Twenty-Two

'Of course. I gave him the name of a journalist friend in London and said he could check with him and that I was concerned he hadn't got the message about the photoshoot. But if he didn't want his picture taken then that was fine by me – I'd just take pictures of the other medical experts, perhaps some of his staff. That was enough to guarantee his cooperation. He wanted to wax lyrically about his theories on treating mental illness but I tuned out after the first two words. He didn't notice. All I had to do was interject the occasional "really", "how fascinating", "is that so", "turn this way, please, Dr Wellbelove", "smashing", "of course", "now pick up that clipboard. Great".'

Ryga smiled as she spoke. 'Was he there when George and Phillipe were patients?'

'Yes. It was easy to get him talking about treatment for those injured during the war. And part of that treatment was knitting.'

Ryga sat back, his mind rapidly working. 'Both Swinley and Perrier learned to knit, hence the knitting needle stuffed down the seat on Perrier's boat. But why no other knitting paraphernalia on board his boat?'

'Perhaps the needle had been there a long time. He'd given up knitting and given away his knitting needles, wool and patterns and had simply mislaid that one.'

'Did Swinley continue with his knitting habit?' Ryga wondered aloud, thinking back to the knitting bag by the fireplace in Myra's house.

'He might have done. It's not the sort of thing you see men doing unless they're fishermen. But there is more I can tell you about Phillipe that might throw some light on why he's disappeared.'

Ryga sat forward, eager to hear it.

'Gus, my friend at Chelsea, is a writer and he's also sociable. The two don't always go together but in Gus's case they do. He and Phillipe would often get drunk together.'

'Is what he told you reliable?'

'Completely. He said that Phillipe often puts into Chelsea but doesn't stay for long.'

'So Sergeant Jacobs told me. He also said that Ashmore's boat was moored there at the same time as Phillipe's on the eleventh of November.'

'That's interesting. Gus said that Phillipe had trouble adjusting after the war. He's prone to dark moods and Gus knows all about those because he also suffers from them, which is probably why he drinks so much. Phillipe's antidote for it was to take off on his boat. Gus also knew Feline. She used to visit Phillipe on board. According to Gus, Feline was – aside from being exceedingly beautiful – modest, quiet and trusting.'

'Not promiscuous then?'

'No. The opposite, she was quite shy.'

Ryga raised his eyebrows. 'I wouldn't have thought she'd like people looking at her then.'

'Modelling was her job. She just had to show off the clothes, look serious, and do as she was told. She didn't have to converse with the clients.'

Ryga thought of what Valerie Ashmore had said. I don't take any notice of who shows the clothes.

Eva continued, 'Gus told me that Phillipe was invalided out of Coastal Command in 1943. He had served since 1939 as a pilot and had been involved in several sea-rescue missions in the early days of the war, including the rescue of children in lifeboats who were being taken from here to Canada when the ship they were on board was torpedoed. He clocked up thousands of miles, protecting ships in the Battle of the Atlantic where his Hudson took a hit in 1941 after an exchange with a Kondor while protecting a convoy. He got it back safely. He then flew Liberators in the U-Boat attacks in 1943 and again took a hit, only this time, after managing to get the plane back to base, he crash-landed and ended up with a severe head injury. He was taken to the nearest emergency medical centre but was quickly transferred to a specialist mental hospital after it was diagnosed that he was suffering from battle neurosis. There he learned to knit, as I said, and, according to Gus, was an accomplished knitter. Dr Wellbelove told me that knitting soothes the nerves but at the same time stimulates the brain but not in a negative way. It's something to do with hand-brain coordination. It didn't take long for Phillipe to recover but he couldn't go back to Coastal Command. However, because of his background in art before the war, and his knowledge of paintings and sculptures, he was appointed to work with the Monuments Men.'

There was a tap on Ryga's door, followed by Sergeant Williams with a steaming cup of tea for Eva, which he put down on the desk. Ryga didn't even thank him – his head was spinning with this new information. He knew that during the war the Monuments Men had been tasked with saving works of art and cultural treasures from being stolen by the Nazis and others. Some of them braved the front line to find and recover looted objects; two had been killed in combat.

Eva said, 'As you no doubt know, since the war ended the Monuments Men have been involved in returning stolen works of art and other cultural objects to the countries from which they were stolen.'

'Yes, we've liaised with them at the Yard on a couple of cases. Their correct name is the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives Section, made up of men and women from fourteen nations, a mix of museum directors, curators, art historians, archivists, architects and artists. But Perrier's name has never come up. Is he still working for them?'

Eva shrugged an answer.

'If he was still working with the Monuments Men I'd have thought someone would have reported his disappearance.'

'Not if they believe he is actively on the trail of a stolen work of art. It might be thought too dangerous for him to report in.'

'Or he might have been working off his own bat,' posed Ryga. He began to put the theories that had been running through his mind to Eva.

'Now that we have the connection between Swinley and Perrier it begins to make sense that Feline was asked to deposit the packages for Swinley to collect. Perrier knew that Swinley had returned to his former occupation as a police officer and, whatever crooked activity Phillipe had discovered, he wanted a police officer, and one he trusted, to know about it. He gave this evidence to his sister to give to Swinley. Feline returned from the Continent on the first of December and couldn't get in contact with her brother. And then she heard, or read, that George Swinley had died. She contacted Myra to find out what had happened to the contents of the packages, and maybe even to try and discover what they contained. She might never have known. Her brother told her it was best she didn't.'

'We're assuming that she was just the messenger, but she could have been the instigator. It could have been Feline who gathered evidence about some criminal activity and wanted PC Swinley to have it because she had heard her brother speak of him and she might even have met him if she had visited her brother at the hospital, which she must have done.'

'Yes, you're right. And there she met Myra visiting her husband, which would explain why the two women seemed to be so comfortable together. They knew one another. Myra trusted Feline and invited her back to the house for tea. But Feline didn't stay. Instead she collected what she needed from Myra, the packages contents, and left.'

Ryga nodded thoughtfully. His mind raced with this new information, putting it together with what they already knew. And it still didn't quite add up. 'Why was there only one place setting? If Feline had refused tea because she'd discovered the packages, then Myra wouldn't have used her best china.'

'Not unless she fancied treating herself. Yes, I know, unlikely. And if there weren't any packages then Feline would still have stayed for tea.'

'So the likelihood is that Feline was enticed away, with or without the evidence, and Myra either washed up and put away one place setting, which again is improbable, or someone else did.'

'Yes. To make it look as though Myra had been alone. Myra was then also lured away. She left the house in something of a hurry, and with that person willingly. She wouldn't have known Ashmore or Broxham though.'

'One of them could have used the excuse that he'd just come from Feline and she'd had an accident.'

'But then Myra would have called the police.'

Not if that person said they'd already done so.'

She was right. He said, 'We've got a connection between Ashmore or Broxham and Phillipe Perrier as well as with Feline. Phillipe could have discovered that Ashmore and Broxham were smuggling or up to some other criminal activity and he wanted to expose them. Or as you said, Phillipe might have nothing whatsoever to do with this and he had an accident on board his boat or indeed has sadly taken his own life, although he left no note for his sister, but suicides don't always. I'd like to find out a bit more about Phillipe. I'll ask Superintendent Street if we can establish if he was still working for the Monuments Men.'

'I'll leave you to it. I'll see you back at the hotel.'

'Thank you, Eva. You've done an amazing job.'

'You're welcome.' She pulled herself up and made a mock salute.

He laughed and telephoned Street. The information wouldn't come through immediately and there seemed little to do on Sunday so Ryga decided to take a break from the case and, armed with sandwiches and a flask of tea provided by the ever-obliging Mrs Williams, he walked to Seaford as George Swinley must have done on the two occasions he hadn't caught the train to collect the packages. He also walked along the esplanade and past the Ashmores' house, noting the absence of cars in the driveway. Then he struck out over the Downs. Walking helped to clear his head and often stimulated new ideas when working on an investigation. This time it failed in the latter but succeeded in the former.

In one way he'd have enjoyed Eva's company, but in another he relished being alone. He liked his own company. Eva's leg injury put paid to her accompanying him and she hadn't suggested they spend Sunday together. Maybe she had sensed he wanted to be alone. She had driven off early that morning and had returned late in the evening. He didn't know where she had been and she didn't say. He wouldn't pry. It wasn't any of his business.

The news that Phillipe Perrier no longer worked for the Monuments Men came through early on Monday morning along with the name of his former head of section, a Miss Leonora Dewsnap who was now the curator of the Towner Gallery in Eastbourne. She'd been Perrier's section head from 1944 to 1949. Ryga telephoned her hoping she would be available to see him. His luck was in. She was in her office and said she'd be delighted to tell him all she could about Phillipe Perrier.

It was eleven thirty when Eva drove the thirteen miles east along the coast to the seaside town. Ryga could see that her leg was still causing her some pain and discomfort and offered to drive her car, but she insisted she was fine and he knew better than to argue. He'd also said he could take the police vehicle, or the train, but Eva wouldn't hear of it. 'If you don't want me in the interview I'll busy myself taking seaside photographs,' she'd said.

'How good are you at taking notes?' he'd asked as they'd set off.

'Not as good as I am at taking pictures, but my shorthand is better than most. I used to be a hundred words per minute but I might be a little slower now. Don't look so shocked, Ryga. Have you forgotten that I started off as a secretary at the Ministry of Information before I persuaded them my talents lay behind the lens?'

He hadn't forgotten – it was just he hadn't expected her to know shorthand.

'And I can type, awfully fast actually, forty words per minutes,' she added. 'My father thought secretarial skills would be an asset in helping me to secure a husband. I think he envisaged me marrying my boss, whoever that might turn out to be – hopefully someone powerful, wealthy and influential, then I could retire gracefully to run an exquisite country house, or a splendid one in the suburbs, while helping to further my husband's career.'

Ryga couldn't help smiling. 'There's time yet.'

'This'll be practice for you.'

'Any more of that and you'll take your own notes, Ryga,' she said with a smile.

He could. He'd developed a method of speed writing, another craft he'd perfected in the camp.

He enjoyed the drive despite the fact that although Eva was a skilful driver, she was a bit too fast on occasions. He made no comment though. The little sports car behaved impeccably. The weather was comparatively mild with rain in the air and few people strolling along the promenade.

They were greeted by Miss Dewsnap, who was much younger than Ryga had expected, about late twenties, although why he should think she would be middle-aged he didn't know. She was also attractive – short, wavy dark hair, intelligent, lively nut-brown eyes behind round-shaped spectacles.

The art gallery was an impressive grand house, donated, she told them, by the owner before the war, during which time the building had been used to house the military while the works of art had been taken away and safely stored in a deep mine. 'Somewhere in Kent,' she added, showing them into her chaotic office at the rear of the building on the ground floor. 'I've only been here a week,' she said by way of apology for the mess.

'I understand that you worked with the Monument's Men, or I should say the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives Section, to give you the proper name,' Ryga said.

'Monuments Men is fine. I admit there were only a few women in the section but we always considered ourselves as one of the men, it being a generic term. I worked with them from 1943 until three weeks ago. I returned from Europe on the twenty-fifth of November and took one week off before starting here. Would you like some refreshment?'

They politely declined. Ryga introduced Eva and explained she was assisting him and would be taking notes if that was permissible.

Miss Dewsnap said it was, then she surprised Ryga by addressing Eva directly. 'I've seen your work, Miss Paisley, and I want to say how much I admire it. You capture life in the raw, the feelings and experiences of people that even they are probably unaware of. Your war photography is heart-rending. I hope you are not too badly injured and we'll see more of your photography. I know this is not the right time to mention what I have in mind, because you're here on business about Phillipe, but I'd love to speak to you at some stage about an exhibition of your photographs, particularly those of the Home Front and Women at War. The uncensored ones of what people really experienced.'

Ryga was pulled up with a start. He'd forgotten that Eva was famous. Photographs of her had been in the newspapers, and she was renowned and highly respected in her circle of expertise, which obviously included that of the wider art world. Three books of her photographs had been published. He felt a little shamefaced that he hadn't considered that before, and here he was treating her like an assistant.

'I'd be delighted,' Eva said. 'And let me say that I admire the work you and your colleagues did in the war and are still doing.'

'Thank you. There are only a few of the section left working in Europe now, although still a great deal to do, and many works of art and cultural significance are still missing and in the wrong hands. It will take years, decades even, to rectify that. People other than the government will have to take up the task of locating them, lawyers, curators, archivists and individuals who have been robbed. Phillipe is one of the latter now that he is no longer working for the section.'

'When did he cease working for the Monuments Men?' Ryga asked.

'Have you seen him since?'

'Did you know he lived on board a converted Motor Torpedo Boat?'

'No, but I'm not surprised. He hated being tied down to one place, and he loathed being shut in. He felt suffocated by it – probably a legacy of feeling confined in the cockpit of the aeroplane when it crashed, although I'm not an expert on these matters. Why the questions about Phillipe? Has something happened to him?' she asked, concerned.

Ryga answered. 'His boat was found drifting in the English Channel on the twelfth of November. There was no one on board.'

There was a moment's silence while she digested this, her dark-featured face thoughtful and troubled. 'You think he might have killed himself?'

The reply had come almost instantly. 'Why not?' Ryga asked.

'Because there was too much unresolved. Unless . . .'

She sat back. He could see she was considering her answer, not because she was worried about revealing something, or trying to fabricate a story, but because she was trying to order her thoughts. He let her. So too did Eva.

After a moment, she resumed, 'Phillipe is determined, passionate, brave and painstaking. He also has that leap of imagination that leads to instinct, which was often proved right. He seemed to be able to see into people and their motivations.'

Ryga resisted a glance at Eva as he thought of her third eye.

Miss Dewsnap continued, 'When Phillipe was on the trail of something that excited him or that he totally believed in, he would never give up. The only reason he would kill himself is if he had come to the end of a quest.'

'A personal one?' Eva said sharply, looking up from her notes.

'Yes, and he was on one. He was trying to trace some items that had belonged to his family, which he believed the Nazis had taken from his father before killing him.'

'I thought his father had sold everything to fund their passage to England,' Eva said.

'Not quite everything.' She rose. 'I'll be back in two minutes.'

Eva exchanged a glance with Ryga but neither of them spoke.

Miss Dewsnap was true to her word. Standing next to Ryga, she opened her hand. In it was a tiny portrait in a round case. It was of a young man with fair hair in a red jacket with a high collar and cream cravat.

Eva, looking over Ryga's shoulder, said, 'It's exquisite.'

'Yes. It's an eighteenth-century miniature of the Duke of Wellington painted by Richard Cosway.'

Ryga said, 'It's amazing how anyone can paint something so small.'

She moved round to resume her seat behind the desk and put the miniature in front of them. 'These paintings were often fitted into lockets, watch-covers and even snuff boxes so that people could take them with them. Some would be framed with stands or hung on a wall. They were frequently given as gifts within the family or in courtship. They were popular across Europe from the sixteenth century right up until the mid-nineteenth century. Phillipe was particularly interested in them because his family owned several by an extremely talented artist, and a beautiful woman, called Constance Meyer.'

'The name of Phillipe's boat,' Eva exclaimed.

'Is it? Not surprising, I suppose. Constance Mayer, or to give her full name, Marie-Françoise-Constance Mayer-La Martinière, was born on 9 March 1775 in Chauny, Picardy and died on 26 May 1821 in Paris. She was a painter of portraits and miniatures of women and children, family scenes, self-portraits and miniatures of her father, who was a government official. Following the French Revolution's Reign of Terror, miniature and portrait paintings became very popular. She studied with Pierre-Paul Prud'hon in 1802, a married man with children. During the time when Prud'hon was painting the portrait of Empress Josephine, his wife, in a fit of jealousy, claimed that he was having an affair with the empress. Prud'hon's wife was put into an asylum and Prud'hon was given custody of their children. The Emperor Napoleon also gave him an apartment in the Sorbonne. At about the same time, around 1803, Napoléon, who had purchased two of Constance's paintings, gave her an apartment there too. She became as Prud'hon's assistant and raised his five children. When Prud'hon's wife died, Constance fully expected to marry him, but he refused her even after all the years she'd given him and after having raised his children. Prone to depression throughout her life, she took up a razor and slit her throat.'

Ryga shook his head sadly.

'Prud'hon organized a retrospective of her works the year after her death but, distressed, he died soon after in 1823. They're buried together in Paris's Père Lachaise cemetery.'

'Some artists seem to lead a tragic life,' Ryga said.

'They do, and some have colourful ones. As you said, Phillipe's father sold many of the family's paintings in order to fund his wife and children's escape from France, but Phillipe firmly believed that his father wouldn't have sold the four miniatures painted by Constance Mayer. They would have been easily secreted about his person, but those miniatures disappeared. They were probably taken off his body when he died while being transported to the concentration camp, or when he was captured by the Nazis. Phillipe was determined to track them down, even if it took him the rest of his life.'

'And did he track them down?' Ryga wondered aloud.

'I don't know. But I do know he was getting close in Lubeck.'

'Yes, why? It means something to you? With regards to Phillipe, I mean?' She sat forward, interested. Eva's pen froze over her notebook and she glanced at Ryga. He hadn't told Eva that Broxham had mentioned that he and Ashmore had been stationed in Lubeck. Broxham had only mentioned it in reference to the similarity in the weather of freezing fog and dabbling in the black market.

'When was this?' he asked Miss Dewsnap.

'In the bitterly cold winter of 1946. My team were on the trail of some cultural artefacts taken from various Jewish families in Berlin. You probably know that Lubeck, being in West Germany, was at that time awash with ethnic German refugees expelled from Eastern Germany in the Communist Bloc, and others from there trying to get over to the west. Lubeck is on the inner German border between the two states – the German Democratic Republic, East Germany, and the Federal Republic of Germany, West Germany. It was established in July 1945 as the boundary between the Western and Soviet occupation zones of former Nazi Germany. Some would trade and pay anything to get across to the western sector, knowing that it could be their last chance. Some are still desperately trying despite the high metal fences, barbed wire, booby traps and watch towers. I don't think it will be long before a more physical barrier is erected – a wall perhaps. We were offered some valuable works of art by former German soldiers, and Nazi government officials, in return for safe passage, but they soon learnt we weren't there to bargain with them and pay them for their stolen loot, so they looked elsewhere. I have no proof of that but there was a thriving black market and many British soldiers weren't amiss to dealing in it.'

Ryga rapidly digested this. Broxham had confessed that he and Ashmore had been a couple of those soldiers dealing in cigarettes and alcohol, but as Ryga had already expressed to his chief, he had wondered if it was more than that. He'd considered medicines but not art and artefacts, and judging by the paintings in Ashmore's house, he had an eye for art and a taste for it. Now Ryga had another connection in this case between Swinley and Perrier, and between Perrier, Broxham and Ashmore. Could those miniatures have come into the hands of Charles Ashmore and Neil Broxham in Lubeck and Phillipe had traced them to the two men, who had refused to give them to him? Had Phillipe been amassing evidence for three years while still working with the Monuments Men until 1949, in order to prove they rightfully belonged to his family? Was it this evidence and trail that he had asked Feline to pass on to Swinley, a man he trusted?

Eva's voice broke through his thoughts. 'How valuable would these miniatures be?'

'Incredibly. You're looking at thousands of pounds for each one.'

Eva shot Ryga a look. That was indeed a powerful motive for murder. He didn't think Phillipe Perrier had thrown himself off his boat, or that he had taken off on his tender to do the same. The fact that Ashmore's boat had been moored up at Chelsea the same night as Phillipe's, and the next day Phillipe's boat, along with him, had disappeared meant only one thing as far as Ryga was concerned. Ashmore and Broxham had those miniatures and they were determined to keep them. That had also meant silencing Swinley and recovering the evidence, hence Feline and Myra's deaths. Ryga had found his motive and his killers.