by Harriet Hahn
In half an hour, the barristers and solicitors and other officials of the court began to enter the courtroom, and shortly the bailiff called “All rise” as the judge entered and took his seat.
The jury was ushered into the box.
“Have you reached a verdict?” the judge asked.
“We have,” said the foreman.
“The accused will rise and hear the verdict,” said the judge.
“We find the defendant guilty as charged,” read the foreman in a clear voice.
James let out a long sigh of relief. Sir Grant gave a quick look at us in the gallery and winked.
Mr. Wentworth looked up at James and glared.
The judge thanked the jury, gave Mr. Wentworth over to a sergeant who would deliver Mr. Wentworth, now a prisoner, to the proper authorities, and the rest of us left.
James, Lord Henry, Helena and I all got in a cab and returned to Baron’s Chambers. We had barely gotten Helena settled on the sofa when Peter Hightower arrived to hear all about the trial.
We watched the early evening news together, where the trial and its outcome were reported. James was seen walking along beside Sir Grant on our way to lunch, and there were more pictures of Sir Grant and Mr. Benton and Mr. Wentworth.
James seemed pleased but there was something on his mind. I could not tell what it was, but he let a Purr-Porridge commercial get by him as I searched for another version of the news.
He shook his head when we asked him to join us for dinner and walked up the stairs in an abstracted way.
The newspapers played up the story the next day and James appeared on the front page. Oddly enough no one made the connection between the big grey Purr-Porridge cat and the “star witness” in the museum case. James made me cut his picture out and paste it on the bathroom mirror before he went off to work at Thwaites.
I went to the Huntingdown to talk to Costain Cummings, interrupting him as he was discussing a complete revision of the museum system for handling valuable items.
“When the staff is honorable any adequate referencing protocol will suffice, but when a malefactor is inserted in the organization, it is almost impossible to detect that malefactor until he commits some predation,” he said with a sigh.
“I’m curious about the first piece Wentworth took,” I said. “I understand it was a small eleventh-century stone carving of a madonna and child from Byzantium. Am I right?”
“Yes,” said Costain, “it is—I should say, was, because we have no indication in whose hands the original now resides. It is a delicate and impressively primitive piece of work. Once we placed reproductions of it in the shop, it met with immediate acceptance and increased the interest in the few eleventh-century pieces we have. It was because of this renewed interest we discovered that the original had been filched.”
“I want to buy one of the copies,” I said. “In my business I see a great many private collections. I certainly didn’t expect to run across the Roubiliac terra-cottas in Buenos Aires, but I did, so who can tell what I might find next, and I need to study this piece so I’ll recognize it.”
“You shall certainly not purchase it,” said Costain.
He opened a drawer of his desk and took out an object about the size of an ordinary paperback book. It was made of a stone aggregate that gave the appearance of old weathered limestone. It was indeed a charming relief carving designed to be used as a devotional piece in a small shrine in a house. In a fairly dim light it was convincingly old-looking.
“Help yourself to it,” said Costain. “And if the deity who shelters museum curators is feeling warmly toward me, perhaps he will put the original in your way.”
“I hope so,” I said.
A little later I said farewell to my friend and left him to his reorganization, which, as he said, would work till someone took advantage of it someday in the future.
When I got back to Baron’s, I showed the stone piece to James and told him about it. He studied it carefully. Then I put it into my jacket pocket and forgot it.
The next afternoon Peter Hightower came by and brought Sir Grant with him. They happen to be old friends and are much alike, though Sir Grant is a little larger in frame and much less well turned out. It is not that Sir Grant’s clothes aren’t well tailored, but he is almost always in motion and gradually his shirt bunches up, his tie is loosened and his hair, what there is of it, stands on end.
We all drank Lagavulin and I opened a can of Strasbourg pâté on James’s instructions.
James lay on the coffee table looking at Sir Grant, who was sitting on the sofa.
“James hasn’t been himself since the trial,” I said.
Sir Grant looked at him affectionately. “You are a sensitive soul, aren’t you?”
James nodded.
“I thought I’d come to tell you what has happened,” he said. “Once the verdict was in, for which we have you to thank, James, things moved very fast. The museum examined its collection and found that not only the eleventh-century piece but some other pieces had been forged. None of any very great importance, I’m happy to say. The Byzantine piece is the only one to feel sad about. However, small bits of evidence began to emerge and at last Wentworth threw in the sponge and confessed. There will be no appeal. However, the dealer to whom he sold his pieces has, as one might expect, left the country. In fact he did so the very day you intercepted the delivery of the terra-cottas. There is no way to get him. We are not even sure the name he used when he bought things from Wentworth was his real name. As for the collectors who have these pieces, there is no way in the world to find them.”
James was looking very troubled.
“Come here,” said Sir Grant.
James sat on his lap.
“Are you worried about Wentworth?”
James shook his head.
“The museum?”
James dismissed the museum.
“The collector then?”
James nodded and looked very unhappy.
“You want to get him?”
James nodded.
“So do I,” said Peter Hightower, “but it is very difficult. We have a problem at Thwaites when an object comes in for auction that we suspect may have been stolen. We can insist on a provenance, or history of ownership on the item if it is very expensive, but bills of sale can be and often are forged. Lists of stolen property are good only for a short time.”
“The collector who never shows, who gloats over his stuff in private and lives for some thirty years or more with his hoard, is impossible to catch,” added Sir Grant.
James shook his head.
“I know it’s not fair, but it is the way of the world,” said Sir Grant.
“By the way,” said Peter, “gossip says the Byzantine piece is still in England. Maybe one of these days it will turn up.”
“However,” said Sir Grant, saluting James, “you were indeed a rare weapon in the cause of justice. You have made a splendid contribution!”
James smiled and began to purr on Sir Grant’s lap.
We talked a while longer and then Peter asked us to go to his club for dinner, so we popped around the corner to the East India Club, where James is welcome, for some bubble and squeak, and a bit of spotted dick and a bottle or two of excellent claret.
The next day Helena called to invite James and myself down to Haverstock Hall for the weekend. We happily accepted. Poppy was to come by to pick us up, as Roger would already be there. The following afternoon, which was sunny and warm, I tucked my most serviceable jacket, the one I had been wearing when I last saw Costain, in my weekend bag and James and I were driven in Poppy’s old car to the Hall. It was a little more crowded than the station wagon, but Poppy is a slower driver than Weatherby, so James was happy. In fact he fell asleep.
We found the Hall unchanged and Helena and Lord Henry happily and lazily awaiting the new addition.
After one of Cook’s delicious dinners, we sat on the grass where we had played croquet and enjoyed the
long sunset and twilight of midsummer.
The conversation was desultory. James was playing with a leaf that had drifted onto the lawn.
“I’ve got an exciting job coming up in a week in Stockholm,” said Poppy. “I have been asked to design the costumes for a great pageant to be held on the 360th anniversary of the death of Gustavus Adolphus, the noted Swedish king. It will be particularly interesting because James I of England acted as peacemaker to end two wars during G. A.’s reign. The period is roughly 1610 to 1630. Anyway, I’m looking forward to it. I have been making sketches and doing research, and during this trip I’ll see some rehearsals and arrange for the construction of the designs and that sort of thing.”
Roger sighed. “Oh, dear …,” he started to say. James, who had stopped playing when he heard his second king mentioned, jumped on Roger’s lap and pressed his paw against Roger’s mouth so all that came out was a mumble.
Roger looked at James, nose to nose. James shook his head. No one was paying attention except me.
For a moment Roger looked mystified, then he grinned.
“May I go with you?” he asked. “I’d like to tag along as Mr. Poppy Balsom.”
“Would you?” asked Poppy, surprised and delighted. “I thought you had business you had to attend to.”
“I do,” said Roger—James clawed his thigh—“but I think this is far more important.”
James gave him a grin and wandered off to a garden bed to look for something more interesting than a leaf to play with. The ground was dry and he found a dusty spot.
While Poppy went off to get her sketches to show us, I wandered over to where James was making patterns in the dust. Roger followed.
James had drawn what appeared to be some letters. There was the monogram PBH. There was the monogram RH. James wiped them both out with a wave of his paw. Then very carefully he drew PB and RHB. He sat on his haunches and grinned.
Roger looked at the new monograms very carefully. Then he grinned.
“James,” he said, “I think you are a genius.”
James looked down modestly, erased the dusty drawings and trotted off about his business.
The next day dawned cool and overcast. We were all sitting around the breakfast table when Wilson announced a visitor. It was Fiona Wettin.
“Come have coffee and some of Cook’s wonderful coffee cake,” said Helena. “How nice to see you.”
Fiona blushed. “I can’t stay,” she said. “I’ve come to collect whatever you are willing to donate to the church jumble sale, which is coming up soon. I’ve agreed to take on the chairmanship; after all, it is the duty of us privileged ones to shoulder the major responsibilities.”
Helena started to get up. Lord Henry restrained her. “I’ll have Wilson put together a nice donation and see it is delivered to the church this weekend,” he said.
“Thank you, Lord Henry,” said Fiona, and started out.
“Going in the direction of the village?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Fiona.
“Come on, James, let’s go for a walk. I have some errands to do and I would love the company. I can even help you carry things,” I added to Fiona.
James did not look thrilled but he agreed. I got my jacket and once we were out on the road he bounded around happily. He headed up a driveway a little distance down the road and disappeared. Soon he reappeared, obviously with something on his mind. We arrived at that driveway.
“I’ll leave you here,” said Fiona. “I’m going to see if Isabel has anything for me.”
James was waving his tail in the direction of the driveway.
“Could I come along?” I asked. “I might be able to help carry things.”
“Good of you,” said Fiona. “I could introduce you to Isabel as the great art expert. Her brother is a collector of all kinds of art, though he never shows his collection.”
James was racing ahead of us, disappearing and then running back to see if we were still coming. Round a curve in the driveway appeared a huge, ugly Victorian house. Fiona marched up the steps and rang the bell. James stood beside her, as tense as I have ever seen him.
A maid opened the door and right behind her appeared a plump, white-haired little woman.
“Fiona Wettin!” she exclaimed in a high piping voice. “Come in, come in, all of you. What an adorable cat.”
James was bent on seduction for some reason. He gave Isabel his melting look and purred as she stroked him.
“You are a pretty girl,” Isabel cooed as we were ushered into a sitting room filled with bric-a-brac and elaborate furniture.
I was introduced as the great American art expert come to offer help to the British Museum.
“Oh, dear,” piped Isabel, “I’m so sorry Hesketh isn’t here. He is in Paris for the week. He has a fabulous collection and almost no one ever sees it.”
“What does he collect?” I asked.
“Medieval art, primarily—at least I think so. I’m not much interested myself.”
James, who had made no objection to being called a “pretty girl,” was wandering around the room. Out of the corner of my eye I could see he was particularly interested in a door at one side of the fireplace.
“Dora, bring coffee and cake,” said Isabel to the maid who had responded to a ring.
“Right away, mum,” said Dora.
“I’m sure our expert would love to see the collection!” said Fiona. Here was a splendid opportunity to show how influential she was, and Fiona was not about to pass up the chance.
James, over by the inconspicuous door, nodded.
“I’d love to see it,” I said eagerly, though not too eagerly, “if it is no trouble?”
“Oh dear, I don’t know,” said Isabel. “Hesketh is very fussy about it. He might not like it if I showed it without his permission.”
James, trying to look like a pretty girl, left the door and came to rub himself against Isabel’s legs. She picked him up.
“You darling cat, do you think it would be all right?” James lolled in her arms, looked into her eyes and nodded wistfully. He rubbed his chin against her cheek.
“All right, I’ll do it,” said Isabel, still clutching James. At that moment cake and coffee arrived, so we ate and drank and James continued to be a “pretty girl,” though I could see he was really tense underneath it all.
At last Isabel got up and went to the door by the fireplace and tapped a code into a panel of buttons next to the handle. Then she opened the door.
“These rooms are protected with all sorts of alarms and connections to the police,” she said.
Fiona poked her head into the unlighted room. “Just old stuff,” she said. “Come along, Isabel, we’ll leave the expert and get some jumble.”
James streaked into the room. Isabel and Fiona departed, leaving me in the first of a series of large rooms filled with an incredible accumulation of icons, stone carvings, swords, shields, jewelry, armor and more from about A.D. 4 to 1300. The objects were not organized or identified; it was a sort of miscellany of very valuable things that were hung on the walls and placed on tables throughout the rooms. Tall windows that extended from floor to ceiling were heavily barred as well as taped for electronic surveillance. I was awed, as much by the mass of the accumulation as by its quality. I looked for James. He was standing by a low table next to one of the windows. Then I saw why. On the table was a Byzantine stone-carved relief of a madonna and child about the size of a paperback book. The original, which had been stolen from the Huntingdown! I was stunned for a moment. Casually I put my hand in my jacket pocket—the same jacket I had worn when I went to see Costain. I felt something. I pulled the reproduction out of my pocket. James yowled.
“Shh,” I said. Then I placed the reproduction on the table and placed the original in my pocket.
James was turning somersaults.
I heard Isabel and Fiona returning.
I moved away from the table, and when they came into the room I was standing in front of
a mosaic, apparently lost in admiration.
“I know we must move on,” I said, “but I cannot express my gratitude for this opportunity. You brother has amassed a quantity of wonderful things.”
Isabel ushered us out of the room, closed the door and punched all the appropriate buttons.
“It was a pleasure to meet you and your adorable cat,” said Isabel at the door. “I should suggest that a blue bow on her neck would look lovely.” James bowed.
As we walked down the drive I looked back at the house. The windows of the rooms housing the collection were covered with trees, but from James’s level he could see into them with ease. He had spotted the carving and led me to it.
Fiona had a box for herself and another for me to carry, so I followed her to the basement of the village church, said good morning to the vicar and at last was able to escape to hurry back to the Hall.
As soon as I was in the house, I made for the nearest phone. I reached Costain Cummings at his home.
“I have your stone madonna,” I said without preamble.
“Impossible,” said Costain. “You’re inebriated.”
I told him of my adventure. He began to laugh.
“I’m not surprised. That man spreads an evil odor wherever he goes in the collecting world. He will never be able to do anything about it when he finds his stone madonna is a reproduction. He will know the difference immediately when he looks at it. He may be an unprincipled collector, but he is superbly educated.” Costain was jubilant.
“James found it,” I said, “but more important, how do I get it back to you? I don’t want it in my jacket pocket any longer than is necessary. That’s where it is now.”
“I am sending the assistant curator for it immediately,” said Costain. “It will take him about an hour to get to the Hall, then he will come right back to the museum, and it will be installed this very afternoon. I am forever your humble, obedient servant.”
True to his word, in an hour a car drove up, and the stone madonna was delivered to Costain’s assistant, whom I knew by sight. Later that afternoon I had a call confirming that the lady with her child was back where she belonged.
