‘And why would he leave such an important historic artefact to you?’
‘I was his research assistant at the time he wrote his dissertation, and after he retired, I took his place as head of department.’
‘Well I’m sorry to have to inform you, Dr Talbot, that the Americans want their moon dust back.’
‘What makes them think it’s theirs? They don’t own the moon.’
‘True, but they did bring the dust back on Apollo 11, and Professor Denning must have forgotten that he’d signed a binding agreement not to sell it or pass it on to a third party.’
‘And if I refuse to give it back?’ said Talbot, sounding a little more confident.
‘The Americans will instigate legal proceedings, and I have a feeling their pockets might be deeper than yours.’
‘Why don’t they just buy the damn phial when it comes up for auction at Sotheby’s?’
‘I admit that would be the easy solution,’ said William. ‘But they’re in no doubt that the moon dust now belongs to them, and Sotheby’s have already withdrawn the lot from their catalogue. And, can you believe it, the phial is now locked in a high-security vault?’
Talbot burst out laughing, pointed a crooked forefinger at William, and in a feeble attempt to imitate Clint Eastwood, said, ‘Go ahead, make my day!’
‘If you would be willing to sign a release form, sir, I could pick up the phial from Sotheby’s and return it to the American embassy, which would solve both our problems.’
‘You know, Mr Warwick, if I were a millionaire I’d take on the Yanks, even though the moon dust will probably only fetch a couple of thousand pounds.’
‘And I’d be on your side, but I suspect we’d still lose.’
‘You’re probably right. So, where do I sign?’
William opened his briefcase, extracted three identical forms and placed them on the desk.
‘Here, here and here.’
Talbot read the document carefully before adding his signature on three dotted lines.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said William, placing two of the forms back in his briefcase and handing the third to Talbot.
‘Do you have time to join me for lunch?’ asked Talbot, taking off his gown, accompanied by a cloud of chalk.
‘Only if you know a pub with a two pound eighty upper limit.’
‘I think we can do better than that.’
On the journey back to Euston, William checked Dr Talbot’s signatures. He’d enjoyed an excellent lunch in the faculty dining room with the professor, who turned out to be a fellow art junkie and a keen follower of a local artist who he’d met as an undergraduate. Dr Talbot had purchased a drawing by L. S. Lowry of a back street in Salford for fifty pounds, which he couldn’t afford at the time, and certainly wouldn’t be able to afford to buy now, although he admitted to William that he’d never sell it.
‘So which artists should I be looking out for now, remembering my salary?’ William asked.
‘Diana Armfield, Craigie Aitchison, and Sydney Harpley. You’ll find them all in the RA’s Summer Exhibition.’
William made a note of the names.
Over lunch William had jokingly suggested that they substitute a few grains of sand from Blackpool beach for the moon dust, as he was confident that the American under-secretary wouldn’t know the difference. Talbot had laughed, but pointed out that his opposite number at the Smithsonian certainly would, even though he’d probably never been to Blackpool.
William finally opened his RA magazine to check which exhibitions were coming up that he couldn’t afford to miss. He selected three, circled them and put the dates in his diary: Picasso, the early years; Hockney’s California or bust; and the annual Summer Exhibition at the RA, where he would check out the three artists Dr Talbot had recommended. But they were all quickly forgotten when he turned the page to find that Dr Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean, would be giving a lecture on the history of the museum, followed by a guided tour, in a couple of weeks’ time. Tickets were five pounds, and only fifty people would be admitted. He wondered if Mrs Walters would consider that a legitimate expense. Either way, he wasn’t going to miss it.
William didn’t sleep that night, although his only companion was a locked briefcase. He would have liked to tear up both copies of the release form, but he accepted that the Americans would get their way in the end.
William didn’t go straight to Scotland Yard the following morning, but took the tube to Green Park, before walking across to New Bond Street. He was standing outside the auction house long before a porter opened the doors at nine o’clock.
Melanie Clore studied Dr Talbot’s signature carefully, and compared it to the one on the sale document, before she was willing to part with lot nineteen. She then disappeared to collect the phial from its safe, returning a few minutes later.
William couldn’t believe it when he saw the phial for the first time. It was smaller than his little finger. He wrapped it in a tissue before putting it back in the box. More forms to sign before he could leave and make his way to Grosvenor Square. He climbed the steps of the American embassy fifteen minutes later and reported to a marine sergeant on the front desk. He asked to see Mr Underwood.
‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’
‘No,’ he said, producing his warrant card.
The marine pressed three buttons on his phone, and when a voice came on the line he repeated William’s request.
‘I’m afraid the under-secretary is in a meeting at the moment, but he could fit Mr Warwick in at four this afternoon.’
‘Tell him I’ve got his moon dust,’ said William.
He could hear a voice saying, ‘Send him up.’
William took the lift to the fourth floor, to find the under-secretary standing in the corridor waiting for him. They shook hands before Underwood said, ‘Good morning, detective,’ but didn’t speak again until he’d closed the door of his office. ‘You move quite quickly for an Englishman.’
William didn’t respond, but opened his briefcase and took out the little box. He opened it, unwrapped the tissue slowly, and like a conjurer, revealed the phial of moon dust.
‘That’s it?’ said Underwood in disbelief.
‘Yes, sir,’ said William as he handed over the cause of so much trouble.
‘Thank you,’ said Underwood, placing the box on his desk. ‘I’ll be sure to get in touch with you again should any other problems arise.’
‘Not unless someone’s stolen one of your nuclear warheads,’ said William.
8
‘CAN I CLAIM five pounds on expenses to attend an art lecture at the Fitzmolean?’
‘Is it directly connected to a crime you’re investigating?’ asked Mrs Walters.
‘Yes and no.’
‘Make up your mind.’
‘Yes, it is connected to a crime I’m investigating, but I must admit I would have gone anyway.’
‘Then the answer is no. Anything else?’
‘Can you get me a ticket for the opening night of the new James Bond film?’ William waited for the explosion.
‘Is it directly connected to a crime you are working on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which row would you like to sit in?’
‘You’re joking?’
‘I don’t joke, detective constable. Which row?’
‘In the row behind Miles Faulkner. He’s—’
‘We all know who Mr Faulkner is. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘But how—’
‘Don’t ask. And if you don’t have any more requests, move on.’
William arrived at the Fitzmolean a few minutes early. He paused on the pavement of Prince Albert Crescent to admire the Palladian mansion that nestled behind Imperial College. He was well aware that, for security reasons, since the theft of the Rembrandt only fifty people could now visit the gallery at any one time. He had managed to get ticket number forty-seven for the evening lecture. Half an hour later and they would have b
een sold out.
He presented his ticket to the uniformed guard on the door and was directed to the second floor, where he joined a small gathering of chattering enthusiasts who were waiting impatiently for Dr Knox, the nation’s leading authority on the Renaissance period, to make his entrance.
William was looking forward to the lecture, and hoped the director might even have a theory about what had happened to the missing Rembrandt.
At one minute to seven, a young woman made her way to the front of the group and clapped her hands a couple of times, before saying, ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Beth Rainsford, and I am one of the gallery’s research assistants.’ She waited for complete silence before continuing. ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that Dr Knox is suffering from laryngitis and is barely able to speak. He sends his apologies.’
An audible groan went up, and one or two patrons began heading towards the exit.
‘However, the director is confident that he will be fully recovered in a few days, so if you are able to return next Thursday evening, he will deliver his lecture then. For those unable to come back next week, your entrance fee will be refunded. Should anyone wish to remain, I will be happy to show you around the collection. But don’t worry,’ she added, ‘your money will still be refunded even if you stay.’ This caused a ripple of laughter.
What had begun as a gathering of fifty was quickly reduced to a dozen, William among them. But then he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the director’s replacement. Her neatly cropped auburn hair framed an oval face that didn’t rely on make-up to make you look a second time. But it wasn’t that, or her slim figure, that he found so captivating. It was her infectious enthusiasm as she talked about the Dutch men who surrounded her, adorned in their black pantaloons and ruffled collars. William glanced at her left hand as she pointed to the first picture, delighted to see that there were no rings on that finger. Even so, he thought, this vision must surely have a boyfriend. But how could he find out?
‘The Fitzmolean,’ Beth was saying, her deep brown eyes sparkling as she spoke, ‘was the brainchild of Mrs van Haasen, the wife of the distinguished economist Jacob van Haasen. A remarkable woman, who after her husband’s death built up a Dutch and Flemish collection that is considered second only to those of the Rijksmuseum and the Hermitage. In her will, she bequeathed the entire collection to the nation in memory of her husband, to be displayed in the house they had shared during their forty-three years of married life.’ Beth turned and led her little band into the next gallery. She came to a halt in front of a portrait of a young man.
‘Frans Hals,’ she began, ‘was born in Antwerp around 1582. His most accomplished work is considered to be the Laughing Cavalier, which you can see in the Wallace Collection.’
William tried to concentrate on Hals, but decided he would have to come back the following Thursday, when he was sure Dr Knox wouldn’t have quite the same distracting effect on him. He continued to follow Beth until she stopped in front of a large empty gilded frame, with the legend ‘Rembrandt, 1606–1669’ painted on a small plaque below it.
‘This,’ she said reverently, ‘is where Rembrandt’s masterpiece The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild once hung, before it was stolen from the gallery seven years ago. Sadly, it has never been recovered.’
‘Did the gallery offer a reward for its return?’ asked a voice that sounded as if it hailed from Boston.
‘No. Unfortunately it had never crossed Mrs van Haasen’s mind that anyone would steal one of her masterpieces, possibly because she only paid six thousand dollars for the picture at the time.’
‘How much would it be worth today?’ asked a younger voice.
‘The painting is priceless,’ said Beth, ‘and irreplaceable. The more romantic among us believe it’s still out there somewhere, and that the Syndics will one day return to their rightful home.’
A smattering of applause followed this statement before Beth continued. ‘Rembrandt was an ambitious man, and at one time the most sought-after artist of the Dutch Golden Age. Sadly, he lived beyond his means and ended up having to auction off most of his possessions, including several major canvases, in order to clear his debts. He only just avoided bankruptcy and ending his days in prison. After his death in 1669 he was buried in a pauper’s grave, and his work fell out of fashion for over a century. But Mrs van Haasen was in no doubt about his genius, and did much to revive his reputation as the greatest of the Dutch masters. Art connoisseurs would travel from all over the world to view The Syndics, which is considered to be one of his greatest works, and Mrs van Haasen never made a secret of the fact that it was her favourite painting in the collection.’
Beth and her little troupe moved on to the next picture, and she continued to answer all their questions well beyond the appointed hour. She finally came to an end with Jan Steen’s The Marriage at Cana, describing him as ‘the storyteller of artists’. ‘Are there any more questions?’ she asked.
William decided not to ask his question until the rest of the group had departed. ‘What a fantastic talk,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Beth. ‘Did you have a question?’
‘Yes. Are you free for dinner?’
She didn’t respond immediately, but eventually managed, ‘I’m afraid not. I already have a date.’
William smiled. ‘Well, it’s been a memorable evening. Thank you, Beth.’
As he turned to leave he heard a voice behind him say, ‘But I am free tomorrow night.’
When William arrived at the office the following morning, he found a yellow Post-it note stuck to the top of his case files.
URGENT – Call Liz, 01 735 3000.
‘What’s this about?’ he asked Jackie.
‘All I know is that the Hawk said it was urgent. You’re to record exactly what Liz has to say and send him a written report.’
‘Will do,’ said William as he dialled the number. A moment later a woman’s voice came on the line.
‘How can I help you?’
‘This is Detective Constable Warwick calling from Scotland Yard. I’m returning Liz’s call.’
‘Do you know Liz’s surname, or which department she works in?’
‘No, just that it’s urgent I speak to her. She’s expecting my call.’
‘This is the Buckingham Palace switchboard, sir. We only have one Liz, and I don’t think she’s available at the moment.’
William turned bright red. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I must have got the wrong number.’ The moment he put the phone down, Jackie and DCI Lamont burst out laughing.
‘I’m sure she’ll call back,’ said Jackie.
‘And by the way,’ said Lamont, ‘the Hawk’s had a call from the American ambassador thanking us for returning the moon dust. Well done, laddie, now perhaps it’s time for you to sort out Winston Churchill.’
William opened the file marked ‘Churchill’ and tried to concentrate, but he couldn’t put the previous evening out of his mind. He couldn’t recall the last time a young woman had so preoccupied his thoughts. Tonight he would definitely leave the office before seven, even if the light was still shining under the commander’s door.
He gathered his thoughts as he read about an ingenious scheme a petty forger had come up with to supplement his income. By the time he’d reached the last page, William realized he was going to have to visit a number of bookshops in the West End if he hoped to catch the thief red-handed. He warned DCI Lamont, who was preoccupied with the hunt for an international jewel thief, that he was about to do some good old-fashioned leather-bashing and might not be back by close of play.
William decided to start at Hatchards on Piccadilly, where the manager – he checked the name again – Peter Giddy, had made the original complaint.
He left Scotland Yard, and headed for the Mall – as he passed Buckingham Palace he couldn’t help feeling chastened at his attempt to call Liz – then on up St James’s to Piccadilly, where he passed through a doorway u
nder which three royal warrants were proudly displayed. William asked a woman on the front counter if he could see Mr Giddy.
Once the manager had checked William’s warrant card, he took him up to his office on the fourth floor and offered him a cup of coffee.
‘What made you suspicious in the first place?’ asked William, as he sat down and opened his notebook.
‘I wasn’t suspicious to begin with,’ admitted Giddy. ‘After all, Churchill was a politician, so would have signed a great number of his books. However, it’s quite rare to come across a complete set of his The Second World War with all six volumes signed. But when I spotted a set in Heywood Hill, and then just a week later another set in Maggs, I began to have my doubts.’
‘Can you recall anything in particular about the man who offered to sell you the books?’ asked William.
‘Fairly nondescript. Sixty, sixty-five, grey hair, slightly stooped, average height and with an accent you could cut with a knife. In fact, a typical Hatchards customer.’
William smiled. ‘I assume he didn’t tell you his name.’
‘No. Said he didn’t want the children to find out he was selling a family heirloom.’
‘But you would have had to make out a cheque?’
‘In normal circumstances, yes, but he insisted on cash. He turned up a few minutes before we closed, well aware that the till would be full.’
‘How much would an unsigned set of the books sell for?’
‘A hundred pounds if they all had their original dust jackets.’
‘And a signed set?’
‘Three hundred, possibly three-fifty if they were in mint condition.’
‘May I ask how much you paid for them?’
‘Two hundred and fifty pounds.’
‘So our man could have picked up an unsigned set for about a hundred pounds, added the six signatures and made a profit of a hundred and fifty. Not exactly the great train robbery,’ said William.
Nothing Ventured Page 6
