Nothing Ventured

8

‘Can I claim five pounds on expenses to attend an art lecture at the Fitzmolean?’

‘Is it directly connected to a crime you’re investigating?’ asked Mrs. Walters.

‘Yes and no.’

‘Make up your mind.’

‘Yes, it is connected to a crime I’m investigating, but I must admit I would have gone anyway.’

‘Then the answer is no. Anything else?’

‘Can you get me a ticket for the opening night of the new James Bond film?’ William waited for the explosion.

‘Is it directly connected to a crime you are working on?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which row would you like to sit in?’

‘You’re joking?’

‘I don’t joke, detective constable. Which row?’

‘In the row behind Miles Faulkner. He’s—’

‘We all know who Mr. Faulkner is. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘But how—’

‘Don’t ask. And if you don’t have any more requests, move on.’

William arrived at the Fitzmolean a few minutes early. He paused on the pavement of Prince Albert Crescent to admire the Palladian mansion that nestled behind Imperial College. He was well aware that, for security reasons, since the theft of the Rembrandt only fifty people could now visit the gallery at any one time. He had managed to get ticket number forty-seven for the evening lecture. Half an hour later and they would have been sold out.

He presented his ticket to the uniformed guard on the door and was directed to the second floor, where he joined a small gathering of chattering enthusiasts who were waiting impatiently for Dr. Knox, the nation’s leading authority on the Renaissance period, to make his entrance.

William was looking forward to the lecture, and hoped the director might even have a theory about what had happened to the missing Rembrandt.

At one minute to seven, a young woman made her way to the front of the group and clapped her hands a couple of times, before saying, ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Beth Rainsford, and I am one of the gallery’s research assistants.’ She waited for complete silence before continuing. ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that Dr. Knox is suffering from laryngitis and is barely able to speak. He sends his apologies.’

An audible groan went up, and one or two patrons began heading toward the exit.

‘However, the director is confident that he will be fully recovered in a few days, so if you are able to return next Thursday evening, he will deliver his lecture then. For those unable to come back next week, your entrance fee will be refunded. Should anyone wish to remain, I will be happy to show you around the collection. But don’t worry,’ she added, ‘your money will still be refunded even if you stay.’ This caused a ripple of laughter.

What had begun as a gathering of fifty was quickly reduced to a dozen, William among them. But then he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the director’s replacement. Her neatly cropped auburn hair framed an oval face that didn’t rely on makeup to make you look a second time. But it wasn’t that, or her slim figure, that he found so captivating. It was her infectious enthusiasm as she talked about the Dutch men who surrounded her, adorned in their black pantaloons and ruffled collars. William glanced at her left hand as she pointed to the first picture, delighted to see that there were no rings on that finger. Even so, he thought, this vision must surely have a boyfriend. But how could he find out?

‘The Fitzmolean,’ Beth was saying, her deep brown eyes sparkling as she spoke, ‘was the brainchild of Mrs. van Haasen, the wife of the distinguished economist Jacob van Haasen. A remarkable woman, who after her husband’s death built up a Dutch and Flemish collection that is considered second only to those of the Rijksmuseum and the Hermitage. In her will, she bequeathed the entire collection to the nation in memory of her husband, to be displayed in the house they had shared during their forty-three years of married life.’ Beth turned and led her little band into the next gallery. She came to a halt in front of a portrait of a young man.

‘Frans Hals,’ she began, ‘was born in Antwerp around 1582. His most accomplished work is considered to be The Laughing Cavalier, which you can see in the Wallace Collection.’

William tried to concentrate on Hals, but decided he would have to come back the following Thursday, when he was sure Dr. Knox wouldn’t have quite the same distracting effect on him. He continued to follow Beth until she stopped in front of a large empty gilded frame, with the legend REMBRANDT, 1606–1669 painted on a small plaque below it.

‘This,’ she said reverently, ‘is where Rembrandt’s masterpiece The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild once hung, before it was stolen from the gallery seven years ago. Sadly, it has never been recovered.’

‘Did the gallery offer a reward for its return?’ asked a voice that sounded as if it hailed from Boston.

‘No. Unfortunately it had never crossed Mrs. van Haasen’s mind that anyone would steal one of her masterpieces, possibly because she only paid six thousand dollars for the picture at the time.’

‘How much would it be worth today?’ asked a younger voice.

‘The painting is priceless,’ said Beth, ‘and irreplaceable. The more romantic among us believe it’s still out there somewhere, and that The Syndics will one day return to their rightful home.’

A smattering of applause followed this statement before Beth continued. ‘Rembrandt was an ambitious man, and at one time the most sought-after artist of the Dutch Golden Age. Sadly, he lived beyond his means and ended up having to auction off most of his possessions, including several major canvases, in order to clear his debts. He only just avoided bankruptcy and ending his days in prison. After his death in 1669 he was buried in a pauper’s grave, and his work fell out of fashion for over a century. But Mrs. van Haasen was in no doubt about his genius, and did much to revive his reputation as the greatest of the Dutch masters. Art connoisseurs would travel from all over the world to view The Syndics, which is considered to be one of his greatest works, and Mrs. van Haasen never made a secret of the fact that it was her favorite painting in the collection.’

Beth and her little troupe moved on to the next picture, and she continued to answer all their questions well beyond the appointed hour. She finally came to an end with Jan Steen’s The Marriage at Cana, describing him as ‘the storyteller of artists.’ ‘Are there any more questions?’ she asked.

William decided not to ask his question until the rest of the group had departed. ‘What a fantastic talk,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Beth. ‘Did you have a question?’

‘Yes. Are you free for dinner?’

She didn’t respond immediately, but eventually managed, ‘I’m afraid not. I already have a date.’

William smiled. ‘Well, it’s been a memorable evening. Thank you, Beth.’

As he turned to leave he heard a voice behind him say, ‘But I am free tomorrow night.’

When William arrived at the office the following morning, he found a yellow Post-it note stuck to the top of his case files.

URGENT — Call Liz, 01 735 3000.

‘What’s this about?’ he asked Jackie.

‘All I know is that the Hawk said it was urgent. You’re to record exactly what Liz has to say and send him a written report.’

‘Will do,’ said William as he dialed the number. A moment later a woman’s voice came on the line.

‘How can I help you?’

‘This is Detective Constable Warwick calling from Scotland Yard. I’m returning Liz’s call.’

‘Do you know Liz’s surname, or which department she works in?’

‘No, just that it’s urgent I speak to her. She’s expecting my call.’

‘This is the Buckingham Palace switchboard, sir. We only have one Liz, and I don’t think she’s available at the moment.’

William turned bright red. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I must have got the wrong number.’ The moment he put the phone down, Jackie and DCI Lamont burst out laughing.

‘I’m sure she’ll call back,’ said Jackie.

‘And by the way,’ said Lamont, ‘the Hawk’s had a call from the American ambassador thanking us for returning the moon dust. Well done, laddie, now perhaps it’s time for you to sort out Winston Churchill.’

William opened the file marked CHURCHILL and tried to concentrate, but he couldn’t put the previous evening out of his mind. He couldn’t recall the last time a young woman had so preoccupied his thoughts. Tonight he would definitely leave the office before seven, even if the light was still shining under the commander’s door.

He gathered his thoughts as he read about an ingenious scheme a petty forger had come up with to supplement his income. By the time he’d reached the last page, William realized he was going to have to visit a number of bookshops in the West End if he hoped to catch the thief red-handed. He warned DCI Lamont, who was preoccupied with the hunt for an international jewel thief, that he was about to do some good old-fashioned leather-bashing and might not be back by close of play.

William decided to start at Hatchards on Piccadilly, where the manager — he checked the name again — Peter Giddy, had made the original complaint.

He left Scotland Yard, and headed for the Mall — as he passed Buckingham Palace he couldn’t help feeling chastened at his attempt to call Liz — then on up St. James’s to Piccadilly, where he passed through a doorway under which three royal warrants were proudly displayed. William asked a woman on the front counter if he could see Mr. Giddy.

Once the manager had checked William’s warrant card, he took him up to his office on the fourth floor and offered him a cup of coffee.

‘What made you suspicious in the first place?’ asked William, as he sat down and opened his notebook.

‘I wasn’t suspicious to begin with,’ admitted Giddy. ‘After all, Churchill was a politician, so would have signed a great number of his books. However, it’s quite rare to come across a complete set of his The Second World War with all six volumes signed. But when I spotted a set in Heywood Hill, and then just a week later another set in Maggs, I began to have my doubts.’

‘Can you recall anything in particular about the man who offered to sell you the books?’ asked William.

‘Fairly nondescript. Sixty, sixty-five, gray hair, slightly stooped, average height and with an accent you could cut with a knife. In fact, a typical Hatchards customer.’

William smiled. ‘I assume he didn’t tell you his name.’

‘No. Said he didn’t want the children to find out he was selling a family heirloom.’

‘But you would have had to make out a check?’

‘In normal circumstances, yes, but he insisted on cash. He turned up a few minutes before we closed, well aware that the till would be full.’

‘How much would an unsigned set of the books sell for?’

‘A hundred pounds if they all had their original dust jackets.’

‘And a signed set?’

‘Three hundred, possibly three-fifty if they were in mint condition.’

‘May I ask how much you paid for them?’

‘Two hundred and fifty pounds.’

‘So our man could have picked up an unsigned set for about a hundred pounds, added the six signatures, and made a profit of a hundred and fifty. Not exactly the great train robbery,’ said William.

‘I agree,’ said Giddy, clearly not amused. ‘But if one of our customers were to find out that we’d sold them a forgery, and the press got hold of it, we could lose our Royal Warrant.’

William nodded. ‘Do you think he’ll come back?’

‘Not a chance. He won’t risk trying to pull off the scam a second time in the same bookshop. And frankly, there are enough of us out there to keep him going for years.’

‘So where do you think I should begin?’

‘I can give you a list of bookshops that specialize in signed first editions,’ said Giddy, opening a drawer in his desk and handing over a slim pamphlet.

‘Thank you,’ said William, flicking through the pages.

‘Don’t worry, there are at least a dozen within a mile of here,’ said the manager, as he accompanied William to the lift.

Detective Constable Warwick spent the rest of the day tramping from bookshop to bookshop, and soon discovered that the Churchill forger was an industrious individual. When he wasn’t buying, he was selling. The kind of cottage industry the government was so keen to encourage.

Every one of the managers promised to let him know if a man fitting that description offered them a signed set of Churchill’s The Second World War, but they all agreed with Giddy that it was unlikely he would appear in the same shop a second time.

‘If he does show up, please call me at Scotland Yard, 230 1212. I’m on extension 2150,’ said William, before moving on to the next shop.

William didn’t stop his inquiries until the last door closed behind him at six o’clock. He took the tube to Victoria, then jogged all the way back to Trenchard House. He had a quick shower and changed his clothes, taking an unusually long time to decide what to wear. He eventually settled on a blue blazer, an open-neck white shirt, and a pair of gray trousers, but decided against wearing his old school tie.

As he closed the front door behind him, he realized he would have to take a taxi if he wasn’t going to be late; an expense Mrs. Walters wouldn’t have approved of. The cab dropped him off outside Elena 1 in the Fulham Road, with seven minutes to spare.

‘This is a very special date for me, Gino,’ said William after the head waiter had introduced himself. ‘A first in fact. So I may need your help.’

‘Leave it all to me, Mr. Warwick. I’ll put you in a quiet alcove.’

‘Oh help, there she is,’ whispered William.

‘Ah, signorina,’ said Gino, bowing slightly before taking her hand. ‘Mr. Warwick has arrived and is sitting at his usual table.’

William leaped up, trying not to stare. She was wearing a simple off-the-shoulder yellow dress that fell just below the knee, with a pale green silk scarf, and a jade necklace to complement the outfit.

Gino pulled back the chair for her, while William waited for Beth to be seated.

‘This must be one of your usual haunts,’ said Beth as she settled in her chair.

‘No, first time. It was recommended by a friend.’

‘But the waiter said—’

‘I met him five minutes ago,’ admitted William as Gino reappeared, and handed them both a menu. Beth laughed.

‘Now, Mr. Warwick, will you have your usual drink?’

‘And what is my usual drink?’ asked William. Gino looked puzzled until William added, ‘Beth knows I’ve never been here before. What do you recommend?’

‘For the beautiful signorina...’

‘Gino, don’t overdo it.’

‘You do not think she is beautiful?’

‘Yes, but I don’t want her to run away before we’ve had the first course.’

Beth looked up from her menu. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to run away. Well, not until after the second course.’

‘And what can I get you to drink, signorina?’

‘A glass of white wine, please.’

‘We’ll have a bottle of Frascati,’ said William, recalling a wine his father often ordered, though he had no idea how much it would cost.

Once Gino had taken their orders, Beth asked, ‘Is it William or Bill?’

‘William.’

‘Do you work in the art world or are you a gallery groupie?’

‘Both. I became a gallery groupie at an early age, but now I work with the Art and Antiques unit at Scotland Yard.’

Beth seemed to hesitate for a moment, before she said, ‘So your visit to the Fitzmolean was just part of your job.’

‘It was until I saw you.’

‘You’re worse than Gino.’

‘And you?’ asked William.

‘No, I’m not worse than Gino.’

‘No, I didn’t mean...’ began William, painfully aware how long it had been since his last date.

‘I know what you meant,’ teased Beth. ‘I read art history at Durham.’

‘I knew I’d gone to the wrong university.’

‘So where did you go?’ she asked as Gino reappeared with two piping hot bowls of stracciatella.

‘King’s. Also history of art. And after Durham?’

‘I went up to Cambridge and did a DPhil on Rubens the diplomat.’

‘I nearly did a PhD on Caravaggio the criminal.’

‘Which would explain why you ended up joining the police force.’

‘And did you go straight to the Fitzmolean after that?’

‘Yes, it was my first job after Cambridge. And it must have been painfully obvious that last night was my first attempt at giving a discourse.’

‘You were brilliant.’

‘I just about got by, which will become only too obvious if you attend Tim Knox’s lecture next week.’

‘I can’t imagine what it must have been like to stand in for your boss at the last moment.’

‘It was terrifying. So, dare I ask if you’re any nearer to finding my missing Rembrandt?’

‘Your Rembrandt?’

‘Yes. But then everyone who works at the Fitzmolean is possessive about The Syndics.’

‘I can understand why. But after seven years, I’m afraid the trail has gone cold.’

‘But you can’t have been working on the case for the past seven years?’

‘Less than seven weeks,’ admitted William. ‘But I’m confident the Rembrandt will be back in its place by the end of next month.’

Beth didn’t laugh. ‘I still want to believe it’s out there somewhere and will eventually be returned to the gallery.’

‘I’d like to agree with you,’ said William, as Gino whisked away their empty bowls. ‘But no one else in the department agrees with me.’

‘Do they think it’s been destroyed?’ asked Beth. ‘I just can’t believe anyone could be that much of a philistine.’

‘Not even if it meant they avoided ending up in jail for several years?’

‘Does that mean you know who stole it?’

William didn’t reply, and was relieved when Gino reappeared with their main courses.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Beth. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. But if there’s ever anything I can do to help, please let me know.’

‘There is something you might be able to advise me on. We’ve recently come across an outstanding copy of The Syndics, and I wondered if you knew anyone who specializes in that kind of work?’

‘Not my field,’ admitted Beth. ‘I deal with dead artists, and then only if they’re Dutch or Flemish. But I assume you’ve already visited the Fake Gallery in Notting Hill?’

‘Never heard of it,’ said William, as he touched his jacket pocket, searching for a notebook, quite forgetting that he wasn’t on duty.

‘They have a number of artists working for them who can knock up a fake of any master you require, living or dead.’

‘Is that legal?’

‘I’ve no idea. That’s your department,’ Beth said with a grin. ‘But if you’re not spending every waking hour trying to find my Rembrandt, you must be attempting to solve some even bigger crimes.’

‘The theft of a small phial of moon dust, and several signed copies of Winston Churchill’s The Second World War.’

‘Are you allowed to tell me more?’

Beth couldn’t stop laughing when William told her about Dr. Talbot and the American undersecretary. She even came up with a suggestion when he mentioned the fake Winston Churchill signed editions.

‘Perhaps you should be looking for an unsigned set, so you’ll be one step ahead of your forger.’

‘Good idea,’ said William, deciding not to tell her that was exactly what he’d been doing all day. ‘Perhaps we should meet regularly, as you should have been a detective.’

‘And you should clearly be giving lectures at the Fitzmolean.’

They both laughed.

‘How awkward first dates are,’ said William.

‘Is this a first date?’ asked Beth, giving him a warm smile.

‘I hope so.’

‘Coffee?’ asked Gino.

William didn’t notice the time slip by until Beth whispered, ‘I think the staff want to go home.’

He looked around to see that they were the last two customers in the restaurant, and quickly called for the bill.

‘Do you live nearby?’ he asked.

‘In Fulham. I share a flat with a friend. But don’t worry, I can catch a bus from here.’

‘I can’t afford the bus fare,’ said William after looking at the bill. ‘So can I walk you home?’

‘I hope we’ll see you again soon, signorina,’ said Gino as he opened the door for them.

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ said Beth, returning his grin.

William took her hand as they crossed the road, and they didn’t stop chatting about nothing, about everything, until they reached Beth’s front door, when he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. As she put her key in the lock he asked, ‘Would you like to come to the Fake Gallery with me?’

‘Are you ever off duty, Detective Constable Warwick?’ she asked.

‘Not while there’s an outside chance I’ll find your Rembrandt, Miss Rainsford.’