Death of an Elgin Marble Read online

  He paused briefly while the waiter brought a dish of oysters to their table. ‘Only four for me,’ Stanhope said with a winning smile. ‘Six would be too many. Nothing to excess as our Greek friends used to say.’

  ‘If you had been here, Mr Stanhope, would you have called in the police from the very start?’

  ‘I most certainly would, Lord Powerscourt.’ Stanhope paused to brush the remains of his blond hair away from his forehead. ‘I tell you what the whole thing reminds me of. Years ago now I was due to play for Oxford against an MCC side at the Parks, our home ground in the city. It was important because an England selector was believed to be watching, looking for talent. On the day in question I was delayed by an accident on the Woodstock Road and was an hour late for the start of play. They should have waited for me, of course, but the MCC man was a stickler for the rules. Anyway, when I arrived our score was thirty-one for seven. The fool of a captain who had replaced me decided to bat first when even one of the college gargoyles could have told him that the wicket would be very difficult at first but would calm down later.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘Were you too late?’

  Tristram Stanhope coughed slightly and sipped delicately at his hock. ‘As it happens, I was able to make a contribution,’ he said. ‘I managed to make a hundred and thirty-seven not out and our score mounted to two hundred and fifteen all out. It was no good, of course. The MCC knocked our bowlers all over the place and won easily. But don’t you see, it all goes back to the fool of an acting captain’s decision to bat first. It’s the same with Ragg. He’s lost the match before it even started. I doubt we’ll ever get the Caryatid back now. I’m compiling a report for the Director when he gets back. Maybe then Theophilus Ragg too will be removed from his pedestal and sent into outer darkness. Rather like the Caryatid, don’t you know. I’ve been here before.’

  ‘What do you mean you’ve been here before?’

  ‘It was only a couple of years ago, actually. I was still at Oxford then – I’m just a Visiting Fellow now. But the old Provost died rather suddenly. There was a terrible battle over the succession between two factions, one for the redhead, the other for the bald man. The redhead was an English professor, full of high ideals and windy rhetoric. He wanted the College to move with the times, press for more modern subjects, chemistry, I suppose, biology, that sort of thing. He claimed we had to keep up with the Germans, science and all that. The bald one was a classicist of the old school, no need to change, keep things as they are. The battle grew so fierce that the two sides used to sit at opposite ends of High Table, not even speaking to each other. Then the Dean proposed a compromise candidate. Man by the name of Weightman, Albert Weightman. Theologian. World-famous scholar, could talk for hours about the Coptic Gospels, you know the sort of stuff. Quiet sort of chap, our theologian. Used to take most of his meals in his rooms. Came from a humble background, father a docker in Liverpool with eleven children. Our man had all the brains. When it came to the vote the theologian came through the middle and won by six votes.’

  ‘And they all lived happily ever after?’

  ‘Not so. Not only was the Coptic person from a poor background, he had no idea of the social airs and graces. Couldn’t tell a claret from a chianti. Barely able to handle a knife and fork according to his enemies. He surpassed himself at a College Feast, lots and lots of courses, enough wines to sink a battleship, you know the form. The theologian asked for HP sauce to put on his venison. That was it. I was prevailed upon to organize a petition to the College Visitor, sort of Super Chairman of the Board of Governors who arbitrates on disputes. Our visitor was the Bishop of Gloucester, possibly because the College still owns half of Gloucester for heaven’s sake. The Bishop suggests the theologian has to go. And the Bishop organizes his removal to the Chair of Theology at Durham. Very efficiently done I must say. Weightman was never seen in Oxford again. That’s what’s going to happen to that man Ragg if I have anything to do with it.’

  The waiter came back to take away the remains of the oysters and refill their glasses. Powerscourt noticed that Stanhope never spoke of business when anybody else was in the room, as if he felt there might be listeners everywhere, possibly working for an unknown enemy.

  ‘I would welcome your opinion on this question, Mr Stanhope,’ he said, and turning to the waiter, ‘Those oysters were delicious, quite delicious.’

  The waiter bowed slightly and departed.

  ‘Obviously the statue could have been taken by a madman, a lone maniac following the messages in his head. But I don’t think so. What do you think? Do you believe, as I think I do but without any great conviction, that she was stolen to order? That the thieves had a buyer long before they committed the crime?’

  ‘Even ancient historians,’ said Stanhope with a patronizing smile, ‘with the limited amount of original evidence available to them, are taught not to produce theories that cannot be substantiated by the facts, Lord Powerscourt. So I could not subscribe entirely to that theory. But it does have some merit.’

  A Dover sole, gleaming with butter and glazed onions, appeared for Stanhope, roast lamb with a sweet-smelling mint sauce for Powerscourt. The hock was replaced with a bottle of wine.

  ‘Not many people know about this wine from Quincy, Powerscourt. I discovered it en route to the Jungfrau some years ago and recommended it to my friend, the proprietor here. I should welcome your opinion.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Powerscourt taking a small sip, ‘a sauvignon blanc to challenge sancerre and pouilly-fumé, I should say.’

  Stanhope smiled. ‘To your question, Lord Powerscourt. I have thought about this a good deal. People like to dismiss the possibility of rich collectors prepared to spend hundreds of thousands of pounds on something they can only look at under cover of darkness in the depths of their cellars.’

  Stanhope took a deep draught of his wine. Powerscourt thought the man was drinking too fast.

  ‘However,’ the Head of Greek and Roman Antiquities went on, ‘the key question is this. Let us suppose that you are a rich German industrialist who has made his fortune in engines for motor cars or turbines for dreadnoughts. It has long been a dream of yours to own a genuine ancient statue. You have a passion for antiquity – interest in the classics always increases when countries turn into empires or want to turn into empires. When you’re on the way up, so to speak, you concentrate on the rise of Athens in the fifth century BC. On the way down you become obsessed with the fall of the Roman Empire. Be that as it may, our rich German friend pays a great deal of money to the criminals who steal the Caryatid and deliver it to his schloss. But what do you say when the authorities come to call and ask you how you got it ? They might be the local police or the British Museum or the man from the Louvre. How did you come by this Caryatid hidden in the bowels of your great castle? This is where it gets interesting, Lord Powerscourt. Remember, there is no longer a Caryatid from London for the authorities to look at, no original for them to inspect and pronounce on the authenticity of your Caryatid one way or the other. The ones left behind in Athens have all deteriorated badly. You bought her on the Grand Tour in Rome some years ago, you say. This Caryatid has been here for years, you are talking nonsense, Mr Policeman, please leave my house at once. It would be very difficult to prove that the one supposedly bought on the Grand Tour is not the real thing when you no longer know, apart from photographs, what the real thing actually looked like.’

  ‘That’s most interesting, Mr Stanhope. How well you put it.’

  ‘If the Museum ever tells the truth and lets the world know that the Caryatid has been stolen I intend to give a series of lectures about the subject at the Methodist Central Hall. I have had the good fortune to speak there on a number of previous occasions.’

  Stanhope refilled his glass again. Powerscourt wondered if the vanity might be forced even further to the surface by larger and larger helpings of quincy.

  ‘There’s another explanation our German milliona
ire could offer to the authorities. He could say he bought the statue in Athens or Corinth or Olympia. It had been found by divers at some wreck and brought to the surface because the fishermen knew how much money these things could fetch from rich foreigners. There are a fair number of famous pieces of Greek sculpture that have been brought up from the seabed. They’re remarkably well preserved. The marble may get dirty but it doesn’t disintegrate. Why, ten years ago or so, they discovered some strange artefact in a shipwreck off the island of Antikythera with dozens of gears. That should appeal to our German friend in his schloss. Earlier versions of his machinery perhaps. He could say that he found the Caryatid for sale in Corinth or wherever it was brought to the mainland. Receipts, you say? Receipts? It was years ago, Inspector. Written records in the shop or the art dealers where you bought it? Don’t be silly. And don’t even think of suggesting that the Greeks might have kept the details of the transactions. Greeks? You must be joking. So, you see, Lord Powerscourt, there is another very plausible excuse. How can you prove that the thing has not been on the seabed for all those centuries? You may be sure it will have been cleaned and recleaned by the most sophisticated machinery the Germans can provide.’

  ‘I see,’ said Powerscourt, as the waiter poured a final round of wine. The restaurant behind the private room was growing quiet now, as the diners departed to their various afternoons. ‘I’m sure you can answer my next question, Mr Stanhope. You mention our friend the German in his castle, rich from his engineering triumphs. There must be others who have the same love of Greek antiquities. Americans perhaps? Modern Greeks? Englishmen? What is the secret behind their affection for ancient Greece? Why do they love it so much? Why is it their favourite period in history?’

  Tristram Stanhope pushed his plate away.

  ‘Philhellenes all? I must confess I am among their number. I always have been. Tell me, Lord Powerscourt, do you not have a favourite place in the past? A time when you would rather have been alive than in the present?’

  Powerscourt laughed. ‘Well, I’ve never really thought about it. I’m very fond of the old Greeks, you know. But if I had to choose, I think I’d rather go back to Renaissance Florence. The first sight of Brunelleschi’s Dome perhaps? Michelangelo’s David on display in the Piazza? Those divine Botticelli Madonnas gracing the altars and the side chapels of the churches? Or maybe late-eighteenth-century England? I could have gone to the impeachment of Warren Hastings and listened to Edmund Burke denouncing the evils of the French Revolution in the House of Commons.’

  ‘Believe me, there are more of us Philhellenes than you might imagine, Lord Powerscourt. Remember how many generations of English public schoolboys have been brought up on the Classics. Think too of the Americans who populate the novels of Henry James, captivated by Florence and Venice, of course, but also of the tribute they paid to the ancient Greeks. It was, after all, the rediscovery of many ancient manuscripts that led to the birth of the Renaissance. For many, the Classics will have been the drudgery of the declensions, the horrors of the Greek optative mood or the terror of the Latin unseen. But for others their eyes will have been opened. The contribution of the Greeks to Western thought – the playwrights, the philosophers, the historians are supreme. They invented most of those disciplines after all. Think of the Grand Tour, an orgy of wine, women and song for many, of course, but for others it will have been a labour of love, travelling the ancient world, often for years, collecting Greek and Roman statues to bring home to their great houses like the Cokes in Holkham Hall up in Norfolk, its tribune elegantly adorned with the sculptures of antiquity. Then there is the light, so clear, so perfect on a summer’s day, so intense yet so delicate. England, by comparison, is a land in shadow. Think of the beauty of those ancient statues. Nobody has surpassed the grace and the glory of Praxiteles’ statue of Hermes at Olympia. You mention the late eighteenth century, Lord Powerscourt. If I had been alive then, I would have built a garden like the ones at Stowe or Stourhead, festooned with temples to the ancient gods, and adorned my house with ancient statues like those in the Antique Passage and all over the grounds at Castle Howard.’

  Stanhope spoke with rare passion. Powerscourt felt sure it wasn’t just the quincy.

  ‘Fanatics, Mr Stanhope? Would that be a fair description of you Philhellenes?’

  The Head of Greek and Roman Antiquities finished his glass. ‘Maybe I could put it slightly differently, Lord Powerscourt. Maybe it’s like an illness. Being a Philhellene is rather like catching a very severe dose of a virus called love of ancient Greece, Phil-Hellenism in its ancient form. At its most extreme, yes, I suppose you could call us fanatics.’

  ‘One last question, please,’ said Powerscourt as the waiters cleared away the remains of their lunch. ‘How difficult would it be to move the Caryatid and replace her with the substitute one currently on show?’

  ‘Well,’ said Stanhope, checking the bottom of his glass rather sadly, ‘it’s easier than you might think. Those porters are moving statues about all the time, many of them bigger and heavier than the Caryatid. Some of the Egyptians on parade are far heavier but they still get taken away for cleaning and things when required. Some of the porters are called in by outside firms who have to move great lumps of sculpture from place to place. They’re highly skilled. Occasionally they ask for outside help if they’re not sure how to shift something. So I don’t think moving them would be much of a problem.’

  8

  Early the following morning Powerscourt was greeted by Leith, Rosebery’s train-obsessed butler, as he called on his master in Belgrave Square.

  ‘Good morning, Leith, I trust you are keeping well? And thank you for your recent assistance with the Italian trip. Much obliged.’

  ‘Only sorry, my lord, that I was unable to provide the relevant information for the return journey. My apologies.’

  Leith glided away like a train going downhill to his lair halfway down the basement stairs where his records were kept and the train timetables of Europe sat in neat rows on his shelves.

  Rosebery was a former Foreign Secretary and Prime Minister, his political career marred by a fondness for resigning that was almost greater than his love of high office. He was famous for having fulfilled the three ambitions he had set himself as a young man: to marry an heiress, to become Prime Minister and to own a horse that won the Derby. Many said he had reached his objectives too early, though few would have doubted that his life was severely damaged by the early death of his wife, the heiress Hannah Rothschild. Rosebery had been a friend of the Powerscourt family for years, with a paternal interest in Lady Lucy.

  ‘I’m trying to sell a horse, Powerscourt. Only thing is, nobody seems to want to buy the bloody thing.’ Rosebery was waving a report from his bloodstock agent in Newmarket in the air.

  ‘Animal too expensive, Rosebery? Price not right perhaps?’

  ‘To hell with the price, Powerscourt, the beast is too slow, that’s the problem. Entered in seven races, never placed higher than seventh. You’d think that with a name like Imperial Spirit the creature could do better than that. Never mind. How can I be of assistance this morning? Your note said you would welcome the benefit of my wisdom, such as it is.’

  ‘Thank you for seeing me so promptly. I am grateful. Perhaps I could ask you a question to start with. How many statues do you own?’

  ‘How many statues? Venus with no clothes on? Julius Caesar wearing a garland on the day of his triumph, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, I don’t really know. I’ve never actually counted them.’

  ‘Put it another way, how many houses do you own?’

  ‘You are being difficult this morning, Powerscourt. How many houses do I own? I don’t think I’ve ever counted them either, now I think about it.’

  ‘Try.’

  Rosebery stared at a Winterhalter portrait of Queen Victoria and her children above his mantelpiece. ‘Twelve,’ he said finally, ‘that’s if you count the huntin
g lodge in Scotland and the villa in Italy.’

  ‘And how many of those houses have statues?’

  ‘Look here,’ said Rosebery, ‘why don’t you tell me the reason for these questions? I can’t believe you want to carry out an inventory of the statues in my houses, it would take too long. I’m not sure I could count the number of marble Greeks and Romans – well, they’re supposed to be Greeks and Romans – in my place in Italy. I picked them up for a song from a museum in Naples that was going bankrupt. There are loads and loads in Mentmore, as you well know. You’ve been to stay there plenty of times.’

  Powerscourt told him about the missing Caryatid at the British Museum and the refusal to call in the police, about the various possible explanations for her disappearance, about his trip to Italy.

  ‘Tried to burn you out in Brindisi, did they? Thank your stars those boys don’t travel very much. I’m still not sure why you are asking me these questions, my friend. The British Museum has lost a Caryatid. I don’t own any Caryatids, more’s the pity, but I do have a large enough collection of Aphrodites, Artemises, Hephaistos with his fire, Hermes with his bloody messages like an ancient telegraph boy, innumerable Roman emperors ranging from the virtuous to the deranged. What, pray, is the connection?’

  ‘Rosebery, I’m sorry. I’ve explained things very badly. I’ve got so used to having conversations where I’m not allowed to mention the fact that the Caryatid is missing I end up tying myself in knots. What we don’t know, and would dearly like to find out, is how the fake Caryatid arrived at the British Museum and how the real one was spirited away. Precise removal and installation details if you like. Of the two porters closely involved in looking after her, one was run over by a tube train and the other was last heard of buying a ticket to Brindisi from where, as far as we can establish, he has not returned. Don’t look so impatient, I’m coming to the point. I would like to borrow some of your statues. I would like to place an advertisement in The Times and the Morning Post asking for expert removal firms to bid for the transfer of a number of statues from Mentmore to your house in Scotland.’