Tobias felt that now might not be the time to explain the finer sociological significance of London’s club land. “And another thing, when you get back, Jaikie. Mr Holmes wants you to ask Chalky the Shotgun White if there are any rumours in the underworld about some stolen Raphaels on the market.”
Chalky was the convict who actually ran the jail from his cell, now a suite of cells comprising a living room cell, a bedroom cell and a bathroom cell far from the prisoner crowd, a sort of Wormwood Scrubs version of a special train. From there his tentacles spread across the criminal underworld of London.
“Raphael’s not another of them clubs I haven’t been to yet?” asked Jaikie.
“No, he was a famous painter from long ago,” replied Tobias, glad that at least some form of education had been introduced into Jaikie’s delinquent brain on this day.
“I expect you want the answer by this evening,” said the ragamuffin, whose hair today looked for once as if it might have been washed in the past fortnight, though Tobias firmly believed that the ablutions only took place when nits were present in large quantities. “That’s going to cost you an extra shilling as it’ll be after eight o’clock.”
With that, Jaikie trotted off towards the Hypocrites Club, waving happily as he left and whistling ‘When I survey the Wondrous Cross’ to the tune of Rockingham.
*
The Director of the National Gallery arrived at the Government Offices at exactly five o’clock, accompanied by a couple of policemen and a huge porter carrying a large parcel, heavily bound with brown paper and string.
“I’m breaking all my own rules,” the Director began happily, “I’ve brought you a picture to look at, Mycroft,” The two men watched carefully as the porter unwrapped the thing. The Director was a tall, thin man, with a small moustache, and had the air of one who might have been a bank manager or an accountant rather than a master of the art world.
“It’s a Raphael. It’s called the Ansidei Madonna. It cost the taxpayer some seventy five thousand pounds when it was bought some years back.”
The Director was canny enough to realise that a financial fact would interest the Government Auditor far faster than any comments about composition or provenance.
“That’s a lot of money, said Mycroft, peering with great interest at the figures being revealed in front of him. “It would take me one hundred and sixty six years of all my salary with a point 66 repeating for me ever to pay for the thing.”
In the background was a rolling plain of Italian countryside. In the foreground, two tall arches in light blue were the backdrop for a wooden throne on which the Madonna sat, a book open in her lap, the child cradled on her right side. She was wearing a robe of dark red and a cloak of deep blue fastened at the neck. She was flanked by a couple of saints. The overall impression given by the Virgin was of a deep, if quiet, spirituality.
Mycroft’s reaction was typical of his calling. “Inch for inch,” he exclaimed, inspecting the background carefully, “inch per square foot, it must be one of the most expensive things the taxpayer has ever bought. Those wretched Crown Jewels it costs so much to look after with those ridiculous warders in their expensive uniforms in The Tower of London, they must be the only things in the country in the same league. Would those two lost Popes be worth the same kind of money?”
“If they were to come on the market together,” the Director picked his words carefully. You always had to be prudent talking about money with the man who supervised the Government’s spending programmes. “I’m sure they would fetch at least one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Maybe it would go to two hundred if the Americans entered the market.”
“Who might want to buy them at those prices?” asked Mycroft, staring down at the oil painted on poplar, seven feet by five, that could command such enormous sums.
“Bankers?” suggested the Director, “new millionaires with new money? American tycoons, rich beyond the dreams of Croesus with dollars made in steel or coke or railroads?”
“And would any of those personages purchase the work, knowing it to be stolen?”
“I would not care to be held to an answer on that score, Mycroft. Some of these very rich men have not been too scrupulous along the way. I could not say yes or no with any conviction, I’m afraid.”
*
Early the next morning a telegram from Derbyshire arrived for Mycroft at the Government offices in Great George Street.
“Most curious development,” Tobias was reading the message through his thick glasses and frowning as he went, “pantry door found open first thing this morning, with slight traces of a visitor coming in on the floor. Yet I am certain one of my officers examined this door yesterday and reported it was firmly locked with bolts closed at the top and bottom. Much looking forward to your visit. John Hopkins, Inspector, Derbyshire Constabulary.”
“Capital,” said Mycroft, placing his fingers together in the form of a steeple as he often did, “capital. This provides some variety in the matter, Tobias.”
A few hours later they were travelling north in their special train. The chef had apologised in broken English for the fact that lunch would not be served until two o’clock as he had suffered especial difficulty in obtaining fresh herbs in the vicinity of St Pancras Station. Mycroft seemed to have devoured two entire volumes about Raphael before the train passed through Luton.
Raphael, Mycroft remembered from those earlier trips to the National Gallery, was remembered for the grace and elegance of his compositions rather than the haunting enigmatic beauty of Leonardo or what Michelangelo’s contemporaries called his terribilita, a sense of frightening power and awe inspiring grandeur.
Mycroft was staring abstractedly at the passing countryside, brushing some white flakes caused by his psoriasis from his shoulders.
“White. Pawn to King Four,” he said suddenly.
“Pawn to King Four,” Tobias replied. The two men had been playing chess without boards almost as long as they had been working together. Their shortest game so far had been completed by writing on the margins of the front page of The Times in the time it took the District Line to travel from Westminster to Gloucester Road, a journey of some five stations.
“Are we using English Descriptive Notation today?” Tobias went on, “or Spanish? Or maybe Standard Algebraic Notation? Figurine Algebraic? Reversible? Concise Algebraic Notation? Maybe we could try Smith? Coordinate perhaps?”
“You seem to know them all, Tobias.”
“My parents moved me onto chess and the notation systems after the multiplication tables instead of bedtime stories last thing at night, sir. My father was a county player. He always said it was a better test of intelligence to play without boards, bits of coloured wood for the dim witted, he used to call them.”
“Good,” said Mycroft, “Knight to Kings Bishop Three. I think we’ll stick with the English Descriptive system today, Tobias. Certain mathematical irregularities can crop up in those algebraic methods.”
“Good,” said Tobias. “Knight to Queens Bishop Three.”
The moves and the responses were only taking a couple of seconds. And there was no slacking in the pace.
“Queen’s Bishop to King’s Bishop Four” from Mycroft.
“King’s Bishop to Queen’s Bishop Four.”
“Pawn to Queen’s Knight Four.”
There was a slight knock at the door. An elderly guard with white whiskers and scanty white hair on top bowed slowly.
“The compliments of the chef, gentlemen, luncheon will be served in five minutes. In the dining car, if you please.”
The chess match proceeded at lightning speed. Both players made their moves in seconds rather than minutes.
“King’s Bishop to Queen Seven. Check,” said Mycroft with a smile of satisfaction.
“King to King One.” This was all Tobias could do. It was not enough.
“King’s Bishop captures Queen’s Knight. Checkmate,” announced Mycroft. “Let us make for the dining car, Tobias
, and see what gifts our French friend from the Hotel Meurice has to offer.”
*
An hour later Tobias thought he could almost hear Mycroft purr as he licked his spoon and surveyed the empty dish that had held his pudding of Champagne and Primrose jelly, containing among other things, an orange, a couple of lemons, a stick of cinnamon, a quarter of a bottle of sherry and half a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. Mycroft rubbed his stomach very slowly as if making sure that the food had arrived safely. They had begun with a soup of pommes parmentier with oyster croutons, a special creation of the chef in his last, vast, kitchen in the Rue de Rivoli, followed by a joint of mutton with caper and anchovy sauce, served with piped walnut whips of mashed potatoes, browned in the oven, quenelles of pureed carrots wrapped in blanched spinach leaves, and gravy made from the juices.
“Well, Tobias,” Mycroft looked briefly at the passing countryside, then he turned and gazed happily at the dark red velvet and elaborate mirrors of the dining car.
“I hope we can conclude this affair promptly,” he said. “It is unfortunate that Langdale Pike was unable to provide more information.” The response from the great reservoir of London’s gossip had been deep and enigmatic.
‘These are troubled waters. Vast money problems. Possibly something more. Will continue inquiries and be in touch. Pike’
“How soon would you like to return, sir?” asked Tobias. “There is that great meeting of Finance Ministers next week.” Among his many duties and responsibilities, opener of letters, picker up of ringing telephones, replenisher of the Turkish Delight bowls, young Tobias was the keeper of Mycroft’s diary, not as easy a job as you might think as the diary’s master never made any entries.
“Next week did you say, next week? Pray to God we are back home long before that, Tobias! Had I not had that excellent meal – did you not find the oysters exceptional? – I would be feeling unwell already.”
Mycroft turned and stared once more at the passing landscape and growled a deep note of disapproval.
“Do you not find the countryside attractive, sir? The fields of wheat ripening in the summer sun? The animals munching happily in their quarters? The sweet song of the birds?”
“No clubs,” said Mycroft sadly, “no restaurants, no theatres, no bustle, no Government, hardly any activity of any kind, apart from a couple of peasant persons who are actually carrying pitchforks, I do believe.”
“No crime, sir,” said Tobias, feeling the state of the wicket was deteriorating with every ball, “no prostitutes, no Wormwood Scrubs, no poor, no terrible diseases imported from the traffic by the docks?”
“Pshaw, young man,” said Mycroft loftily, “you forget the comments of my brother as chronicled in The Adventure of the Copper Beeches. I could not agree more.” There was a brief pause while the wheels of the mighty memory clicked round into their correct position. ‘“It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.’”
*
A long and winding road brought them from Melrose station, a request stop, as befitted the special train which puffed quietly away to its own special siding. There was a classical central block to Melrose Hall, flanked by a couple of curved corridors which led to the Family Wing and the Kitchen and the Servants Wing. Mycroft was heard muttering to himself as he climbed slowly up the elaborate stairway to the Marble Hall. This was a tall chamber, rising the full height of the house, based on some temple in Rome. The Roman orators and statesmen who might have graced its great length in their best togas, planning their next military campaign or the destruction of their enemies, plotting an assassination or two, were still here, but now represented by statues in their niches in between the marble columns.
The Duke and Duchess welcomed them in the Drawing Room. The most noticeable features of the room were the two great blank spaces on the walls, vacated by the departed Popes. The Duke was a tall man, still handsome in his early fifties, clean shaven, and wearing a suit of dark green tweed with a plain white shirt. The Duchess was still, after bearing her husband three children, one of the most beautiful women Tobias had ever seen. She had been a famous beauty in her youth with the form and the figure and the look of one of Botticelli’s Three Graces with the luscious brown hair of Lord Leighton’s Flaming June, on display at the Royal Academy a few years before. Tobias had never seen a really grand society lady in action. His notion of them was based almost entirely on Lady Glencora Palliser in the political novels of Anthony Trollope. Tobias’s father, a great fan of the Victorian novelist, was in the habit of referring to disagreeable women as another Mrs Proudie.
“Welcome to Derbyshire, Mr Holmes. And you must be Tobias.” She nodded regally at the young man and took Mycroft by the arm, leading him to a comfortable armchair beside her own. “We shall have tea directly,” she said, beaming at Mycroft once more. The Duchess, Tobias was to say afterwards, treated Mycroft as another field to conquer, another hunter to be broken in, another trophy to be displayed in one of those great vitrines at the back of her drawing room alongside the porcelain from Sevres, the Renaissance gold and silver cameos and intaglios, the Faberge eggs from St Petersburg, the tiny, exquisite netsuke from Kyoto.
The conversation was light and general while the butler and the footmen served the tea. Mycroft devoured a plate of cucumber sandwiches and two great slices of white chocolate cake. When the staff withdrew, he moved into action.
“Please give us the facts of this affair, if you would, Home Secretary. We have had a rather imperfect account of events here from your son.”
“There’s little to tell, really. We were all here for dinner the evening before the theft, myself, my wife, the two boys and Aunt Winifred. After the meal the twins played cards with their aunt. I had to attend to some Government papers in my study. The Duchess was writing letters in her sitting room upstairs. I should think we were all in bed by eleven o’clock. When we came down in the morning the paintings had gone. We have all told longer versions of that story to the Inspector. He and his men have detailed notes of all our doings.”
Mycroft observed that the Home Secretary, so commanding and combative in Cabinet, seemed strangely muted on his home turf.
“There was nothing to prepare us for any of this,” he raised his hand to wave at the empty spaces on the walls. He knocked over a teacup and a plate which landed safely on the carpet. But the Duke turned pale. He began hitting the back of his right hand, which had hit the china, with the palm of his left, as if it were a naughty child. He looked as upset as he might have done if he had fallen off his horse. Tobias was looking at the Duchess. Tobias’s mother had a sister who was locked in an unhappy marriage. She and her husband came for meals at regular intervals and left Tobias’s parents in despair. Tobias himself used to creep out onto the upstairs landing to listen into his parents’ conversation in the kitchen downstairs. He always remembered his father describing his sister in law staring at her husband with a look of pure bottled hatred, except it wasn’t a bottle, it was a Jeroboam. Such was the look the Duchess flashed at her husband. She recovered after a couple of seconds but Tobias had registered it and resolved to tell his master at the earliest opportunity.
“Richard! You’re so clumsy! This happens all the time now. Can’t you be more careful?” his wife was virtually sneering as she addressed him.
“Have you had the Raphaels long?” said Mycroft, coming to rescue the Cabinet colleague from his discomfiture.
“It’s the old story, I’m afraid. One of my ancestors brought them back from the Grand Tour, you know the form, months and months of chasing round Europe after beautiful women and beautiful works of art.”
Tobias reflected that these travelling delights were not available to the children of mere schoolteachers in Stratford upon Avon.
“At least he managed to pick up a couple of originals,” said Mycroft, staring as if for inspiration at those grea
t empty spaces on the walls, like wounds, in the drawing room of Melrose Hall.
“He also brought back four fake Canalettos, a dodgy Titian and a Velasquez that may have been many things but it certainly wasn’t a Velasquez.”
“Never mind, he scored well with the Raphaels. Do you know what the paintings were worth?” asked Mycroft.
“I believe they were worth between one hundred and sixty thousand pounds and two hundred and ten thousand.”
Both Mycroft and Tobias noticed that his price was slightly higher than that of the Director of the National Gallery.
“And were they insured?”
There was a slight pause before the answer. “They were.”
“At what valuation, pray?”
“I believe,” said the Duke, peering sadly at the fallen plate on his carpet, “that the valuation for the insurance purposes was slightly lower than the figure I have just given you.”
“And no rich collector, or an agent acting for such a personage, has approached you about a possible sale?”
“Certainly not,” said the Duke. All through the conversation the Duchess had been sending slight smiles and conspiratorial nods in Mycroft’s direction. The Government auditor paid no attention. Tobias made a mental note about that too.
“Very good. I should like to see the Steward now, if you would.”
“The Steward? The Steward?” The Duke sounded taken aback. “Whatever for?”
“That’s my business, sir.”
“I fail to see,” the Duke was sounding nervous now. “what relevance the Steward has to these inquiries. Anyway, he’s, he’s not here. He’s away. His mother’s ill. That’s it, his mother’s ill, so she is.”
“Very well,” said Mycroft in his politest tones, “then we’ll just take a look at the accounts without him.”
“You can’t do that.”
The Mycroft Holmes Omnibus Page 11
