Consider the question of publicity, Mr Ragg. I’m sure the thieves thought there would be a great hue and cry once the loss was discovered. Headlines all over the newspapers, questions in Parliament from tame MPs, the usual sort of stuff. And all that, when you think about it, is to the thieves’ advantage. Let’s suppose that they had a buyer for the statue long before they stole it. The buyer will read the newspapers. I’m sure a story like this would find its way into the European and American papers too. For the buyer, the publicity acts as a kind of confirmation. He knows the Caryatid has gone. He believes it will come to him. All he has to do is wait.’

  While Powerscourt paused, Inspector Kingsley picked up his train of thought. ‘But suppose you are the man who has commissioned the thieves. There is no mention of it in the newspapers. As far as the real client knows, the Caryatid may still be in place. He may not believe the thieves when they tell him that she is gone, that she is in their possession.’

  ‘Are you saying that the silence may promote suspicion and anger between the ultimate client and the thieves who actually took the Caryatid?’

  ‘We are,’ said Powerscourt. The Inspector nodded.

  ‘Then surely we should keep quiet for as long as possible,’ said Ragg firmly, closing his notebook with a flourish. ‘By all means let us spread discord and mutual suspicion among our enemies.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the Inspector.

  ‘Indeed,’ added Powerscourt.

  As they made their way back to the street Inspector Kingsley stopped by the railings and looked back at the museum.

  ‘I was so grateful, you know, my lord, when this investigation came along. I’d just looked after three murder cases in a row.’

  ‘And you are not fond of murder cases, would that be right?’

  ‘I loathe them. I absolutely loathe them,’ Inspector Kingsley spoke quietly but with great force. ‘But now I’m not so sure this Caryatid affair is going to be any better. This case is proving to be difficult and potentially dangerous.’

  ‘But still preferable to murder inquiries?’ asked Powerscourt.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Neither man knew it at the time but they had not to wait long before the Case of the Missing Caryatid produced its first corpse.

  4

  Powerscourt went straight to Linfords in New Bond Street, one of London’s leading firms of art auctioneers. They had been putting paintings, sculpture, tapestries, jewels of every sort under the hammer for nearly two hundred years. Their publicity claimed they could give you a quotation and a sale on everything from a Fragonard painting to a Fabergé egg. They cultivated an air of effortless grandeur, as if they were of a superior race to the people whose possessions they were selling. They were all, Powerscourt had decided long before, pretending to be patricians, patricians fallen on harder times perhaps, but still patricians sent down to earth to rule the waves and confound Britannia’s enemies.

  All these meetings with the art dealers and the auctioneers blurred into one after a time. He would be met in the reception area by a pretty girl, straight out of a grand country house in the Home Counties, and taken to the junior gatekeeper. The junior gatekeeper was usually aged between twenty-five and thirty and was already acquiring the superior patina that was the hallmark of the company. From this small but elegant room he would be taken to the senior partner’s office three floors above with splendid views out over Mayfair.

  ‘Lord Powerscourt, what a pleasure! So pleased you felt able to come and see us.’

  The senior partner would then show him into a chair and offer coffee or perhaps a glass of champagne to set them both up for the day.

  ‘Now then, Lord Powerscourt, how can we be of service to you this morning?’

  It was this first opening up of the subject under discussion that Powerscourt found most difficult. He would begin with a display of modesty.

  ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to see me. It’s all rather difficult, actually. You see, I’ve been instructed to act as intermediary between a certain party and an auction house like yourselves about the possible sale of a possible work of art that has yet to come on the market. If you see what I mean. Please forgive the lack of definite information. My instructions are very definite and very limiting, I’m afraid.’

  And at this point he would look rather helpless, as if pleading with the senior partner to extricate him from his difficulties. Lady Lucy always said that her husband was never more dangerous than when he affected this helpless look. About as helpless as a hungry tiger on the rampage, she would say.

  ‘Well, Lord Powerscourt,’ the senior partner would reply, ‘this is certainly going to be an interesting commission! I can quite see that. Perhaps I could try for enlightenment point by point, if I may. You say you are acting as intermediary for a certain party. Could you perhaps fill in some of the details. An ancient family wishing to dispose of some assets? Death duties come to call in their usual disagreeable way? Two deaths of an incumbent in quick succession perhaps? Always difficult, those cases. Always expensive too. A foreign gentleman perchance, wishing to retain his anonymity? The Government in some shape or form? A member of the Royal Family maybe? They have enough art after all to keep us in business till the end of the century!’

  With that, the senior partner usually laughed loudly at his own witticism. Powerscourt would smile.

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot be more precise at this point. Your list of possibilities is certainly comprehensive. Forgive me.’

  ‘Of course, Lord Powerscourt, of course. Could I now ask about the object in question? A possible work of art that has yet to come on the market, you say. That could mean almost anything. Could I assume, for the sake of clarity, that we are talking about a painting or an Old Master drawing or a piece of sculpture, something that would come within the normal compass of activities fo
r a firm like ours?’

  Powerscourt would pause at this point and rub his hands together. ‘I am going beyond my brief here,’ he would announce finally, ‘but you have been more than patient with this difficult enquiry. Yes, I can safely say that the work would fit into the categories you mention. But I dare not say any more. I am in breach of my undertakings already.’

  ‘That is certainly helpful, Lord Powerscourt. Could I ask you this also? Would your client or clients like to sell the object or objects in open auction or would you prefer a private sale, something more discreet.’

  ‘I am not an expert in these matters, Mr Senior Partner. What would your advice be?’

  Now it was the turn of the man from the art dealers to pause. ‘Well,’ he would say, ‘you could probably obtain the highest price at an open auction, well publicized, heavily advertised before the event. On the other hand there might be advantages to a private sale, details that could be kept out of the public domain, away from the prying eyes of the tax authorities and the perils of publicity about the export of works of art, selling off the nation’s heritage, that sort of rubbish that always floods the newspapers when important works leave these shores.’

  Powerscourt thought that a commission of ten per cent or more plus auctioneering expenses might be a sufficient compensation for temporary trial by newspaper.

  ‘Would I be right in assuming, Mr Senior Partner, that your firm would be prepared to act in either case, public auction or private sale?’

  ‘Why, of course. We are mere facilitators, the gears, if you like, which work to effect the connection of buyer and seller to mutual advantage. We would be delighted to offer our services.’

  And that would be that. In one case the senior partner tried to obtain some more information about the object in question.

  ‘Let me hazard a guess, Lord Powerscourt,’ this managing director, considerably older than his colleagues, ventured, ‘could it be that the revelation of the type of work would be such that it could have an impact on the future price? A lost Leonardo would cause a sensation to start with, but interest might die down after a while. Better to keep the identity of the work secret until the last possible moment perhaps? Fetch a higher price that way, what do you say?’