A Three Dog Problem

by S. J. Bennett

  MacLachlan looked sympathetic. ‘But I gather from the way you say it that it didn’t turn out that way?’

  ‘Nope.’ Stephen took a morose gulp of Cabernet. ‘Copies,’ he sniffed. ‘Poor Queen. I mean, not poor Queen, obviously, but you know what I mean. Poor all of us who cared.’

  ‘They were fakes, then, the paintings?’ MacLachlan suggested.

  ‘Not exactly. It’s only a fake if you pass it off as the original. When they were cleaned up, these looked like copies that were probably made by someone at court, soon after the originals were painted,’ Stephen explained. ‘Almost like prints, if you like. But by someone not particularly talented, from what I heard. I never saw them.’ He paused for more wine. ‘I did see a couple of the originals, though,’ he added quietly.

  MacLachlan, who had already heard this on the art grapevine in London, but wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth, looked suitably fascinated.

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘At auction about two or three years later.’ Stephen had a faraway look in his eye. ‘The first one was found round here, and I was working in this area by then. Apparently, the owners had heard the royal story, gone hunting about in their attic and . . . whaddaya know? They discovered an original Artemisia Gentileschi painting of Thalia, the muse of comedy. The second one of Erato, I think – the muse of love poetry – showed up in America, but I saw the catalogue. Same story. They were examined by the experts and they were genuine. Amazing how those portraits had lain undiscovered for centuries and then . . . poop! Suddenly up they pop.’

  MacLachlan adopted the slightly fuzzy look of a man who scents scandal but is also a little bit out of his depth. ‘What are you suggesting, Stephen?’

  Stephen shrugged. ‘I’m just saying. A bit coincidental. A bit neat. Not many people knew the local scene like me, I suppose. It all seemed above board, but the dealer who’d come into the auction house with the first painting? Well, he was someone I wouldn’t recommend to clients, put it that way. And I happened to know the second dealer too, in America, because he’d bought a couple of things from a friend. Same story.’

  ‘Dodgy dealers, dodgy paintings? Is that it?’

  Stephen shook his head. ‘No, Charlie, it isn’t what I’m saying. What I’m saying,’ he spoke slowly, to make himself understood, ‘is that the dealers were dodgy, but the paintings were real.’

  ‘Charlie’ looked confused.

  Stephen managed to lower his voice and sound emphatic. The wine and the rapt attention of his companion had loosened his tongue. ‘I’m saying that quite possibly someone stole the Queen’s paintings, replaced them with copies, and sold one of the originals at auction about three miles from here, and another the following year, in Texas. That’s what I think. I mentioned it to a couple of people. They said I was mad, but d’you know what’s interesting? After that, no more Gentileschis. There had been four portraits altogether. What happened to the other two? I think the man behind it all got scared. Scared of me. When I set up the gallery there were a few clients who’d never work with me. Bigwigs, you know, people who knew my reputation, knew the quality of my pieces. I think he set them against me. Petty revenge.’

  ‘Fascinating. So the copies were fakes. Tada!’ ‘Charlie’ said.

  Stephen looked as if he was about to contradict him, but ‘Charlie’ had just about summed it up. If Stephen was right, the four ‘copies’ now in the Royal Collection had been passed off as paintings made in the seventeenth century, when in fact they’d been recently faked to enable the scam. He nodded. ‘I s’pose so. You could say that.’

  MacLachlan offered to get them both a digestif from the bar, and Stephen wasn’t one to say no.

  ‘Why didn’t you say? To the police, I mean?’ MacLachlan asked when he came back, plonking two cognacs on the table between them.

  ‘Nah, I couldn’t prove anything,’ Stephen shrugged. ‘It was a feeling I had, that’s all.’

  ‘Did he get a lot for them?’ MacLachlan asked. ‘The two originals that found their way to auction, I mean.’

  ‘Depends what you call “a lot”,’ Stephen said. ‘He’d have had to give the dealers their cut, and the people who claimed to be the original owners, I guess, and the forger, of course.’ He stared into his cognac glass. ‘If the paintings had been found at a royal palace . . . who knows what they’d have gone for? As it was, the provenance was shaky. If it wasn’t for the brilliance of the brushwork, they might not have been accepted as genuine. The two I know about sold for five figures each. Even so, that was back in the eighties, when you could get a decent house for thirty grand. If he’d sold all four, he’d have raked it in. I like to think my little feeling cost him the price of a couple of houses. He got too greedy, that was the problem. He should’ve waited longer. But perhaps he sold the others privately. It’s possible. But I kept an eye out. I think I’d know.’

  He waited for ‘Charlie’ to ask him who this art world Machiavelli was, who’d stolen art from under the nose of Queen Elizabeth II, but his companion was looking tired by now. The barman called time and ‘Charlie’ rose to his feet unsteadily to settle the bill. As they said goodnight, Stephen was fairly sure he’d remember less than half of the story in the morning.

  Back in his comfortable room in a small hotel near the Market House, MacLachlan unpacked his notebook and wrote down their conversation almost word for word.

  Chapter 33

  U

  pstairs at the Palace, Sir Simon sat back with his feet up on his desk, on his second call to a colleague in the Cabinet Office, smoothing the way. He was tired, and put every effort not to let it show in his voice. Calm, affable, on top of things . . . that’s what was needed, and indeed expected, from the Private Office. You were supposed to know everything, anticipate the impossible, offend no one, and charm your way out of every awkward situation. He had learned many of these skills in the navy and others in the Foreign Office, but most had come much earlier, when his parents were planning to divorce.

  Simon was at prep school then, a little boy of eight, already slightly lost in a big country house full of iron beds and bells, the ever-present smell of cabbage and masters who could slipper you if you misunderstood a rule or stepped on an untied shoelace. For a term and a half, he had longed for nothing but to be back with his mother and his sisters, their menagerie of animals and the gruff sound of his father arriving home after a long day in the City and an ‘infernal’ commute from Waterloo. At home for the Lent half-term, he had heard his parents arguing late at night. His sister Beatty wrote afterwards to tell him his father had moved out. She thought he might be living above a pub in the village, but she wasn’t sure.

  For the next eighteen months, every fibre of his being had been dedicated to bringing his parents back together. At school, young Simon put on a brave face, denying the circulating rumours and making sure that – when it all turned out all right in the end – it would seem as if it had always been that way. During holidays and exeat weekends, he and his sisters went to work on their mother, reminding her of happy holidays and helping out with whatever housework they could understand.

  With his father, he somehow knew to say nothing about what was happening. On manly fishing trips and long walks in the countryside during exeat weekends, he spent their precious time together listening, allowing this man he had thought of as a mini god to share his insecurities and his misery, always in the third person, always as if they belonged to someone else. He stayed quiet but hopeful, and if at night he resorted to desperate prayers to God to save his family, by day he was a skinny little rock of encouragement.

  He didn’t bring his parents back together – luck, finances, and the fact that they were fundamentally suited to each other did that over time. The storm clouds passed. For his tenth birthday, they gave him a golden retriever puppy that he named Nigel. It was the best present in the world, because everyone knew his father was the fan of golden retrievers, but his mother was the one who would end
up looking after Nigel when Simon was at school, so it was a compromise between them: a loving pact, by people who had worked out how to fit back together.

  After that, Simon’s memories of home consisted mostly of sunshine, hearty meals and soft, warm animal fur. For many years he had thought of the dark days of early prep school as his childhood hell, but now, in his fifties, he realised they had given him strengths that had informed his progress for the rest of his life. He knew nothing lasted forever unless you worked at it, by God; that love is all that really matters; that you cannot flourish if you don’t listen, adapt, learn, hope.

  He was listening now – to various concerns the Cabinet Office had about trying to persuade the British public to accept a third-of-a-billion-pound refurbishment bill for a building most of them would never get to see. Quietly, with funny and tragic anecdotes, he reminded his friend across St James’s Park at Number 10 of the real danger that the Palace was in, from floods, fires and rot. He asked, in all humility, for suggested alternative venues for state banquets and investitures, garden parties to reward citizens for their civic contributions, displays of the Royal Collection treasures, balcony appearances when the country needed to come together, the Changing of the Guard . . . What would those alternatives cost? How would they work? The Queen would go wherever she was put, that went without saying. Windsor Castle? Certainly, but what about those balcony appearances? Wouldn’t she become rather invisible? Yes, they would love to cut a hundred million out of the programme. No doubt his colleague was much cleverer than he, and could work out where.

  Slowly, slowly, he heard the doubts recede and the arguments for countering them were played back to him from Downing Street. Call over, he poured himself a lukewarm coffee from a stainless steel thermos on the desk, checked his watch, saw that it was nearly ten and prepared to pick up the phone again.

  Before he did so, he quickly checked the pundits reporting on the US election. Like most other senior courtiers and government officials, he was gripped by a morbid fascination with what was happening in Washington and around the fifty states. Polls showed Clinton ahead, but for two weeks she had been under investigation, yet again, by the FBI. She’d only had twenty-four hours in the clear. Was it enough to reassure her base? And what about the postal vote? Her opponent was still busy campaigning to the ‘deplorables’ she had inadvertently formed into a Trumpian tribe. Had he been on her speech-writing team, Simon would have counselled against using such a term. Not if you would prefer such people to vote for you instead.

  He had loved politics since the age of eleven, when a master at prep school had brought the Magna Carta to life, explaining the delicate thread of democracy that wound its way through English history. Simon could have had a quiet life as an academic historian if he’d wanted. Instead, he’d chosen to be a part of it. Here he was, advising a constitutional monarch. If, right now, he’d rather be glued to his TV screen, analysing the polls and making predictions, well . . . it was his own fault that he was too busy trying to ensure this monarch had a working roof over her head at the time of the next election, and the one after that.

  ‘Hello, Sarah. I’m sorry to call so late, but I wanted to check if everything’s on track for next Wednesday. Do you have what you need? Of course. Let me take you through it . . .’

  *

  By now Rozie was filthy, cold and wet. The ground underneath her boots was half an inch deep in water. Her head ached from the knock, her back was killing her and she frequently bumped her upper spine against bricks held together with rough mortar that scratched at her jacket and caught in her hair. The object she had bent down to see turned out to be a Twix wrapper. Hardly worth it.

  The roof became lower still and Rozie decided she had seen enough. She shouldn’t have come this far. Turning round, she made her way back towards Buckingham Palace. The question was, what would she find when she got there? Only now did she truly accept the implication of the thud that had so surprised her. There should be light at the end of the tunnel soon – but there was none.

  No fresh breeze down here to cause the door she had left ajar to shut of its own accord. No phone signal. No way to call for help. Nobody waiting for her upstairs.

  Rozie’s brain swiftly ran through problems and solutions. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t panic. The Queen knew roughly where she was. If there was an issue, eventually she’d be found.

  As she feared, the heavy wooden door was now shut. Rozie was ready to put her shoulder to it and give it everything she had. But in fact it gave way quite easily with a gentle push. She began to walk down the brick-lined passage to the vaulted storeroom. The adrenaline rush made her question her original decision to investigate the tunnels, but given what she’d found . . .

  ‘One step closer and I’ll kill you.’

  A man was silhouetted in the doorway between the cellar rooms. His voice was low and menacing. He was guarding the only way out.

  Rozie walked purposefully towards him, stooping slightly under the passage’s rough brick ceiling. The adrenaline still pumped in her veins. The tomb-like darkness had held its terrors, but she fancied her chances against this short, squat opponent, if that’s what it took. She shifted her grip on the torch, so she could use it as a weapon. It was over a foot long and heavy, and she had asked for one like this deliberately, just in case.

  ‘Drop it,’ the man said.

  Rozie did not. She could see now that he was armed too, with something long and sharp, holding it up like a baseball bat. It was a crowbar. She pictured how he would come towards her, how best to use the torch to defend herself, how much damage she could allow herself to do.

  ‘I said, drop it, asshole.’

  Out of the tunnel proper, Rozie drew herself up to her full height. ‘Er, no. And if you attack the Queen’s APS here in the Palace, I wish you luck explaining why.’ Her voice was as calm and steady as she could make it.

  ‘Shit!’ He lowered the bar so that its tip rested on the floor. ‘I thought you were some kind of thief.’

  ‘As you can see, I’m not. And watch your bloody language.’

  The man in the doorway wore a managerial suit under an open warehouse coat. She could just about make out the hint of curl in his hair and the hint of disdain in his flat, south London voice. She recognised him from the summer – and from the accounts department. This was Mick Clements, the head of Operations. She recognised the woody scent, too: it must be aftershave or deodorant. He had definitely spent time in the makeshift office recently, before her.

  ‘What are you doing down here?’ she asked.

  ‘I might ask you the same question.’ Even at this distance, and backlit by the brighter room behind, she could see the rise and fall in his chest. He was afraid – or he had been. But he stood his ground. He still blocked the doorway, with the heavy bar in his hand.

  ‘Is there a reason I can’t visit?’ She used the full force of her height to intimidate him.

  ‘People like you don’t belong in places like this.’ He enunciated the words slowly. ‘That sign is on the door back there for your safety. I’m going to have to report you.’

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘Hey, hey.’ It was Eric Ferguson, who must have been there all along. He stepped into the doorway next to Mick and reached gently for the crowbar, which he rested against the wall. His smile was placatory. ‘Let’s not get carried away, OK? This is Captain O, Mick. Show her some respect.’

  Mick grunted. His voice was low and hard, and he hadn’t taken his eyes off Rozie. ‘What I want to know is, what the hell were you doing in the tunnels? Don’t you know they’re dangerous?’

  ‘Well, I did wonder,’ she said. ‘I came down looking for something and I thought I’d check them out. If the door wasn’t locked that’s hardly my fault.’

  ‘And why are you in those boots? If you don’t mind my asking. Ever so politely.’ Mick was staring at her wellies.

  ‘I’m half dressed for the shindig,’ she said disdai
nfully. It was the best she could come up with. The shindig was the annual staff party in December, usually a fancy-dress affair, and this year the theme was Heroes. ‘I’m going as the Duke of Wellington.’

  Eric snorted with laughter. Mick peered at her, unconvinced.

  ‘I was looking for some sort of frock coat thing,’ she improvised. ‘I thought there might be one here.’

  Eric beamed. ‘You mean the big wicker basket full of costumes we keep available for all the dressing up?’

  Rozie nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Not a thing, love. This is a palace, not a theatre, or a fucking nursery school.’

  He said it without breaking his smile. Mick sniggered. Rozie decided she’d had enough. ‘Thanks for the advice,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving.’

  She strode up to them both, pushing Mick firmly to the side of the doorway with her torch, and forcing Eric to make way beside him. As she approached, she felt the fear and hostility pour off Mick in waves. He had shut her in the tunnels, changed his mind, and still considered knocking her out: she’d seen it on his face. But he had decided the consequences weren’t worth paying for.

  ‘I’ve got my eye on you, Captain Oshodi,’ he said to her departing back.

  No doubt he had. Now, it was mutual.

  *

  Sir Simon was still at his desk, on the phone, when he saw Rozie walk past. This struck him as mildly odd, and then, as he thought about it more, very strange indeed. Why was she carrying a massive torch? Why was she even still here?