Stones of Treason: An international thriller

by Peter Watson

  Dinant, who had been leaning forward, now sat back as the whitebait arrived. He squeezed lemon over them.

  ‘You . . . or should I say Her Majesty has a picture entitled The Three Marys at the Sepulchre. I’m sorry to say that my colleagues and I do not think this is by the master.’ He swallowed some whitebait.

  Edward had guessed what Dinant was going to say moments before he said it. He toyed with his food. How should he respond?

  Dinant spoke again. ‘I’m telling you this out of courtesy, of course. Our research report will not be published until next year. You may like to alert Her Majesty in advance and perhaps alter your own attribution in anticipation. I’m sure that some newspaper will make play with the idea that a Rubens in the Royal Collection is a fake.’

  Dinant showed no emotion as he said all this and he could not have guessed what was going on inside Edward’s head. All Edward said now was, ‘What is your evidence, Thierry?’

  Dinant pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘The picture is not mentioned in the letters. The minor figures, which in a real Rubens would have been painted by assistants, do not fit with the style of any known assistant, and the provenance is the same as one or two other pictures which we believe are fake.’

  Edward didn’t reply immediately but sipped some wine. Dinant was right about one thing: if the papers got hold of this they would have a field day. A fake in the Royal Collection! However, that wasn’t what concerned him most.

  ‘Hillier is not going to like it.’

  Dinant lowered his eyes. ‘I know. But I can’t help that. They are not his pictures. They couldn’t be sold anyway. We are not hurting anyone’s pocket.’

  ‘Yes – I see that. That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘What did you mean, then?’

  ‘It calls his scholarship into question. He is certain the Three Marys is a genuine Rubens.’

  ‘He is? I’m surprised. There must be – what? – two thousand pictures in the Royal Collection. He can’t be expected to know everything intimately.’

  ‘No . . . I agree with that. You’re a good scholar, Thierry, but there are certain things you don’t know.’

  ‘You mean there’s something else about this picture that I don’t know?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking – yes.’ Edward leaned back as the waiter brought their main courses and then fussed around, serving spinach, potatoes, hollandaise sauce.

  ‘Go on,’ urged Dinant as soon as the waiter had left. ‘Explain what you mean. What don’t I know about this picture?’

  Edward wiped his lips with his napkin. ‘You don’t know that a month ago I sent Hillier a memo concerning the Three Marys. In that memo I said that I thought the picture was not by Rubens. For exactly the same reasons as you. He replied just before he went into hospital. He said I was wrong and implied, more or less, that I didn’t know what I was talking about. Now you say the same thing as I do. He’s not going to like it one bit. I haven’t been at the Palace very long and already I’m having a run-in with my boss. Your research isn’t going to help, either. In fact, it’s going to make the situation a whole lot worse.’

  Chapter Seven – Tuesday

  Psychologically, and to an extent administratively, Buckingham Palace is divided into four. There are the royal apartments, at the north end of the building, which almost no one except the royal family and their personal servants ever sees. There is the administrative area on the west side, where Mordaunt and others have their offices. There are the great rooms of state: the ballrooms, banqueting halls, reception rooms for investitures, and so on. These are located in the centre of the palace, on the east side, looking out on to the Mall. Finally, there is a very small area with a very special function. Edward wasn’t aware of this when he was summoned, by Mordaunt, on the following Tuesday. It was again a glorious morning, so he walked over from St James’s, arriving, as he had been asked, just before noon. He was due at Heathrow at five, for his flight to the Louvre conference. There should be plenty of time.

  This time, one of Mordaunt’s three secretaries came to meet him at the Buckingham Gate entrance. She led the way deep into the palace, at ground-floor level. They passed a billiard room – for staff – with three tables; several kitchens, a shoe-repair shop, a laundry where green velvet uniforms, with gold piping, hung in rows. They walked until they were, Edward judged, right under the royal apartments. He was shown up a staircase and into a room with an easy chair, and offered coffee. There was one other person in the room, a man a couple of years Edward’s junior who, to judge from his haircut, shoes and general demeanour, was a policeman in plain clothes. Had Mordaunt gone back on himself and brought in Scotland Yard? Now, perhaps, the mystery would be explained. The man nodded at Edward but said nothing. He was reading a paperback.

  Edward sat back in the easy chair and sipped his coffee. He had nothing to read as they waited.

  He was getting used to waiting. There had been no word from Mordaunt yesterday after lunch. He had waited until six, growing steadily more tetchy. However, on his arrival at St James’s Palace this morning, The General told him immediately that he was summoned to BP. ‘You look worried, Edward,’ she added. ‘And you’ve worn the same tie two days running. Am I allowed to know what’s going on?’

  Edward shook his head. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, General. I’ll tell you as soon as I find out anything. If I’m allowed to.’

  She sniffed. ‘You’re as bad as the son. He has his secrets too.’

  Though Wilma always succeeded in cheering Edward, his sense of well-being had soon been lost as he walked from one palace to the other. Edward had been slightly miffed by his treatment from the equerry. He hated being kept in the dark. But at least things should be cleared up now. The whole business had obviously been moving behind the scenes. He looked across at the policeman. He seemed a bit young to be of senior rank. At the same time, where Edward now sat was obviously some sort of anteroom: perhaps Mordaunt and the policeman’s superior were in the next room, discussing the affair.

  No sooner had he thought this than the inner door opened and Mordaunt appeared. ‘Come in, Andover,’ he said. ‘Bring your coffee with you.’

  Mordaunt beckoned Edward forward. ‘Do you know Mr Lockwood?’

  As he stepped into the room, Edward took a large breath and tried not to let his jaw hang open. As he shook hands with the Prime Minister, he said, ‘We met once, at the Royal Academy dinner.’

  The Prime Minister nodded but said nothing. In the newspapers it was often said of William Lockwood that he bore a marked resemblance to the late Herbert von Karajan, the German conductor. He was small, with wiry, iron-coloured hair, an intense gaze and deep creases in his cheeks.

  Slightly dazed by the sudden turn of events, Edward found himself a seat next to a window. He could see now that they were in a sort of sitting-room with french windows at the far end, opening on to a balcony and, beyond that, a bed of roses. Rather late in the day, he took in the fact that, this being Tuesday, the Prime Minister must have just finished his weekly audience with the Queen. So this was where it took place.

  Amazingly, the Prime Minister appeared to be waiting for Mordaunt, who had slipped back into the anteroom and was speaking in subdued tones to the policeman who, Edward now realized, was a bodyguard. The equerry came back in, closing the door behind him. ‘I was just checking with Webber, sir,’ he said to Lockwood. ‘I understand you are due at the New Zealand High Commission at one-fifteen. We may need all the time in between but we’ll try not to make you late.’

  Lockwood moved his gaze from Mordaunt to Edward. He looked serious. ‘Now what is all this? Her Majesty asked me to stay on – and so I have. But –’

  ‘In fact, sir,’ interrupted Mordaunt, ‘it will be better if Dr Andover speaks first. It’s always better from the horse’s mouth.’ The equerry looked across at Edward. ‘Edward, tell the Prime Minister about the paintings you have been sent.’

  Edward did as requested. How many
more times was he going to have to tell his story, he thought to himself, without finding out what the damn mystery was all about? At least he had a new snippet to add to what Mordaunt already knew. ‘A third picture arrived this morning,’ he ended. ‘This one is a Poussin sepia drawing. It’s signed and was stolen – by the Nazis again – in Piacenza. I know because Ramsay loaned me his catalogue.’

  ‘Any message?’ asked Mordaunt.

  ‘The usual two lines. Shall I read them?’

  The equerry nodded.

  ‘“Three should put it beyond doubt. If you are convinced, cancel the royal film première on Thursday. Then you’ll hear from us again. The Apollo Brigade.”’

  Mordaunt stared at the paper in Edward’s hand. ‘Show me that,’ he said, stretching forward.

  ‘Cancel the première?’ said Lockwood. ‘That sounds like an order, like blackmail. What is this?’

  ‘Hold on!’ Mordaunt put an urgency into his voice without speaking loudly. ‘Hold on. There’s quite a bit to come.’ The equerry glanced briefly at the third message, folded it and slipped it into his pocket. He looked at Lockwood. ‘Most of what Dr Andover has just told you, he outlined to me last Saturday. I admit that, unless you are privy to certain information, Edward’s narrative is thoroughly odd. But I can assure you that if you know what Her Majesty knows, and what I know, these developments are very sinister . . .’ He let the last word hang on the air.

  Mordaunt crossed his legs. He had the Prime Minister’s full attention.

  ‘Let me give you some background, sir. You may read all the documents if you wish, but that would take more time than you can probably spare. The background will lead you to a conclusion before I can finish the story.’ He removed his spectacles. ‘This all starts with one of Dr Andover’s most illustrious – and extraordinary – predecessors. I mean Anthony Blunt, who was Surveyor of the Royal Collection for more than a quarter of a century, from 1945 to 1972. As the world now knows, Blunt was a Soviet agent, a Russian spy from at least the mid-thirties until, probably, the early sixties. For a period of twenty years, while he was employed at the Palace, Blunt was also in the pay of Moscow. Now, in 1945, right after the end of the war and before it was ever suspected that he was anything other than he appeared to be, Blunt was sent by King George VI on an errand of the greatest secrecy and the utmost importance.’

  Lockwood leaned forward. ‘Blunt! They sent Blunt?’

  Mordaunt nodded. ‘The errand concerned, among other things, the relationship of the King’s elder brother – Edward VIII, the man who abdicated and became the Duke of Windsor – and Adolf Hitler. As you may recall, sir, the Duke was, alas, something of a fan of Hitler’s. The errand I refer to concerned a number of paintings and documents which, at the end of the war, were in the possession of the Hesse family, at Kornberg, near Frankfurt. The documents detailed exactly the agreements the Duke had reached with Hitler over Edward’s role in Britain should the Nazis ever conquer these islands. Needless to say, those papers were very embarrassing to the royal family, but the paintings . . . the paintings were the most damaging of all.

  ‘The Hesses were – are – related to the British royal family, both being descendants of the Kaiser and of Queen Victoria. Prince Philip of Hesse ranked fifty-third in the Nazi hierarchy – he was actually imprisoned after the war – and in the 1930s had married Mussoloni’s daughter. From about 1938 onwards, he acquainted himself with the paintings of Italy and arranged a number of “gifts”, to Hitler and Goering.

  ‘A little later he arranged other “gifts”. These were also paintings, but this time the recipient, or intended recipient, was none other than his relative, Edward, Duke of Windsor.’

  Lockwood shifted in his chair. ‘The Duke accepted Nazi loot?’

  ‘Remember, this was the time when he was being shunned by the British establishment. He had been left out of his father’s will. He wanted a proper job – felt it was his due – but instead got the Governorship of the Bahamas. I say this not to excuse him, but to explain. Obviously he couldn’t bring the pictures to Britain, or the Bahamas, so they were kept in store for him with his relatives, who just happened to be the Nazis in charge of confiscation.’

  ‘How many pictures were there?’

  ‘We’re not sure. But let me get on. Blunt was, as I say, above suspicion at that stage and, as the Surveyor of the King’s Pictures, he was the natural person to send. He was accompanied by Sir Owen Morehead, the royal librarian, who was charged with recovery of any incriminating documents. They were both dispatched to Kornberg and other Hesse residences further south, in Darmstadt, to retrieve the material. They found everything easily enough – after all, the King’s relatives had got word to him during the war. But whereas Morehead came straight back with the documents, Blunt stayed on in Germany with the paintings and a few other papers relating to them. When he did get back, a couple of days after Morehead, he said that he had destroyed the incriminating pictures and their related documentation. Among his other duties, Blunt was a member of the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives Commission, whose official job it was to track down looted art. Blunt said that Germany was crawling with these types and that, in the chaos of the times, and not knowing who knew what, he judged it safer to destroy the pictures than do anything else with them. It had taken him a while, he said, to find somewhere safe, out of harm’s way, where he could burn everything. He said there were more than thirty paintings.’

  ‘You mean he just burned all of them?’

  ‘We thought so. I was not at the Palace then and of course such action seems extreme to us now. But it may not have seemed extraordinary at all at the time. The Palace was frightened of anything – anything – getting out, and in a certain light Blunt’s action could be seen as effective and patriotic. However wonderful the art might be, the fate of the royal family, in the aftermath of war, was far more important.’ Mordaunt uncrossed and recrossed his legs. ‘It therefore appeared, at the time, that he had completed his task successfully. Everyone at the Palace relaxed. In retrospect, however, and especially after the disclosure that he was a Russian agent, doubts about his activities in Germany arose.

  ‘It was then assumed, here in the Palace, and never denied by Blunt, that after he had collected the paintings and the documents in Germany he did not destroy them as he said. Instead, as an active Soviet agent, in possession of highly sensitive British documents, he would have been failing in his duty if he did not take very different action – action whereby he could embarrass the Palace if ever he wanted to. Accordingly, the Palace has always assumed that Blunt went from Kornberg and Darmstadt to Switzerland. That would account for his delay in coming back. Somewhere in Switzerland, he would have hidden the paintings in a discreet bank. I have to tell you that, ever since Blunt died, some of us here at BP, and one or two senior figures in the security services, who know all about this, have suspected that the royal family might find itself embarrassed all over again by Anthony Blunt. The threat of blackmail, as you correctly identified it, sir, has always been there. Now, it seems, it is out in the open.’

  ‘But why would the Russians play this card now?’ Lockwood looked hard at the equerry. ‘I take it you do mean that the Russians are behind this. But I don’t –’

  ‘No. We don’t believe this is the Russians, sir.’

  ‘What! Who then?’

  ‘There’s still quite a bit of the story to come.’ Mordaunt moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. Edward thought, incongruously, that the equerry had a nose like Jack Teagarden’s. ‘As a spy,’ Mordaunt went on, ‘Blunt was nothing if not careful. That’s why he wormed his way so deeply into the establishment, and so successfully. In the . . . profession he had chosen, it was prudent not to trust anyone – and certainly not his Russian masters. In the post-war world anything could happen. So, after he made that journey, from Kornberg and Darmstadt to Switzerland, the chances are that he didn’t tell the Soviets where he had hidden the pictures. He may have told them what he h
ad but not where they were hidden. You’ll recall that when Blunt’s secret career was made public it came at the end of a long period of speculation about a “fourth” or “fifth” man in the Burgess-Philby-Maclean business. The government’s hand was forced – the security forces were fighting among themselves and leaking more and more details to the papers – and, if Blunt had tried to use the pictures as blackmail then, to stop his role being revealed, it would never have worked. Someone else would have leaked it. True, the royal family would have been involved in an almighty scandal, but at that stage it would have done Blunt himself no good.’

  Lockwood turned to look at Edward. ‘I hope you’re not a spy, Dr Andover.’

  Edward felt uncomfortable, but just smiled.

  Mordaunt continued. ‘So Blunt held his peace in 1979. There were even those who thought that, because he had kept quiet, maybe he had told the truth in 1945 and really destroyed the paintings. The pictures which Dr Andover has received have demolished that hope.’

  ‘But who has them now? If this isn’t the Russians, who is it?’

  ‘As I say, we don’t think it is the Russians, not official Russia anyway. Given the aid we are committed to and the fact that the Queen is to visit the country next year – the first time a monarch has gone to Russia since before the assassination of the Tsar – it doesn’t make sense. It might be a freelance Russian who was in the KGB – but how would he have found out about the bank?’

  ‘How would anyone find out about the bank?’

  Mordaunt wiped his lips again. ‘Good point, but consider this. Blunt was a terrible snob, very petulant, arrogant. He hated what happened to him in 1979: he was vilified and reviled by those whose approval he craved, he was attacked in Parliament and the press, he was stripped of his knighthood. If you talk to people who knew him, you’ll also find that he was one of those types who could not forgive, who bore grudges for a very long time, for ever. Now, assume that he felt all that in the last years of his life –’