The great battle plans of history have the virtue of simplicity. The details of the Rokesley campaign were finalized in the Powerscourt dining room and further refined by Inspector Ferguson in Deptford. He was to tell Carver Wilkins’s people, by an unconventional but reliable route, that Powerscourt, Inspector Kingsley, Dr Stanhope and William Tyndale Easton were planning to hold a conference in Rokesley Hall this weekend.
‘That should flush the buggers out,’ had been Inspector Ferguson’s advice to Inspector Kingsley. ‘Carver would probably like to knock off all four of them. Pity two of the visitors won’t be able to make it, but never mind.’ The Deptford police, he told his colleague, proposed to attend the event in person with a cast comprised of the Inspector, his sergeant and four constables used to a bit of a roughhouse, as Ferguson put it. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for worlds,’ had been his parting shot, ‘see you later in Northamptonshire. Tally ho!’
Powerscourt had insisted on one thing, that a couple of capable officers should be on duty at all times by the front and back doors to the house. In the event of a full frontal assault, they would be able to make an immediate arrest. He did not want any violence inside Rokesley Hall. Lady Lucy and the children, he felt, would never come again if there was blood on the floorboards. Instead he declared that the field of battle should lie between the gardens of his house and Southwick Wood a couple of miles away. There were clumps of trees along the way and an entire police force could be concealed in the wood itself, or in the adjoining area of the Short Wood, famed for its bluebells in the spring. Advance guard and advance notice of any arrivals would be provided by Mackenzie patrolling the only road between Oundle and the Hall. At four o’clock on Saturday afternoon and at eleven o’clock the next day Powerscourt would set out to walk from the house to the wood.
The policemen began arriving at two o’clock. Only the most observant noticed a small slim figure with a deerstalker hat saluting them as they drove past. Mackenzie was famous for the discretion of his observation posts. At half past two a cab with a couple of burly men in suits drove past and pulled up at the Shuckburgh Arms, the local pub near the Hall that backed onto the cricket pavilion and the cricket pitch. Mackenzie was about to depart to the Arms for a closer look at the visitors when another traveller arrived. This one carried a golf bag with the top section closed. He conferred briefly with Mackenzie and departed for Rokesley Church where, he told the Scotsman, there was a superb view of the surrounding countryside from the bell tower high above the nave and the bodies in the churchyard below. Mackenzie collected a Deptford constable from the back of the church and conducted a brief reconnaissance from the public bar.
‘You’re sure?’ said Mackenzie, sipping a half of mild and bitter.
‘Those two by the window? I’m positive,’ said the policeman. ‘We’d better get back to our posts. The curtain will be going up fairly soon.’
Five minutes later Mackenzie was with Powerscourt, staring out over the gardens and the tennis court. ‘So,’ Powerscourt said very quietly, ‘the Twins are in the saloon. I don’t suppose they’ll start anything in there. Maybe I should walk past the windows and see what happens. You didn’t see anybody else on your travels, William? No other unexpected visitors?’
‘None at all,’ replied Mackenzie, ‘I’ve seen everything that goes up and down on that stretch of road.’
At ten to four Powerscourt checked he had his pistol in his pocket. He had grabbed it from its hiding place in his desk before he left Markham Square. Is this the end of the trail, he wondered, a trail that led from Great Russell Street to the harbour front in Brindisi and the millionaire’s retreat in the Hudson Valley and the procession to the Acropolis itself? Is this where it ends? He wished Johnny Fitzgerald was with him.
Lady Lucy was pacing up and down her drawing room just like her husband did when detective thoughts were racing through his brain. All her children were out. She had indeed collected a number of auction catalogues on her trips round the shops of Sloane Avenue and the King’s Road that morning. Eighteenth-century armoires and Georgian dining tables were not enough to anchor her thoughts in Markham Square. What was happening up there in Northamptonshire? Was Francis all right? Not for the first or the second or the third time she wished that Johnny Fitzgerald was by his side.
The clock in the hall was striking four as Powerscourt set off for his afternoon walk. In the woods and in the clumps of trees, in the dark recesses of the farm buildings and, in one case, high up in one of the great oaks of Southwick Wood, the policemen checked their watches and waited for their prey. The Inspectors fingered their whistles. One or two of the constables had armed themselves with fearful wooden clubs lying about on the ground. Powerscourt went past the pub very slowly. He set out on the footpath to the woods that led past the cricket pitch where he had scored a century in a village match three years before. He was in open ground now. He could hear nothing behind. He could see nothing suspicious in front. Way over to his left was Fotheringhay where Mary Queen of Scots had breathed her last. He hoped he wasn’t going to join her this afternoon.
He was on the path between the hamlet of Southwick and the wood that bore its name when there was a shout behind him.
‘You,’ said the voice, ‘you’re Powerscourt, aren’t you?’
He could see no point in denying it. He turned to face them. His hand was fumbling in his pocket. ‘I am.’
‘My brother and I here, we want a word.’ The Twins drew closer. One brought out a pair of knuckledusters and put them on ostentatiously. The other lit a cigarette. They were only a couple of paces from his face now. Surely this was enough, thought Powerscourt. Where are the police? They should be coming now, running at full speed to arrest his opponents. They weren’t here. Where was Mackenzie? For God’s sake, where was Inspector Kingsley?
High up in the bell tower the traveller peered down his telescopic sight. He fiddled with it until he had the three people in the line of fire. He would have to wait till they were separated before he could pull the trigger. As things looked he could as easily hit Powerscourt as his assailants. Powerscourt pulled out his pistol. Before he could bring it level, the right boot of the twin with the knuckledusters sent it sailing into the grass by the side of the path.
‘Time to get started,’ said Robert, rubbing his hands together. Richard began waving his cigarette closer and closer to Powerscourt’s face. Powerscourt was about to start running towards the woods when Robert kicked him in the leg so hard he fell over. The Twins moved in for the kill, boots at the ready.
The first shot caught Robert in the centre of his back. He crumpled forward and lay still. Almost immediately there was a second shot which took him in the head. Richard turned to see where the firing came from. The third shot caught him in the centre of the chest. He fell to the ground, pulling Powerscourt down with him until he lay on the ground with Richard’s sixteen stone lying prone on top of him. As he fell, Powerscourt could see a line of policemen running at full speed towards him. Whistles were blowing in the wood. Another posse was advancing at full speed from the direction of the village and the pub. He was trapped beneath the weight and the blood of the dying twin who was making gurgling noises as the life ebbed from his body.
‘My lord.’ Inspector Kingsley and his Sergeant were pulling Powerscourt clear. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Just about,’ said Powerscourt, dusting his jacket and realizing that he had blood all over his trousers. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Sorry we’re late. I think we waited too long before we moved in. I’m so sorry.’
Inspector Ferguson pronounced both the twins dead. ‘Was the sharpshooter one of your officers, Inspector?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘Bloody good shot, whoever he was.’
‘Neither Inspector Kingsley nor I have any idea who fired the shots, my lord. It’s hard to tell where they came from. I suppose they must have come from somewhere in the village.’
The traveller with the golf bag had packed his kit away. He made his way very carefully down the winding stone stairway that led to the bell tower. By the front of the church he checked that the coast was clear. Then he made his way to the railway station by a back route.
‘Well,’ said Inspector Kingsley in the Rokesley drawing room, ‘that was a close shave indeed. My apologies once again, my lord, for leaving it so late. But nobody in Deptford will be in fear of their lives any more. They’ll be drinking your health down there once they hear the news.’
Powerscourt had recovered from his ordeal, back in his house, helped by a clean pair of trousers and two glasses of champagne. ‘I still want to know who fired the shots,’ he said to the Inspectors and their Sergeants.
‘I think he may have been in the bell tower, whoever he was,’ said Sergeant Burke, who rejoiced in a Quaker mother and a Presbyterian father, and was enjoying the first glass of champagne he had ever tasted. He had carried out a survey of the village. ‘I’ve been up there,’ he went on, ‘I didn’t see any traces of a gunman, but the line of sight from up there goes straight to the twins’ position when they were shot. It’s the height. You can see for miles from up there.’
‘Where is Mackenzie?’ Powerscourt asked suddenly. ‘He may have the key to the mystery.’
But William Mackenzie had not been found. He seemed to have disappeared and the waters had closed over him as surely as if he had been spirited up to heaven. On his way back to London Powerscourt decided that Mackenzie must have fired the shots and vanished in case one of the many policemen decided to charge him with murder.
The traveller with the golf bag reached home in the early evening. He saw that a couple of policemen were still on duty by his front door so he headed for the back entrance.
‘And who might you be with that bag?’ asked the third policeman on guard at Markham Square.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Officer. I live here.’
‘You do?’
‘My name is Thomas Powerscourt,’ the traveller announced, ‘I have lived here for years.’
‘Beg pardon, I’m sure, sir. You go straight in now. Don’t venture out this evening unless you have to.’
The constable resumed his guard duty. He did not mention the meeting in his evening report. Thomas passed his mother on the stairs. He replaced the contents of the golf bag and changed his clothes before supper. Thomas Powerscourt had heard about the terrible risks his father was proposing to take. His had been the footsteps disappearing up the stairs with the creaking floorboard. He knew how his mother would worry. If Johnny Fitzgerald had been in attendance, Thomas would have stayed in London. As it was, the time had come for the eldest son to replace his father’s oldest companion in arms. Time for youth to take up the baton.
Four days after the events at Rokesley, Stephen Lambert Lodge, the American academic from Yale, returned to the British Museum. He made a detailed inspection of the restored Caryatid and said that he could not be sure if she was the real thing or not. There were certain imperfections in the marble, he said, that he had not noticed on his previous inspection. He was so sorry he could not be definite. The day after that, Dr Andrew Cronan, Director of the British Museum, returned from his travels and took command of his kingdom once again. And the morning after that, Powerscourt was invited to Number Ten Downing Street for a meeting with the Prime Minister. The only other guest was to be Dr Cronan.
‘Do you think you will solve the last mystery now, my love?’ asked Lady Lucy, half an hour before her husband had to set off.
‘I think there are two last mysteries, myself. If you mean will we learn which one is the real Caryatid, then I hope so, Lucy, I really do. Maybe the Director has some special knowledge.’
‘And your other mystery, Francis?’
‘Why, I should have thought that was obvious. Who fired the shots that saved my life from Rokesley Church? I was going to write to Mackenzie but I have thought better of it. I feel almost certain that he was the gunman, but that he’s reluctant to admit it in case somebody brings charges against him.’
Lady Lucy smiled. ‘Well, that’s all right then.’
The Prime Minister was late for the meeting in the upstairs drawing room at Ten Downing Street. Dr Cronan entertained Powerscourt with stories about his adventures in Mesopotomia and the villainous camel drivers he had met. ‘Far worse than London cabbies, far worse,’ had been his verdict. ‘The sense of direction of a bat and the morals of the seraglio.’
The Prime Minister’s hair had turned white since Powerscourt had last met him. He was quick to offer congratulations. ‘I am told, Lord Powerscourt, that you have performed another act of valiant service to your country. As if we were not deeply in your debt already. Without you, I am told, we would not have the Caryatid back at all.’
Powerscout did not say that the statue had been returned thanks to an act that could only be described as blackmail, and that the last drama in the affair had been ended by an act that could easily be classed as murder.
‘It was nothing, I assure you,’ he murmured.
‘There is, however, one thing the Director and I feel that you should be aware of. He and I are the only two people in the country who are in on the secret. I know I can count on your discretion.’
‘Of course,’ said Powerscourt. What on earth was coming next? The Prime Minister coughed, as if playing for time. He looked briefly at Cronan.
‘The Caryatid that was stolen from the British Museum was not the real one,’ he began. ‘She was not the one brought back to this country by Lord Elgin.’
‘God bless my soul. Am I allowed to ask why?’
‘You may, of course you may. Some time before the Mona Lisa was stolen, Dr Cronan came to see me, very concerned about the thefts of works of art and the attacks on valuable exhibits in museums across Europe and America. In a world populated by more and more mad men, he said, he felt that leaving some of these invaluable works on show is too risky. Dr Cronan suggested we make a substitution of the Caryatid for a trial period of six months. Six weeks later the Leonardo walked off the walls in the Louvre.’
‘So where is the real one, Prime Minister?’
‘The real one is in a deep vault underneath the Cabinet Office. There are one or two other valuables down there.’
‘Correct me if I am wrong, Prime Minister, but are all the Caryatids I have been chasing recently fakes? The one in America? The one that fell into the sea in Brindisi? The one that was carried up to the Acropolis the other day? The one at the Hellenic College? The one sent back to the museum? Are they all, every single last one of them, copies of the copy made to replace the original?’
‘I’m afraid so, Lord Powerscourt. That is correct.’
‘And what will you say to the Greeks? What will you tell the people of Athens?’
‘That is in hand,’ the Prime Minister replied. ‘I have personally informed the Greek authorities that the Caryatid now on the Acropolis is not the real one.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘They complained a great deal, of course, like the tiresome and emotional people they are,’ said the Prime Minister wearily. ‘They jumped up and down and shouted a lot. They are going to blame perfidious Albion, Greece raped of her glories once by Lord Elgin, now deceived by the treacherous British. Don’t trust the English, I said to them, even when they come bearing gifts.’
‘I see,’ said Powerscourt. ‘How soon are you going to put the real one back on her plinth?’
‘Dr Cronan?’ said the Prime Minister.
‘Well,’ said the Director of the British Museum, ‘well, for the moment, with the Mona Lisa still missing and so on, I think we’ll leave the real Caryatid in her vault underneath the Cabinet Office. Just for now, anyway. Better safe than sorry, don’t you think?’
Powerscourt was going to take Lady Lucy out to dinner that evening to celebrate the end of the case. ‘I feel slightly cheated, you know,’ he said, on his return from Downing Street, ‘all that effort for a fake.’
‘Nobody knew it was a fake, Francis. Even that poor man Ragg didn’t know, did he?’
‘No, he didn’t. It doesn’t really matter which one was sent back to the British Museum, does it? They were all copies, or copies of copies, heaven help us all. That young American, Lodge, deserves a medal, don’t you think?’
‘Why do you say that, Francis?’
‘Well, he was right way back at the start of this affair when he told Ragg that the Caryatid on display wasn’t the real thing. And he was right at the very end when he told Ragg that the one that came back wasn’t the real thing either. They should give him a medal.’
‘Perhaps they will, though that would mean admitting they were wrong at the start.’
‘Who knows? Do you realize, Lucy, how much I have been thinking about the ancient Greeks since the start of this case? I began reading Pericles’ Funeral Speech on the train to Italy, the one where he talks about the Athenians who died in the battle having the whole earth as their memorial. The end of the speech – I was reading it in bed last night – is very downbeat and very moving. Maybe it’s a fitting close to the death of an Elgin Marble. Pericles sings the praises of those who died for the honour of Athens and have the whole earth as their memorial. It’s the high point and the epitaph for Athens’s glory.’
Powerscourt went over to a table by the fireplace and opened a well-thumbed copy of Thucydides’ The Peloponnesian War.
‘“Such then were these men and the glory they brought their city. For the time being our offerings to the dead have been made and for the future their children will be supported at the public expense by the city until they come of age. This is the crown and prize which she offers, both to the dead and their children, for the ordeals they have faced. Where the rewards of valour are the greatest, there you will find also the best and bravest spirits among the people. And now, when you have mourned for your dear ones, you must depart.”’
There was a ring at the front door. Rhys the butler showed Inspector Kingsley into the drawing room.
‘I’ve left the parcel in the hall,’ he said. ‘I don’t see that we need to hang on to it any more. Anyway, I have some news.’
Powerscourt felt desperately sorry that he was not allowed to tell his colleague the truth about the Caryatids.
‘What is that, Inspector?’
‘I’ve done it at last. I’ve handed in my resignation. It will become effective at the end of the month. The Commissioner has been very good about it, I must say.’
‘Congratulations on becoming a civilian, or being about to become a civilian,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘I’m going to write a book,’ said the Inspector. ‘It’s going to be about a policeman and I’ve already had promising talks with a publisher about it.’
‘What sort of policeman?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘Constable? Sergeant? Inspector? Commissioner?’
‘I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that it’s going to be an Inspector, my lord. He’s going to be like Conrad’s Lord Jim. He makes one terrible mistake and gets away with it. Then he has to seek redemption and salvation on the streets of London and in a showdown on Hackney Marshes.’
‘Splendid,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘We look forward to reading it.’
Half an hour later Powerscourt parked the Silver Ghost outside Norfolk House on Chiswick Mall. He picked up the parcel, still in its layers of wrapping paper. He had warned Mrs Wilson that he would be dropping by. He happened to be in the neighbourhood, his note said.
Powerscourt left his parcel in the hall as the maid showed him into the huge room with the view out over the river.
‘Lord Powerscourt, how nice to see you again,’ said Mrs Wilson. She seemed to have shrunk since Powerscourt last saw her. The white hair was, if anything, even whiter than before. ‘You look tired. Have you been working too hard? I’ll order some tea. That should set you up.’
‘That’s very kind, Mrs Wilson. How have you been yourself? Keeping well?’ Powerscourt remembered that Mrs Wilson’s husband, Horace, had died a few months after the theft.
‘I can’t complain, Lord Powerscourt. The eyesight is going some of the time and my memory isn’t what it was. I was trying to remember, after I got your note, how long it was since you called the first time. Do you know, I couldn’t put a date on it at all. I know it happened, of course, but it could have been last month or last year for all I can recall now.’
The tea arrived. The blank space was still there above the fireplace, the picture hooks still in place on the wall.
‘I’m sure your memory is fine, Mrs Wilson. Don’t worry about it. Now then, I’ve brought you a present, a sort of present anyway. Would you like to see it now?’
Mrs Wilson sounded young again as she thought of presents and happy birthdays long ago. ‘Yes, please, Lord Powerscourt. How very exciting!’
He brought the parcel in from the hall. It measured about three feet high by four feet across.
‘That looks very impressive, Lord Powerscourt. Could you be very kind and open it up for me?’
Armed with his penknife, Powerscourt untied the string and put the brown paper into the waste basket. The painting was the wrong way round, the back facing the lady of the house.
‘Oh, Lord Powerscourt, I’m so thrilled! Have you brought me a new painting to replace the one we lost? How very kind!’
Powerscourt smiled. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t brought you a picture to replace the one you lost, Mrs Wilson,’ he said, turning it round very slowly. ‘I’ve brought back the one that was stolen. This is Turner’s Mortlake Terrace, Summer’s Evening. It’s come home for you to enjoy it again.’
Mrs Wilson stared at the painting. She shook her head very slowly. She began to cry.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she sobbed into Powerscourt’s shoulder. ‘I’ve dreamt of this moment for so long. It can’t be true, it can’t be.’
Powerscourt held the old lady very tight. ‘It’s true all right,’ he murmured, ‘your Turner is back. It’s home again. I’m so pleased.’
Mrs Wilson pulled back. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t go on crying into your nice jacket,’ she said. ‘Could you do me a favour, Lord Powerscourt? I’d be so grateful.’
‘Of course. What is it?’
‘Could you hang the picture back on the wall where it was before? The hooks are still there, you see.’
Very carefully Powerscourt put the painting back where it belonged. Mrs Wilson poured herself another cup of tea.
‘Just think,’ she said, ‘I’ll be able to look at it last thing at night. I’ll be able to look at it first thing in the morning. Horace will be so pleased. I’m sure he can see it too, wherever he is.’
Powerscourt felt a great wave of happiness. He was glad he had decided to bring the painting back in person.
Fifteen minutes later the sun came out as he was navigating his way along Chiswick Mall towards Hammersmith Bridge. The light sparkled on the waters of the Thames. On the far side, the light, Turner’s light, Turner’s glory, glittered and shone on the river by William Moffatt’s house in Mortlake Terrace.