Death of an Elgin Marble Read online

  ‘I did. It went through a New York dealer called Knoedler for £13,230 three years ago and ended up with a rich industrialist called Frick, Henry Clay Frick.’

  ‘Can people go and see it? Could some thief have passed by one day and realized that the sister painting would be worth a fortune?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Not unless he was a friend or relation of Mr Frick’s. And Mr Frick himself is so rich that he could afford to buy the sister painting for an enormous sum and hardly notice. He’s one of the richest millionaires in New York, but I can’t see him organizing a break-in at the house in Hammersmith, I really can’t. It’s all very interesting, the life and times of Mortlake Terrace, but I can’t see how it helps us. There is one interesting fact, mind you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well,’ said Powerscourt proudly, ‘if you had held on to the painting all the time, from 1838 to 1908, your investment would have gone up by a factor of 157. That’s your one pound seventy-four years ago turned into one hundred and fifty-seven pounds today.’

  Lady Lucy looked at her husband suspiciously. ‘Did you work that out yourself, Francis?’

  ‘Work what out?’

  ‘All that one hundred and something times whatever it was. I don’t think you did, I really don’t.’

  ‘Oh ye of little faith,’ said Powerscourt, ‘how sharper than a serpent’s tooth to have a thankless wife.’

  ‘But you didn’t, did you?’

  ‘Didn’t do the arithmetic, you mean? Well, no I didn’t, actually, now you come to mention it. Thomas did it for me, before he went out this morning. It seemed to take him about three seconds, scribbling on the back of an envelope.’

  14

  ‘Please don’t tell anybody this, not even your wife. You mustn’t tell a soul.’

  One hour after the 157 times tables Powerscourt was being rushed to an emergency meeting at the British Museum. Inspector Kingsley looked as though he hadn’t slept properly for days. He hadn’t yet told Powerscourt the reason for their journey, driven at top speed across the capital by one of the Inspector’s sergeants.

  ‘Very well, Inspector. You have my silence. Does what you want to say have to do with the Caryatid?’

  ‘Not directly, no.’

  ‘What do you mean, not directly?’

  ‘I’m going to resign, that’s what I mean. I’ve decided.’

  ‘What do you mean? Today? Tomorrow? Next week?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not going to do anything as drastic as that. Once this case is over I’m going to leave and start afresh. I’m going to write my letter of resignation this evening and hand it in later. I’ve talked it through with the wife.’

  ‘Could I ask about the reasons, if they’re not too private?’

  ‘You can, of course you can. I feel I’ve failed in this case. That’s just the start. I can’t help thinking about that poor Greek man smashed to bits under the train. If I’d solved the case, maybe that wouldn’t have happened. I’m sure there are going to be more deaths before the end of this affair. I can feel it in my bones. I don’t care about everyday crimes, burglary, fraud, gangland fights. It’s the deaths I can’t stand.’

  Powerscourt remembered the despair in Inspector Kingsley’s voice when he had talked about the strain of conducting three murder inquiries in a row. He felt that a diversion might be the best course for now.

  ‘I’m sure we could talk about your resignation later this evening. Perhaps we could have dinner together. But just for now could you explain why we are going at Derbywinner speed across London to the British Museum?’

  ‘Sorry, my lord, of course. I have been too wrapped up in my own affairs. It’s Deputy Director Ragg. He’s running out of patience. He may be running out of sense. You remember we advised him not to go and meet that man who might or might not have been a blackmailer? The one who claimed he wrote his letters from the Ritz?’

  ‘I certainly do. Has the man from the hotel turned up? Carrying a large Gladstone bag to put the fifty-pound notes in?’

  ‘Not quite. It’s still pretty bad though. Ragg wants to set up a meeting.’

  ‘With the blackmailer?’

  ‘With the blackmailer.’

  ‘God in heaven! Has he lost his wits?’

  ‘We’re just about to find out, Lord Powerscourt. Unless I am very much mistaken, the next turning leads us into Great Russell Street and the British Museum. Ragg is waiting for us. If we cannot persuade him otherwise, he says he will send a note to the Ritz first thing after lunch and suggest a meeting this evening.’

  ‘God help us all, Inspector. That’s all I can say. God help us all.’

  The Deputy Director of the British Museum, Theophilus Ragg, did not look like a man who had lost his wits. He looked as though he had been wrestling with a thorny problem for a long time. Now he has found his answer and the decision has set him free.

  ‘Good of you to come, Lord Powerscourt. I thought our friend the Inspector would bring some reinforcements. I know I am going against your advice. Would you like me to go through the reasons for my decision? I presume you know what it is? Good. I have to tell you, my mind is quite made up.’

  ‘I’d be honoured to hear your reasons, Mr Ragg,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Please carry on.’

  ‘Thank you. I think it would be useful if I touched on the different responsibilities the three of us face in this matter. For you, Inspector, this is a matter of professional pride, a case to solve, a theft to be cleared up and taken off the books of the Metropolitan Police. For you, Lord Powerscourt, you have very kindly agreed to investigate this robbery for a fee. That is perfectly proper. Securing the return of the Caryatid for you is a matter of honour, a badge of success. Like the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, I believe, you both like to say that you always get your man. Success for both of you is the same. But failure is, I suggest, rather different for the two of you than it is for me. The public will forget the theft of the statue in a couple of months. It will be replaced in the newspapers and the popular imagination by another set of stories and scandals we do not yet know. You will be at work on other cases, solving other crimes. A few people may remember that the Caryatid was never recovered, but you both have long and successful careers behind you. This affair will be just a pause in a long trajectory of professional achievement. After all, who can recall the names of the detectives who failed to catch Jack the Ripper? Do you follow me so far, gentlemen?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ said the Inspector.

  ‘Clear as day,’ added Powerscourt.

  ‘Good,’ said Ragg, smiling a wintry smile at his visitors. Powerscourt had been watching Ragg’s right hand, twirling a fountain pen round and round as he talked. ‘But for me, I think, the position is rather different. You both come from institutions quite separate from the British Museum. I am, for the moment, in charge of this ancient body. It is my responsibility to bring the Caryatid home. By that yardstick I shall be judged, in this life at any rate, if not in the next. As long as ships sail the oceans people will remember that the Captain of the Titanic was called Edward Smith. If the Caryatid does not come home future generations will always remember me as Ragg, the man who lost the Elgin Marble and couldn’t get her back.’

  The Deputy Director paused to take a pinch of snuff. ‘I know that you two gentlemen think little of this purported blackmailer.’

  Powerscourt smiled to himself at the words ‘purported blackmailer’. It was good, very good. He would tell Lucy about it later.

  ‘You both believe,’ Ragg went on, ‘that it would be unwise and unhelpful to open negotiations with him. I have to tell you that I have given the matter considerable thought and I disagree with you, I disagree with you very strongly. It is my responsibility to do everything I can to bring the Caryatid back. I would be failing in my duty if I did not do whatever I think is necessary to secure her return. I know your objections, gentlemen. I reject them. My mind is made up.’

  With that, Theophilus Ragg put his cap on his pen
and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Surely you must realize—’ Inspector Kingsley sounded as if he were talking to a small child ‘—that we have no way of knowing if the man from the Ritz is the real thief or not? That he could be just a common blackmailer? And what are you going to do when he asks you for £150,000 or whatever figure comes into his head?’

  ‘I do not regard the question of money as relevant at this point,’ Ragg replied. ‘My first duty is to make contact with this man. I hope his address remains the same.’

  Powerscourt thought the Deputy Director’s statement about the money not being relevant was strange, to say the least. What could be more relevant, in this mercenary age, than £150,000? Then a thought struck him with the force and speed of a lightning bolt. Perhaps the money didn’t matter because the Deputy Director knew where he could get his hands on it.

  ‘Mr Ragg,’ Powerscourt began, choosing his words carefully and looking Ragg directly in the eye. His gaze was not to leave the Deputy Director’s face during the rest of the conversation. ‘Let me put a suggestion to you, if I may. The money always seemed to be an obstacle, a very considerable obstacle, when we talked about this in the past. Now your position seems to have changed somewhat. The money, you say, is not relevant. Is that because you have found a way of putting your hands on £150,000 at short notice? There are, in my view, only two ways you could have secured a guarantee of such a considerable sum. One would be a very rich benefactor. I rather doubt that, myself. Rich benefactors might put up a great deal of money to buy another Caryatid, one that could take physical shape in the museum here in a special room named after the benefactor. I doubt they would hazard their wealth on the gambler’s throw of meeting a man who might have nothing in the foyer of the Ritz.’

  Theophilus Ragg was looking slightly uncomfortable now. The top was off his pen once more and he was drawing lines on his blotter.

  ‘I put it to you, Mr Ragg. You have been to the Government. An acting director of the British Museum always has access to the Prime Minister in Number Ten Downing Street. Come to that, he also has access to the Chancellor of the Exchequer in Number Eleven Downing Street. In this case maybe he has a meeting with both of those gentlemen. They say the Government will pay the blackmailer, however much that takes. The true figure may never be disclosed, of course, it will be smuggled away in the Treasury accounts for years to come, but the Government will foot the bill. How’s that, Mr Ragg?’

  The Deputy Director looked carefully at the crooked lines on his blotter. He blinked a couple of times. Powerscourt thought the man was too honest to tell lies about such a delicate subject.

  ‘Very well. I shall not insult your intelligence by fobbing you off with a pack of lies. Whatever financial and fiduciary arrangements the British Museum enters into with His Majesty’s Treasury must remain confidential, and rightly so. But it would be fair to say that such an undertaking has been given, that the Government will underwrite any subventions necessary to secure the return of the Caryatid. I propose to write to the Ritz Hotel – I am not familiar with the building, but I am given to understand that it is situated on Piccadilly, not far from Fortnum and Mason – immediately after lunch today. Do you follow me, gentlemen?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Powerscourt.

  ‘Could I ask if you intend to proceed to any such meeting alone? If you do, I have to tell you that the Metropolitan Police cannot guarantee your safety. We have a duty to protect the citizens of the capital. Our duty lapses if the citizens disregard the advice they are given about their own security. Goodness, man, we have had people watching after the safety of your wife and children twenty-four hours a day since the start of this affair. Are you going to throw all that away? Surely it would make more sense to go to a meeting if you must, but one where we can take reasonable steps to keep you safe and, if possible, to apprehend the blackmailer?’

  ‘We shall have to see what demands the blackmailer may wish to place on any rendezvous. From our earlier correspondence I would presume that he will take every step to secure his own future. If you think about it, gentlemen, the blackmailer needs to keep me alive after our first meeting. Otherwise how is anybody to know when and where the exchange of specie for the Caryatid is to take place?’

  ‘I don’t like it one little bit,’ said Inspector Kingsley, ‘I cannot give such a plan my blessing. I shall have to seek an urgent meeting with the Commissioner. I expect he will be in touch with you this afternoon.’

  ‘I can’t say I like it either, Mr Ragg,’ said Powerscourt. ‘But I do respect your courage, although I agree with the Inspector about being unable to approve your plans. I think they are rash, and likely to lead to more problems.’

  ‘Thank you both for listening so carefully, and for your advice. Now, if you will forgive me, I have a lunch appointment with the Egyptians. They tell me Rameses the Second needs some care and attention.’

  A scowling Inspector Kingsley set off for Scotland Yard. Lord Francis Powerscourt took himself to the foyer of the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly. Seated inconspicuously behind an enormous vase, his face largely hidden by the pages of The Times and an enormous plant, he spent the early part of the afternoon in reconnaissance. That, after all, he reminded himself from his days with the military, was often half the battle.

  The twins’ first evening in Wales began well enough. The undertaker brought them to the Green Dragon where the schoolteacher Carwyn Jones was waiting. The local beer was stronger than the stuff served in the twins’ local, the Highwayman, off Deptford High Street. Though the visitors from London seemed not to know very much about rugby, they seemed to be fitting in very well, even if most of the locals had reverted to speaking in Welsh once the strangers arrived. It was when the twins announced that they wanted a word with Carwyn in private that things began to go wrong.

  The undertaker took them to a long outbuilding at the back of his premises where he stored his coffins and other odds and ends. There was one bare light bulb in the ceiling and a couple of wooden chairs left beside the door. The undertaker left them half a dozen bottles of beer and announced he needed to go back to the pub to buy some more supplies. The twins strapped Carwyn Jones into one of the chairs with some rope.

  ‘You’ve been writing very naughty letters,’ said Richard, shaking his head.

  ‘Very naughty letters. Letters that should never have been sent,’ Robert agreed.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Carwyn replied.

  ‘Come, come. We know you’ve been sending these naughty letters. Why don’t you just admit it?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ said Carwyn defiantly. ‘I tell you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You don’t want to make things difficult for yourself now, do you,’ said Richard, punching Carwyn’s head so he sat slumped sideways in his chair. ‘Did you write these letters or not? We wouldn’t want to make life even more painful for you, would we, Robert?’

  ‘That would never do,’ his brother replied. There was no answer from the chair.

  Richard delivered a force eight blow to Carwyn’s stomach.

  ‘Next time it’ll be your face and all those lovely white teeth you’ve got.’

  There was another deeper groan. Robert pushed the teacher’s face back into the upright position.

  ‘All right,’ Carwyn said between howls of pain, ‘I did write a letter. Just one letter. No more.’

  ‘Is that so? You admit you wrote a naughty letter, do you? Who else did you tell about it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Richard punched him quite lightly in the mouth. ‘That’s just for starters, my little Welsh friend. Next time I’m going to knock your teeth out. I’m just beginning to enjoy myself now. Are you enjoying yourself, Robert?’

  ‘I am indeed. What do you say, schoolteacher?’

  ‘I didn’t tell anybody else. That’s the truth. Honest.’

  ‘Don’t believe you. You’ll have to do better than that.’


  Carwyn Jones felt he was doomed. This was an East End version of Morton’s Fork where you paid your taxes or the King came to stay and ate you out of house and home. If he said yes, they’d beat him up even more. If he said no, they’d beat him up until he said yes.

  ‘I know what, Robert,’ said Richard. ‘Let’s have a cigarette and think things over.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  The twins smoked the Pall Mall brand, named after the street with the showroom of the parent company, Rothmans.

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to offer you one, Mr Jones the schoolteacher,’ said Robert, waving his cigarette close to Carwyn’s face. ‘Naughty boys who write naughty letters don’t deserve them, do they?’

  ‘Look at it another way,’ said Richard, laughing loudly, ‘they could get a cigarette, but not how they expected it.’ He stabbed the lighted end into Carwyn’s arm. Twice. Carwyn screamed. He kicked out blindly, for although his arms were tied, his legs were not. Quite by accident his boot landed on Richard’s leg, on the bony section just below the knee.

  The twins lost their tempers at exactly the same time. They threw their cigarettes to the ground and threw the chair over. Both began kicking Jones as hard in the head as they could. Then they took turns to stamp on his face and his private parts. All the while they made a crooning noise, a terrible mixture of anger and pleasure. Jones passed out. He was unconscious long before he died. As they looked at the corpse they had just created, the twins shook hands. They always did that after a murder. They had another cigarette.

  ‘What are we going to do with him now?’

  ‘I know. Let’s pop him into one of these coffins lying about the place. Then he won’t have far to go.’ They began to laugh.

  The next morning the twins left very early on the milk train to Cardiff. The undertaker found that his first client of the day was already in place.

  PART THREE

  SHADES OF THE PRISON-HOUSE

  A great city, whose image dwells in the memory of man, is the type of some great idea. Rome represents conquest; Faith hovers over the towers of Jerusalem; and Athens embodies the pre-eminent quality of the antique world, Art.