by James Runcie
Graham Anderson talked through the daring nature of the crime. He told Amanda and Sidney that he was puzzled by the theatricality of the theft. It would surely have been simpler to break in after hours or to organise some kind of inside job with one of the guards. Instead there had been an elaborate ploy of distraction, during which the painting had been cut from its frame. Amanda asked if she could take a look at what remained while the Director continued talking to the police.
Sidney accompanied her to the crime scene. ‘How long do you think it would take to cut it out?’ he asked.
Amanda inspected the empty frame. ‘You could do it in under a minute with a Stanley knife.’
‘Does it require a special technique?’
‘Yes, if you want to preserve the painting. You are obviously reducing its size by missing out the edges under the frame, but a thief might not worry about that.’
‘Can you tell the level of expertise of the thief from the manner in which the painting was removed?’
‘You can distinguish between care and clumsiness.’
‘I presume it’s too cumbersome just to lift the painting off the wall?’
‘It is if you want to hide it easily. The Sickert isn’t that big, around two foot by three foot. You could roll it up inside a copy of The Times if you wanted. All it requires is daring. And probably a change of clothes for the girl.’
‘With a second accomplice waiting in a car?’
‘Possibly not. It doesn’t take too many people to do these art thefts. It’s a question of confidence. No gallery can protect every painting.’
Graham Anderson returned with Inspector Keating and nodded as he heard Amanda’s words. ‘We just don’t have the staff,’ he explained.
‘But who was on duty at the time?’ Keating asked.
‘It was one of our newer guards: a fellow called Omari Baptiste. He’s only been with us a short while so it’s been a bit of a shock, I’m afraid.’
‘And did he see anything?’
‘He says not. He was called in to see the uproar the girl was creating. Deserted his post to do that. Then he came to fetch me. I don’t think he can have had anything to do with the theft. He’s a very Christian man. Came over from Antigua on the Windrush.’
‘I’d like to talk to him,’ said Sidney.
‘Are you sure it’s necessary?’
‘If you don’t mind . . .’
Graham Anderson looked surprised that a clergyman should be involving himself so closely in the inquiry. ‘He is a Jehovah’s Witness, you know?’
‘That makes no difference to me, Mr Anderson.’
‘When he started here I told him that he could say what he liked outside the museum but I didn’t want his religion interfering with his working day.’
‘Yes,’ said Sidney. ‘It’s interesting how religion is often considered to be something of an inconvenience.’
Keating gave his friend one of his ‘don’t start’ looks, before the Director made an immediate peace offering. ‘I can give you his address if that would be of help.’
‘He’s not here?’ Keating asked.
‘He requested the afternoon off. He was a bit upset.’
‘Can the whole experience have been that disquieting? It was only a girl removing her clothes.’
‘I think the Director is referring to the theft of the painting rather than the naked woman, Inspector,’ said Amanda.
‘Actually, I’m not so sure you’re right about that. The man clearly has a strict moral code and is easily shocked; so I said we could do without him for the afternoon,’ Graham Anderson continued. ‘We’ve had to close the museum in any case.’ He turned to Keating. ‘I think your men are interviewing everyone who was here at the time.’
‘And you say there were no witnesses to the actual theft?’ the Inspector asked. ‘There must have been seventy or eighty people in the gallery. Someone must have seen something.’
‘It appears not. They were too busy looking at the girl.’
‘We’ll put out an appeal,’ Geordie continued. His face brightened as a thought occurred to him. ‘I’ll talk to the local paper. Miss Randall can help.’
Amanda cut in. ‘I wonder if Sidney is right and that the choice of painting is significant?’ she asked the Director. ‘It was painted in Dieppe and the woman was singing in French. And it’s a Sickert. Not something more precious. There are others here of far more worth.’
‘Although this is valuable enough,’ said the Director. ‘It’s insured for over a thousand guineas.’
Amanda was thoughtful. ‘You know, Inspector, that there’s a man doing the rounds in London who claims that Walter Sickert was Jack the Ripper?’
‘I hadn’t heard that.’
‘He claims he’s the illegitimate grandson. He points to the fact that one painting is called Jack the Ripper’s Bedroom.’
‘I don’t see what that can have to do with the theft of this painting, Miss Kendall.’
‘I just thought it might be a clue. Perhaps the thief is a known murder suspect, Inspector. Then you’d have him in your records.’
Inspector Keating tried to remain calm. ‘Miss Kendall, it’s probably best if I have the theories on this crime. That kind of thinking is the last thing we need at the moment. The history of art and the nature of police procedure are very different matters. It would be extremely foolish to confuse them.’
Hildegard was unimpressed when Sidney returned from his lunch at six o’clock in the evening. She was not jealous of Amanda, she said, as she pointed a colander at him in what could only be described as a threatening manner; and it wasn’t, she assured him as she rinsed the vegetables, that she minded them spending so much time together, but her husband had completely forgotten that they had arranged to have tea with one of the most boring couples in the village.
She took the vegetable knife from the drawer and explained that she had been stranded with the said couple for almost an hour and a half before she could make her escape and also, she reminded Sidney, waving her knife at him, he had still done nothing about finding a new curate to replace Leonard Graham who would have been able to go in their stead in the first place.
Sidney apologised. He took the vegetable knife from her, kissed her, and then solemnly put the colander on his head.
‘How do I look?’
His wife relented a little. ‘Ridiculous.’
‘Good.’
‘It’s all very well, Sidney. I’m not going to make a fuss and I don’t want to turn into one of those wives who sigh every time they talk about their husband . . .’
‘I should hope not.’
‘But I do expect you to pay the same level of attention to me as you do to your investigations . . .’
‘I am sorry, my darling,’ Sidney began. ‘You know how I get carried away.’
‘Only because you want to.’
‘But you must know that I can only be myself when I am with you . . .’
‘But you still think nothing of leaving me with what I think I heard you once telling Leonard were “the lame ducks of the village”. You cannot delegate the parts of your job that are unrewarding, Sidney. You have to see them through.’
‘I’m sorry, Hildegard . . .’
‘It’s all right. Now tell me what has happened.’
‘Very well.’
‘And take that colander off, Dumm-kopf.’
Sidney obeyed and talked through the events of the day, explaining that it wasn’t anything very dramatic at all and he didn’t have to involve himself in the case, but he was aware of his responsibilities as a citizen, his friendship with Inspector Keating and the fact that he was a material witness.
‘And tell me,’ his wife asked. ‘Do you think you would be taking such an interest if the figure walking naked through the art gallery had been a man?’
The following day Sidney tried to concentrate on his parish duties. He needed to catch up on his correspondence, see to the church rota, delegate tasks and, o
f course, pray. There were times when he worried that he had neglected to do this and he knew that he had been sidetracked yet again by the excitement of a criminal investigation. He only hoped the Archdeacon was away, because if any inkling of his activities with a naked French girl reached the ears of his superior, not of course that there were any actual activities, then it would land him in the steamiest of hot waters.
Getting through his daily routine and keeping his spirits up was, however, a hard slog, particularly when his parishioners were more interested in gardening than God, but at least it was a Thursday, and he had his regulation two pints and a game of backgammon to look forward to. When he reached the Eagle, he was pleased to find that the Inspector had already set out the board and got the pints in.
‘It’s all about seizing the opportunity, Sidney,’ said Keating as he began the game. ‘Knowing when to make your move. That’s what the thief did. You can’t have any doubt. You just have to pounce, like a poacher potting a pheasant, or a rugby player making a tackle . . .’
‘Or even, I imagine, a trapeze artist such as the one in the painting: knowing when to jump . . .’
‘I can’t see you as a trapeze artist, Sidney.’
‘I said: “I imagine.”’
‘It’s what the thief must have done. There’s no doubt in my mind that he knows the naked girl.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘She’s his accomplice, of course. I wish I’d seen her too.’
‘Talking of girls,’ someone said from the doorway of the bar. ‘I was wondering if you could help me.’
It was Helena Randall.
Geordie Keating was discombobulated immediately. ‘Oh, Helena, it’s you . . .’
‘I’ve just called in on Mr Anderson, although I have to say I’m clearly no Mae West. He wasn’t remotely pleased to see me.’
‘I can’t imagine how he managed to control himself,’ said Sidney. He noticed that Helena was still wearing the tatty duffel coat that she must have had for at least six years. Her hair was unbrushed, she had put on a bit of weight, and was decidedly spotty. Perhaps his perception of her charms had been spoilt by his glimpse of the French girl the previous morning.
‘The missing painting is a Sickert, isn’t it?’ Helena continued. ‘Do you know that some people think he was Jack the Ripper?’
‘Have you been speaking to Amanda?’ Sidney asked.
‘We met at the station. Such a nice woman. She was incredibly helpful.’
Keating cut in. ‘It’s not helpful at all.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way when we’ve both been so good to you in the past. I suppose that, as a result, you won’t be interested in the fact that my friend Basil Bonney is a well-regarded art critic.’
‘And how is that relevant?’
‘He lives in London and is a specialist in French painting.’
‘Sickert was English,’ said Sidney. ‘Although Amanda tells me he was born in Munich.’
‘I can’t see what any of this has to do with the price of fish,’ Keating complained.
Helena looked at him with amused and patient scorn. ‘The subject of the painting was French, the girl was French, and Basil knows everyone in the art world. If that girl is part of the London scene then he will be able to point you in the right direction. Would you like me to help or not?’
Omari Baptiste, the security guard, lived with his sister Francelle in a two-bedroom flat in a converted terrace house at the end of Bateman Street. The living-room was a riot of pattern and colour; from the red floral carpet to the yellow lampshade on the standard lamp, the crimson blanket and white lace cover on the settee, the pink flock wallpaper and the vases of artificial flowers that had been set out on each surface. Framed photographs of ancestors and family relations hung on the walls together with sunset scenes of the islands back home, as if one room had condensed all their noise and sunshine. A large pile of the Watchtower magazine lay on a side table and the smell of rice and peas from the kitchen combined with the aroma of the paraffin lamp in the fireplace. There was no television or wireless.
Once Sidney had explained that he had come only to ask if there was anything he could do to help Omari get over the shock and outrage he must be feeling, he was offered a glass of lemonade and allowed to sit down.
‘I gather you came over on the Windrush,’ he began. ‘Have you been in Cambridge long?’
‘We started in London,’ Omari answered. ‘Then the Lord sent us here. There’s plenty of His work for us to do. At times it’s a struggle but we manage.’
‘I suppose your job gives you less time to witness?’
‘A man’s gotta eat, Canon Chambers, but we still put in the hours telling people about the Kingdom. Ain’t no good doing nothing.’
Francelle moved a vivid-blue blown-glass fish to one side and placed the tray of lemonade on the sugar-starched crochet cover of the coffee table. After Sidney had made a careful point of gently asking Omari’s sister if it was all right to talk of the naked girl in the gallery in her presence, he sipped his lemonade and began.
‘I wonder if you can tell me something. I know this must be difficult and that you probably didn’t look at all, but I wonder if you had seen the girl in the museum before?’
‘I’m not sure I want to talk about it.’
‘You mean you can’t be sure?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘You mean you had seen her before?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say.’
Sidney produced one of his kindly confessor looks. ‘As a man of God, I hope you can trust me.’
‘Well then I think so, sir. Yes, I have.’
‘And when would that have been, if you don’t mind my asking?’
Francelle interrupted. ‘Be careful what you say this day, Omari. We don’t want no trouble.’
Her brother was less concerned. ‘Trouble comes and trouble goes. It’s only this world. We’re not here for long.’
‘But what we do while we are here matters,’ Sidney cut in. ‘Our actions have implications.’
Omari relented. ‘It was last Saturday I saw her first, sir. The girl was looking at the painting that’s gone. The Trapeze, they call it.’
‘You’re sure it was her? The same girl?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘Could you swear in a court of law?’ Sidney asked.
‘I wouldn’t like to go to no court of law, sir. I could swear on the Bible.’
‘That is good enough for me. And was she on her own, this girl?’
Omari paused. ‘I cannot tell a lie. But I don’t like to speak the truth about this.’
‘Then let me speak it for you. I imagine she was not.’
‘You could be right assuming that.’
‘And who was her companion?’ Sidney pressed.
‘That’s hard for me to tell you out loud.’
‘I don’t think it is.’
‘I don’t want to get in no trouble. I can’t lose my job.’
‘It was a man?’
‘I can’t answer, sir.’
‘I think you are telling me that it was a man. Did you know him?’
‘Again, I wouldn’t like to say.’
‘That means, Omari, I think, that you did know him. Could you hear what they were saying to one another?’
‘I could hear but I couldn’t always understand.’
‘And why was that?’ Sidney asked.
‘They were speaking in French.’
‘You are sure?’
‘As I say, I don’t want to get into no trouble.’
‘You won’t. I can assure you.’
Francelle was not convinced. ‘I don’t know how you can assure us. The police have been here talkin’ all kinds of things already, treating us like criminals when we’re no such thing.’
Sidney thought to himself that there were only so many excuses he could make for his friends in the force. ‘I know the police can be impatient. They have their job to do.’
‘I’ve no time for impatience,’ Omari replied.
Sidney realised he should leave while he still had this man’s trust. ‘I cannot say that this will go no further, but I can promise that I will look after you in all eventualities. Inspector Keating is a good friend of mine and I am sure you had nothing to do with the theft of the painting.’
‘He did not, as God is his judge, nor did he know that girl,’ Francelle interrupted. ‘Parading around in all her glory like the day she was born. Has she no shame?’
‘It seems not,’ said Sidney. ‘Omari, I feel I must ask you again to tell me this. Who was the man with the girl last Saturday?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s hard for me to answer.’
‘Was it the director of the museum, Mr Anderson?’
‘I can’t tell no lie if you ask me flat out.’
‘So can I assume that I am correct without you telling me directly?’
Omari sat back in his chair. ‘Have you just been playing with me? Did you know the whole time?’
‘I did not.’
‘Lord knows you did.’
‘Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain, my brother.’
‘I don’t mean to do that. Only I don’t like to be played with.’
Sidney apologised. ‘I meant you no harm. All I want is to understand the truth of this case and to protect you in all necessary ways.’
‘How did you know what I had seen?’
‘It is the only explanation for your fear. I recognised that you were a man who was anxious about losing his job; and Mr Anderson is the one person who can take that away from you.’
‘Maybe I lost that job for sure now. But I want you to remember. I haven’t told you nothing.’
‘You have been the soul of discretion, Omari, and I am grateful for your honesty and for the hospitality you and your sister have shown me. I will not forget that. I will leave you in peace. Please don’t worry.’
‘We’re always nervous. If it’s not the bills or the job there’s always the end of the world to worry us. These are the last days and I don’t need this trouble.’
