“Of course. I`ll need someone to help carry them”
*
In fact, I drove the van, acquired by John Fielding, in which we transported the paintings. The light brown uniforms were provided by Roger Tamworth. This was topped off by a baseball cap in a similar colour, and dark glasses.
He looked up, and smiled. “Good. Now you look the part. When we`re there don`t say anything, just follow my lead,” he instructed.
When they were secured in the van Roger took a marker and scrawled the outline of a cartoon pig on each of the crates.
“What`s that for?”
“An identity mark, Alan. A sort of code that informs the recipient I am the provider. Although, I also make sure someone signs for the delivery.”
“A pig? What sort of mark is that?”
“Not just any ordinary pig, my friend… a Tamworth.”
I turned on the engine, and said. “Good, now where are we going exactly?”
“Belgrave Square. The London office of Restitution.”
*
Roger pointed out our destination on the south-east corner of the square and I drew up outside the main door of the neo-Georgian building.
“Can you carry in the smaller of the two, while I get the paperwork ready.”
“You told me not to utter a word.”
“I did, didn`t I? OK, wait while I get it out of the folder.”
With Roger leading, we took up the rope handles of the crate containing The Beach, and headed for the main entrance. It opened as we approached the glass and wrought iron door, and a porter ushered us in. Crossing an expanse of tiled floor, not unlike that at Mead Court, we halted at the reception desk.
“Mr Crosby is expecting a delivery,” Roger declared. “Johnson, can you retrieve the other crate from the van, please.”
Who is Johnson? For a split second I thought he was addressing someone else. Then it dawned. He meant me.
I nodded and headed back to the van.
The porter opened the door again when I drew close.
This time Roger was speaking with a tall, distinguished elderly man, who was shaking his hand.
“We`ll help your man carry them through,” said the fellow, raising a finger and beckoning the porter. Both crates were carried to an adjacent room, and the top covers removed, There, nestling in soft, linen packing lay the two paintings.
The delivery note was signed. Payment will be made in the usual way was said while the man examined the van Gogh.
We made our own way out.
On the return journey, I discussed the little venture I had in mind.
“It will be another two days before the signage is ready. I`ll bring it over to Blandford Forum, say Wednesday afternoon. How does that suit?”
“Fine, we can go over the plan once more in detail, load up Friday morning, and put the scheme into operation that night.”
Chapter 59
We agreed to meet at seven o`clock on Wednesday evening. At that hour it would be dusk, and few people about. I phoned John Fielding, who confirmed the lorry had now been painted and was hidden under a tarpaulin in one of the warehouses.
Before then, however, I had to spend time in London. So I asked if he would kindly pick me up just before the meeting at Parkstone Station, on the outskirts of Poole. I would be on the five thirty train from London.
*
I returned to the apartment, and eagerly checked the mail.
There it was, all the way from Ohio State University: a copy of the British Parliamentary Papers for 1823. How they obtained the original I had no idea. But I had managed to trace the whereabouts of the Report, and now held a copy in my hands.
This particular edition referred to Gaslight Establishments, The Penitentiary at Millbank, and Sewers in The Metropolis. This last item was of particular interest, and I spent several hours and numerous cups of coffee studying the document.
After a hurried lunch, I made my way to The National Archives at Kew.
From deep in the bowels of the building I was able to study records relating to the Metropolitan Commission of Sewers, the precursor of The Metropolitan Board of Works.
This last organisation was in place at the time of the `Great Stink`.
In the summer of 1858, the city of London came to a standstill. Government could barely function. What had brought London to its knees was the overwhelming stench that radiated from the surface of the River Thames.
For centuries, England’s most famous river had been the dumping ground for all of London’s various wastes — human, animal, and industrial. People began to recognise that the pollution of the city’s river was a growing problem. But little was done to remedy the situation, and by the nineteenth century, enough waste and pollution had accumulated in the Thames to make it the most contaminated and unhygienic stretch of water in the country.
In the exceptionally hot summer of 1858, the hideous stench rising from the River Thames seeped through the hallowed halls of the Houses of Parliament, and overwhelmed Britain’s politicians – those who had not already fled in fear for their lives to the countryside.
Clutching handkerchiefs to their noses and ready to abandon their newly built House for fresher air upstream, the lawmakers agreed urgent action was needed to purify London of the “evil odour” that was commonly believed to be the cause of disease and death.
The outcome of the “Great Stink”, as that summer’s crisis was coined, was one of history’s most life-enhancing advancements in urban planning. It was a monumental project that, despite being driven by questionable science and political self-interest, dramatically improved public health and laid the foundation for modern London.
Step forward The Metropolitan Board of Works; and notably, their chief engineer, Joseph Bazelgette.
Bazalgette’s solution – similar, I discovered in the archives, to a proposal made by the painter, John Martin, twenty five years earlier – was to construct eighty two miles of underground brick-built main sewers. These would accommodate sewage outflows from over a thousand miles of street sewers, and avoid the need for raw sewage to flow freely into the capital city`s main artery, the River Thames.
The construction was finally completed in 1875, the year Bazelgette received his knighthood.
I was particularly interested in the main sewer that ran under the Victoria Embankment. The original impetus was to provide London with a modern sewerage system. However, another major consideration was a cut-and-cover tunnel for the District Line Railway, built within the Embankment and roofed over to take a roadway to relieve the congestion along the Strand and Fleet Street.
Tired, but elated with my findings, I studied the plans of Bazelgette`s mammoth undertaking, and the London sewerage maps of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries before making my way back to St. George`s Square.
*
The next morning I arrived at the Collections Department of the London Transport Museum in Covent Garden, where I spent the greater part of the day studying construction plans, photographs, and detailed drawings of a tramway tunnel. Trams once ran along the Victoria Embankment, and entered a tunnel under Waterloo Bridge. The line broadly followed the curve around the Aldwych, up Kingsway to emerge at the junction of Theobald`s Road.
First built in 1906, it closed, finally, in 1952. In recent years the entrance section just below the bridge was converted into an entertainments venue.
From the museum I walked through Covent Garden, down Catharine Street to the Aldwych, and along Lancaster Place. Just before Waterloo Bridge, steps lead to the riverside roadway. According to the plans, about halfway down I should come across a door set in the bridge wall.
And there it was.
A discreet, double door. Behind it lay the original tram tunnel; and in front of the river, the Victoria Embankment, below which reside Bazelgette`s sewer and the District and Circle Underground railway line.
Armed with all the information I needed, I walked across the bridge to Waterloo Station, and caught the five t
hirty train to Parkstone.
Chapter 60
Roger held up the printed acetate sheets.
“They`re good, really good,” I said. “Though, I don`t think we want to attach them until we are almost there. In case, someone recalls seeing us. There are plenty of places closer to London where we can apply them to the sides of the truck.”
We were standing by the vehicle, discussing the final arrangements.
Roger went behind the vehicle, and reappeared with four boxes.
“Time to try on your gear.” He handed each of us a box.
“Do people wear this sort of thing all day,” McKenna asked, trying on the stout waterproof trousers.
“And the hat, over-jacket, gloves and heavy duty, knee-length waterproof boots.” responded Tamworth, adding. “You`ll be grateful you are wearing all that when you`re down there,”
“But do I have to have it on when we`re in the lorry?” he questioned.
“No, put it on when we reach our destination,” said John.
“It will take us a good three hours to get there,” I said. “Bear in mind, too, we`ll have to stop to fix the signage. So, I reckon we should leave at seven thirty to be there by eleven. Is that OK?”
Nods of assent.
“Right, as we agreed, we`ll load up tomorrow. John, can you bring the truck round to Mead Court then? I think that`s it. Tell me if I`ve missed anything.”
I gazed into their faces. “Well, see you tomorrow,” I said to McKenna and John. “Roger, you don`t need be here for the loading, but you`re welcome to stay the night at Mead Court if you wish?”
“No thanks, Alan. Things to do. I`ll make my way back to Salisbury, and see you after lunch on Friday.”
*
I had taken photos of the door at the side of Waterloo Bridge, and after breakfast, McKenna and I studied them closely, to gauge how easy it would be to break in.
“From what I can tell, laddie, it looks like a five lever mortise deadlock. The deadbolt moves about twenty millimetres to secure the door. It has a straight-forward wooden surround, so, if it were necessary, we could cut into the frame. It may cause a slight delay, but dinna fash yersel’, we`ll soon have it open. ”
*
John arrived in the truck just after two o`clock.
We had fashioned rope handles for the crates, making them easier to carry; and we began the task of stowing them carefully in the vehicle, tying each one securely to the slatted wall linings.
We took our time, but it still took more than two hours to complete the operation.
“Hmm… I was rather hoping we could do it faster than that,” I remarked. “We don`t want the truck on view for too long.”
*
It was seven o`clock on Friday evening when Roger came up the driveway in his car.
He was dressed casually, and appeared his normal self – until he turned to face me.
The man before me had dark, Asiatic skin tones, and the heavy stubble of an emerging beard.
“Oh, God… not another one from your repertoire. Where do you come from this time? Let me guess… India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Bradford?”
A violent shaking of the head.
“From Sri Lanka, mahathmaya.”
“What`s that?”
“Sinhalese for `sir`.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “You`ll stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Let me tell you, Mr Cleverden, the Westminster Council employs more than one hundred Sri Lankans. What is more, there are eight working in the Sewers and Drains Department.”
“Come on, let`s have a cup of tea, then we`ll be off,” I said before Roger started plying us with even more details.
*
John drove the truck, with McKenna his passenger. I followed in the Range Rover with Roger sitting beside me.
I had discussed the route with John, and after two hours steady driving we were close to Heathrow Airport. I took the lead and guided him to the entrance of Western International Produce Market. Parking behind the nearby petrol station, the acetate decals were applied to the sides of the truck. It took no more than a few minutes, and we were soon back on the road with the Range Rover leading.
We crossed the Thames at Kew, and stayed south of the river until we reached the foot of Westminster Bridge. Big Ben was loudly chiming eleven o`clock as our two vehicles turned right onto the Victoria Embankment.
I turned off and parked in the road behind the Savoy Hotel, while John reversed the Westminster City Council truck onto the wide expanse of pavement close by Waterloo Bridge.
When Roger and I walked towards them the flashing orange lights were already declaring the official presence of workmen preparing to go about their task. McKenna was examining the lock on the double doors up the short flight of steps.
He hurried back for his tools.
“Nae so bad, laddie,” he grinned ghoulishly in the orange glow.
He was as good as his word. Three minutes later, both doors swung wide open.
“Right, give me fifteen minutes while I get into my gear, and check the drawings tally with the reality,” I murmured.
It would all rest with what I found beyond those doors. This was make or break time I thought as I climbed the steps. After the hard work, the careful preparation, all that research… if there were notable deviations by the original builders from the architect`s plans, all could be lost, and it would be my fault alone for leading John, Roger and McKenna into a questionable situation. One that could so easily have consequences.
What is more, my mother would be furious with me for leading her future husband into a folly of my making. All this bore down on me as I reached the entrance.
I turned on my torch and edged along a passage to another set of steps. I counted them as I slowly descended… thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, That was it. I swung the torch and found the roof above me sloping down to ground level. I realised it must be the roadway that superseded the original tram tunnel under Kingsway. The occasional rumble of a passing vehicle confirmed my thoughts.
So if I`m in the old tram tunnel, the entrance to below the embankment must be in the opposite direction.
And it was.
Though not immediately obvious, two hinged steel flaps were set in the floor close to the wall.
I tried to lift one of the flaps. But the grip for my hands was too narrow. I needed a rope or a pickaxe to lever it open. Quickly retracing my steps to the truck, I grabbed a length of rope. The others were attempting to look busy: facing off the area with red and white plastic barriers. No one made comment when I ran back up the steps.
Threading it under the handle, I tugged at the rope, then pulled hard walking backwards. With a screech of metal the flap opened suddenly, and fell to the floor with a terrific clatter.
Peering into the void, I could just make out an iron ladder descending into the gloom.
Taking up my torch, I clambered down. As I turned down a corridor the sound of running water enveloped me, as did the smell, which I remembered so vividly as a student, all those years ago.
Another turn, and there was Bazelgette`s creation. A high, domed brick-built tunnel taking away London`s effluent to the distant reaches of the Thames. At this time of night, the flow was more languid, but the stench just as overpowering.
I moved along the walkway, and reached a smaller tunnel emerging from the north. It was also brick-built, and was a very workable attempt in the eighteenth century to carry the waste from Bow Street, and Catharine Street, down into what was known as the Somerset Watergate, where it discharged directly into the River Thames.
I walked up the tunnel, retracing my steps of twelve years ago.
Suddenly, the torch beam picked out the fallen bricks, unmoved since the occasion three other students and myself had clambered through on our ill-conceived, brief journey of discovery.
All right so far.
Now for the final test. Would the cellar trap doors above me yield to allow access?
I mad
e my way up the narrow corridor to a set of steps leading to the next floor.
I took each step cautiously and nearing the underside of one of the flaps, pushed upwards using my shoulders.
Nothing moved.
My heart raced. Was I to be thwarted at the stage?
I moved over and heaved against the other flap. It gave way eventually to my desperate efforts. Then I realised it was overlapping the other, and I was pushing against their combined weights.
Stepping up, there was just one more trap door to overcome.
There was a ladder rising beneath it, and as I mounted each rung I saw a ring handle. Gripping it in one hand I twisted it gently, and pushed upwards.
And there I was. In the students` café.
Nothing had changed significantly, though the décor was brighter than I remembered.
Time to return to the others.
I didn`t exactly run; but I did move fairly quickly down the old tunnel, which still provided a steady trickle of water to add to the tide of liquid effluent coursing through the capital.
It was my undoing. In my haste to mount the walkway, my foot slipped on a patch of mould dislodged from the wall. As if in slow motion, I toppled into the stream of raw sewage. Though only a couple of feet high, it was enough for one leg to drop below the surface, and for a rubber boot to fill.
*
I hauled myself out and started for the exit. Squelching up the iron ladder and the steps. I could smell the fresh air as I neared the door. Interestingly, the truck`s orange light, flashing on the wall, had taken on a different hue.
I discovered the cause when I came out.
A police car had also pulled onto the pavement; and the blue light from its rooftop was adding to the glow from the lorry. McKenna, Roger and John looked in my direction as I limped towards them. So did two policemen.
“For Christ`s sake what are you standing around for?” I barked. “We`ve got a blockage, and we`ve got to do something quick. Come on, get on with it. Get the tools from the truck.”
“What`s wrong with your leg?”
“A partial overflow. I got a very wet leg and a boot full of effluent.”
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