by Simon Brett
‘Well, you’ve bonged it on the nose first bash, haven’t you? All we need to do is track down these two bad tomatoes called Gainsborough and Reynolds and the case’ll be sewn up as neat as a Frenchwoman’s facelift!’
‘Um, no, Blotto,’ said his sister gently. ‘Gainsborough and Reynolds aren’t the names of the thieves.’
‘Then who are they? Their accomplices?’
‘They’re the painters. Thomas Gainsborough painted Rupert the Smug and Joshua Reynolds painted Rupert the Incapable.’
‘Oh,’ said Blotto, trying to make it the kind of ‘Oh’ that could mean ‘Of course I knew that, Twinks me old tea-caddy – I was just having a bit of a jape with you.’
Evidently unaware of this subtext, Twinks tapped a pensive finger against her perfect chin. ‘As I say, they knew what they were after. The Gainsborough and Reynolds are the only two really valuable paintings in the house.’
‘Oh, so they only painted the two, did they?’ Her brother gestured towards the Long Gallery’s residual display. ‘Got in other boddos to do the rest, did they?’
Once again his sister was very patient. ‘Blotto, all of these paintings are of dukes, aren’t they …?’
‘Yes. Our ancestors.’
‘And the dukes all lived at different periods of history …’
‘Right.’
‘And you didn’t have more than one duke at the same time …’
‘I spoffing well hope you didn’t.’
‘So they would have had to be painted by different artists.’
Blotto still looked puzzled.
In a tone as near to exasperation as she ever got with her brother, Twinks explained, ‘Gainsborough and Reynolds wouldn’t have been alive to paint most of them, would they?’
‘Ah, no. With you. Touchpaper ignited,’ said Blotto finally. ‘So when it comes to art, these two Gainsborough and Reynolds boddos are the chef’s speciality, are they?’
‘With dollops of clotted cream, Blotto me old trombone. Those two paintings the stenchers got away with are each worth hundreds of thous.’
He emitted an impressed whistle. ‘Well, I’ll be jugged like a hare! What kind of pot-brained pineapple would want to collect pictures of our ancestors?’
‘I think,’ said Twinks gently, ‘it’s the painters rather than their subjects that provide the value.’
‘That’s a bit of a rum baba. I mean, this pair of greengages Gainsborough and Reynolds weren’t titled, were they?’
‘Joshua Reynolds was knighted by George III in 1769.’
‘Twinks me old collar-stud, I was talking about proper titles. Any jumped-up town councillor can buy a knighthood. Or a peerage these days, come to that. You should hear Loofah on the subject. Some of these life peers he has to rub shoulders with in the House of Lords are total toadspawn.’
But Twinks did not want at that moment to be diverted by discussion of the views of their brother the Duke. ‘Blotto, we shouldn’t waste time gabbing. We need to track down the four-faced filchers who’ve snaffled our paintings.’
‘Good ticket, Twinks. But how are we going to do that?’
‘Just give me a minute.’
3
Twinks Brings Her Brain to Bear
Blotto was reverentially silent. His respect for his sister was total in every area of life, but particularly in the matter of criminal investigation. When it came to spotting clues, Twinks had sharper eyes than the mother of an unmarried son at a coming-out ball. So her brother watched in awe as her mighty intellect was focused on the section of wall where Rupert the Smug and Rupert the Incapable had so recently hung.
There was a silence almost as long as the gallery, while the azure eyes flicked from point to point, reading from the wooden surface information invisible to the average scrutineer. And certainly to her brother.
Then Twinks exhaled a long, satisfied sigh, before confidently announcing, ‘I think I see what happened.’
‘Do you? Well, I’m snickered if I know how.’
‘Just observation, Blotto. Look …’ And she embarked on another of her remarkable explanations.
‘As I said, the fact that they only took the Gainsborough and the Reynolds means that we are dealing with educated and discriminating thieves. They knew what they wanted, they knew where they’d find it, and so the stenchers must’ve put in a lot of planning. Security here at Tawcester Towers is always pretty lax, so they wouldn’t have had much trouble getting in. But if they’d been dressed as servants, there was a real danger that they’d be seen by other members of staff who’d realize they didn’t match the wallpaper. So I’d bet a banjo to a banana that our thieves were guests here at Tawcester Towers.’
Blotto was shocked. ‘What, you mean people of our class?’
‘Well, people who’ve been invited here for a weekend. Some of those,’ she pointed out tactfully, ‘are not exactly of our class.’
‘You’ve won a coconut there, Twinks me old fondant fancy. All kinds of oikish sponge-worms seem to turn up at weekends. Do you know, Loofah actually told me he was out shooting on the estate a couple of weeks back and he found the gun next to him was a solicitor! Toad-in-the-hole, what’s going on in this country, when tradesmen like that manage to get invited here?’
‘What you’re saying rather reinforces my point, Blotto me old trouser turn-up. It’d be as easy as raspberries for the thieves to get in. I mean, do you notice exactly who all our guests are every weekend?’
‘Great Wilberforce, no. Of course I don’t. I mean, I’m polite to the poor thimbles, but I never know their names or any of that rombooley.’
‘Then I’m sure the theft of the Gainsborough and the Reynolds happened last weekend. You remember how many people we had staying then?’
‘Certainly do. Tawcester Towers was doing a fair impression of Piccadilly Circus. Breakfast on Sunday morning I recall was like a particularly vigorous Eton Wall Game.’
‘And can you remember any of the guests behaving oddly?’
‘Well, they were all behaving pretty oddly, I thought. Mind you, I think most people do behave pretty oddly most of the time. Except for the immediate family, obviously. And, actually, now I come to think of it, Loofah has his behaving-oddly moments.’
The smooth skin around Twinks’s eyes wrinkled with the effort of recollection. Then she announced, ‘There was one particular pair of guests who, now I come to think of it, stuck out like slugs in a salad.’
‘Oh?’
‘Do you remember the French couple?’ Blotto’s handsome face retained its customary blankness, so Twinks gave his memory a nudge. ‘The Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Sales-Malincourt. There was something about them that didn’t pluck the right string with me.’
‘Well, of course they didn’t pluck the right string – they were French. What did you expect? The poor pineapples started off on the back foot and had a lot of ground to make up.’ A look of deep compassion spread across Blotto’s patrician features. ‘I can never begin to understand how foreigners cope with knowing that they’re not British. Must wake up every morning aware that they’re in the deepest gluepot. And then those two calling themselves aristocrats – that was rich! The French aristocracy doesn’t amount to an empty soup plate.’
‘Because of the French Revolution, you mean?’
‘No. They didn’t amount to an empty soup plate before that. They’ve never had a proper aristocracy. Not like ours. I mean, the English aristocracy has always been the genuine article, but—’
‘Blotto!’
So sudden was his sister’s shouting out his name that he was momentarily anxious. ‘You all right, old kipper?’
‘I’ve just remembered something.’ An azure flame of excitement flickered in Twinks’s eyes. ‘You know everyone went hunting on Saturday morning?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Well, everyone didn’t.’
‘Sorry? Not on the same page, Twinks.’
‘The Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Sales-M
alincourt didn’t go hunting on Saturday morning.’
‘Rather proves my point about the French, I’d have said.’
‘She said she had a bit of a head cold, and the Vicomte volunteered to stay in the house to keep her company.’
To Blotto this was just more evidence of the perils of the marital state. For a man to give up a day’s hunting just because his wife had a head cold … well, if that didn’t take the pink rosette! Should that kind of nonsense take hold, next thing men’d be stopped from dining at their clubs just because their wives were having babies.
But he didn’t voice his thoughts. Twinks was on a roll, and he knew better than to offer any distraction when the engine of her mighty brain was building up a head of steam. So Blotto just listened as she went on, ‘I’d put my last crumb of rock cake on the fact that the job was done on Saturday morning. And I bet no one’s been in the Long Gallery since then.’
‘Probably not. I don’t think any of the weekend guests were interested in art. Or our ancestors, come to that.’
‘No.’ Twinks tapped her chin reflectively. ‘So … our thieves … I wonder who they are.’
It wasn’t often that Blotto could get one up on his sister, so he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity. ‘I’m surprised you’ve forgotten so fast,’ he said gleefully. ‘They’re the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Sales-Malincourt.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Twinks, dashing his hopes of triumph, ‘but who are they really?’
Blotto couldn’t come up with an answer to that one.
‘I’m sure they were in disguise,’ his sister went on, ‘though their French was very good, so I think they were born French-speakers. But the two main questions we have to answer are: Who are they? And where are they now?’
Blotto didn’t venture an opinion. He just watched reverently as the delicate mechanism of Twinks’s brain processed the available information.
‘I’m certain they’ll have left some more clues here,’ she said, and reached into her sequinned reticule to produce a silver-handled magnifying glass. ‘Let’s just see what’s what.’ She moved closer to the exposed panelling and began to trace the cobwebbed outlines of the missing Gainsborough and Reynolds. ‘Nobody ever goes anywhere without leaving some souvenirs of their presence. For the amateur sleuth the skill lies in reading the messages that have been posted for us.’
Her scrutiny of the crime scene took two long, silent minutes. Then, with a triumphant smile, Twinks turned to her brother and announced, ‘It is very clear what happened.’
‘Is it?’
‘Oh yes. Cobwebs are wonderful devices for storing evidence, you know. They’re as sticky as Belgian caramel. And these ones from behind the picture frames have trapped plenty of clues. Our filth-fingering thieves have given us directions as clear as the road-sign to the new A1. They couldn’t have made our task easier if they’d presented us with calling cards. Look, Blotto …’
A slender finger pointed out her findings as she itemized them. ‘Obviously the stenchers wore gloves. They knew better than to risk leaving fingerprints. But they did leave other traces.’ The finger homed in on a tiny pinkish fleck on one of the cobwebs. ‘See? That comes from a lady’s kid glove. Not just any kid glove either. If I’m not mistaken—’
‘And of course you never are, Twinks.’
‘No,’ she acknowledged gracefully. ‘Anyway, I’d say it’s forty thou to a fishbone that these gloves were bought from Maison Grière in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Michel in Paris.’
‘Toad-in-the-hole!’
‘So we know where the so-called Vicomtesse de Sales-Malincourt does her shopping. Not quite Champs-Élysées style – in fact the kind of place where tradesmen’s wives might shop. Now here …’ the finger moved to another area of cobweb, ‘we see the marks left by her husband – or probably the bad tomato who was masquerading as her husband. From his glove came this tiny flake of tobacco.’ Twinks advanced her delicate nose to the wall and sniffed. ‘Which, if I’m not very much mistaken …’
Blotto didn’t bother repeating how rarely that eventuality occurred. They both knew, anyway.
‘… comes from a cheap cigar imported from Bolivia and sold only in a small tabac on the Rue des Folies-de-Grandeur in Paris. You’re beginning to see a pattern emerging here, aren’t you, Blotto?’
Her brother was forced to admit that he wasn’t.
‘Well, let’s look at the third piece of evidence, the clincher, the cherry on the top of my investigative meringue glacé …’ This time she redirected her finger from the wall to the Long Gallery’s oak flooring, worn smooth by generations of peers’ slippers and housemaids’ mops. ‘Do you see that outline there?’
Blotto couldn’t see anything but he didn’t want to stop his sister in mid-flow, so he nodded vigorously.
‘That very slight indentation in the wood shows that a heavy object has rested there. Given the angle and depth of the indentation, I have no doubt in announcing that it was made by the brass corner of a custom-built carrying case for ladies’ dresses, manufactured in the atelier of Honoré Dumartin in Neuilly-sur-Seine on the outskirts of Paris and sold exclusively in Galeries Pfitzer in Avenue Laliquette. Interesting, isn’t it, Blotto me old ham sandwich?’
He couldn’t deny that it was indeed interesting. Though why he hadn’t a clue.
‘And particularly interesting because of where the purchases were made. Maison Grière and the tabac on the Rue des Folies-de-Grandeur both cater for people who work for their living …’
‘Oikish riff-raff you mean?’
‘Precisely. Whereas Galeries Pfitzer in Avenue Laliquette is very much top leaf on the family tree. So why should this couple of Grade Z filchers suddenly be shopping there?’
‘Why, indeed?’
‘Because, Blotto, what they bought in Galeries Pfitzer is one of the most important parts of their professional equipment.’
‘Oh?’
‘Look, if you’re masquerading as members of the aristocracy …’
‘Only the French aristocracy,’ Blotto pointed out.
‘Even so. If you’re claiming a title to which you have no right and snaffling invitations to country houses, what’s the one thing that’s going to show you up?’
At last – a question to which Blotto knew the answer. ‘Your luggage.’
‘Bong on the nose, Blotto. If you turned up with tonky luggage, the servants’d be on to you straight away. Doesn’t matter how old your valises are – indeed the older and more decrepit the better … so long as they were bought at the right place.’
Her brother nodded agreement. Twinks looked down again at the floor. ‘Judging from the depth of this indentation, the carrying case would have been about a foot deep, three foot across the bottom and five in height. Perfect for hanging ladies’ dresses in … and also perfect for …?’
‘Storing your cricket bats?’ hazarded Blotto.
‘Possibly,’ said his sister kindly. ‘But something of that size would also be perfect for … hiding stolen paintings.’
Her brother grinned. ‘On the same page with you now, Twinks.’
‘And when the filchers left, they’d have actually got the Tawcester Towers servants to carry their loot out of the house.’
‘The deceitful lumps of toadspawn! How’re we going to find the slimy spongebags?’
‘Ah, well, there I’d say they’ve made the job very easy for us.’
‘Have they?’
‘It’s a simple matter of geographical triangulation.’
‘Well, I’ll be crackered.’
‘Visualize the map of Paris …’ Blotto furrowed his brow, as if he was following his sister’s request. Despite the fact that he couldn’t even visualise the map of his own bedroom. ‘… and it all becomes clear,’ Twinks went on. ‘Rue du Faubourg Saint-Michel … Rue des Folies-de-Grandeur … Avenue Laliquette … Three streets in the Cinquième Arrondissement that form a triangle in the middle of which is La Place Biscuit de Garibaldi. As we know,
the north and east sides of the square are government offices. On the west side is the Convent of Les Petites Amies de Dieu. But on the south side we have a residential building called Les Appartements Clichy. The block is four storeys high, with two mansion flats on each floor. The numbering of the residences starts on the ground floor. Now, no thieves would ever take an upstairs apartment if they could avoid it. They might get trapped up there if they were raided by the police. So they’d want to be at street level. There are two apartments at street level, but the one on the west side gets so much afternoon sun that it could damage the paintings that are stored there before being sold on.
‘So I can confidently state that the address of the so-called Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Sales-Malincourt is Appartement 2, Les Appartements Clichy, Place Biscuit de Garibaldi, Cinquième Arrondissement, Paris.’
‘France,’ added Blotto, feeling that he ought to make a contribution to his sister’s research.
4
A Matter of Insurance
‘Insurance?’ echoed the Dowager Duchess magisterially. ‘But that’s for common people.’
‘Are you telling us, mater,’ asked Blotto, ‘that nothing in Tawcester Towers is insured?’
They were sitting in the Blue Morning Room. This was where, from a splendid Chippendale throne, the Dowager Duchess traditionally conducted her business affairs. At his question, she turned a full beam of disapproval on to her younger son. ‘Of course not. To resort to insurance would not be in keeping with the hallowed traditions of the Tawcester family. For a start, it would involve sullying our hands by dealing with members of the oikish classes like solicitors and another sub-species of pond life who I believe are referred to as …’ she shuddered with distaste, ‘“insurance brokers”. Then again, to insure one’s valuables goes against the very traditions of the aristocracy. It implies that one does not trust the people whom one has invited into one’s home. It suggests that one might suspect one’s own guests of being capable of larceny.’
