Stones of Treason Page 3

  Two-thirds of the way along the corridor, a door was open. Edward was shown in. The office, cluttered with secretaries on weekdays, was empty just now but an inner doorway was also open and through it Edward could see Francis Mordaunt on a sofa reading a newspaper.

  ‘In here!’ Mordaunt shouted, folding the paper and springing to his feet. He thanked the woman, who retreated into the corridor and closed the door behind her. Mordaunt made sure that the door was shut, then turned, shook Edward’s hand and, in the same movement, led him towards the sofa. ‘No coffee, I’m afraid. Saturday. Water?’

  ‘Thanks, no.’

  The room was bright. It had a round bay-window overlooking the gardens, the pond and the top half of the Hilton Hotel. Inside, it was festooned with photographs. Francis Mordaunt – Sir Francis, of course, knights bachelor being as numerous in the palace these days as royal mistresses were in more interesting times – came of a good West Country family, with aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, godchildren and pets, all of which were represented somewhere in this room. It was also immaculately tidy. No piles of papers rising like Hong Kong tenement buildings. But then Mordaunt did have three secretaries.

  He sat on the sofa next to Edward. Mordaunt was a slight man and today he was dressed casually. He was wearing a blazer, a white shirt with no tie, a pair of pale-grey flannels and brown handmade brogues. The darkness of the blazer made him look pale as well as slight. On a first encounter, you might be tempted into thinking that the equerry had no presence.

  Edward knew that to be mistaken. Mordaunt’s grey eyes could go very cold if he was crossed. His tenacity was legendary, and his earlier training as a diplomat meant he could see all angles to a problem at the same time, usually before everyone else. He had been equerry for nearly two decades.

  ‘Now,’ said Mordaunt, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and polishing his spectacles. ‘I’m told you have been sent a picture anonymously, which may have been stolen by the Nazis in the Second World War.’

  ‘Another arrived this morning.’

  The polishing stopped, but only for a moment. ‘Tell me everything, from the beginning.’

  Edward repeated his narrative, bringing Mordaunt right up to date with that morning’s arrival. ‘It was wrapped in the same paper as the other one, with the same writing. This second picture looks to me like a Canaletto. It’s a view of Venice … canals, palazzos, the usual mix.’

  ‘And was this looted by the Nazis too?’

  Edward shook his head. ‘I don’t know. There hasn’t been time to check.’

  ‘Was there a note this time?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got it here.’ He reached into his jacket, took out an envelope and passed it to Mordaunt. As before there was just his name typed on the outside and as before the sheet inside contained two lines:

  THIS SHOULD SETTLE OUR CREDENTIALS.

  AS YOU CAN SEE, THEY WERE NOT DESTROYED. THE APOLLO BRIGADE.

  ‘I’ll keep this, if I may,’ said Mordaunt, folding the paper, sliding it back into its envelope and slipping it into his blazer pocket.

  There was no point in Edward contradicting him. ‘Have you any idea what this is all about? Or what the “Apollo Brigade” is?’

  Instead of answering, Mordaunt asked a question himself. ‘How many people know about all this? You, the Lord Chamberlain, Arran at the National Gallery, this Ramsay chap. Your secretary –?’

  Edward shook his head. ‘She’s seen the Raphael, but she’s not aware of its significance.’ He eyed the equerry. ‘Come to that, neither am I.’

  Mordaunt still didn’t bite. ‘How soon can you confirm that this second picture is Nazi loot?’

  ‘As soon as I can contact Martin Ramsay. He has a book, a dossier really, issued by the Italian and German governments in the 1970s. It lists all the major works of art which both governments agree were looted in the war and are still missing.’

  ‘Can you do that over the weekend?’

  ‘I can try, if it’s that urgent.’

  ‘It’s that urgent,’ hissed Mordaunt.

  ‘I’ve got Arran’s home phone number and he’ll have Ramsay’s. Look, Francis, isn’t this a matter for Scotland Yard –?’

  ‘You haven’t alerted them, have you?’ Mordaunt looked startled.

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Thank God for that! This is a Palace matter, Edward, and must remain within the household, at least for the time being. Until I say otherwise. You are to tell no one what you have told me. No one. When you contact this … Ramsay, don’t even mention the second picture. Think up some excuse, about the first picture maybe. Try to get the dossier out of him without giving any more away. Leave everything else to me. I’m going to assume for the moment that this second picture was looted in the war. But the minute you find out for certain I want you to let me know. What are your plans for the weekend?’

  Edward hesitated. The force of Mordaunt’s reaction when he had mentioned Scotland Yard had unsettled him. There hadn’t been a chance before to say that he had also told Nancy about the pictures. Now he wasn’t sure that he could bring himself to do it. ‘I’m going to Yorkshire, to visit friends. I was going last night.’

  Mordaunt bit his lip. ‘No. At least … what I mean is: seeing Ramsay must come first.’

  Edward began to protest but Mordaunt cut him short. ‘I’m sorry but I shall be cancelling my plans too. If you can find Ramsay quickly – fine. Have your weekend. But whatever happens I shall definitely need you at your desk first thing on Monday, at nine. Just in case.’

  ‘Just in case of what, Francis? You’re making no sense.’

  Mordaunt looked away, got up and went to stand by the window. ‘You don’t need to know yet, Edward. So I can’t say. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to take my word for it that this is a Palace matter – and very important.’ He stood for a moment, still gazing across the gardens. In the distance the sound of an ambulance carried on the air.

  Suddenly Mordaunt broke his reflective mood and turned back to Edward. ‘Now, off you go and chase down this Ramsay character.’ As Edward got to his feet, he added, ‘And don’t forget to keep the two pictures locked up safely. We don’t want to lose them. Can you find your own way back to Buckingham Gate?’

  Edward nodded and waved a feeble farewell. Mordaunt was by now seated at his desk, his blazer unbuttoned and his hand on the telephone. ‘Will you close the door behind you, please.’

  Edward drew the door shut gently. One of the many little things he had grown to like about the inside of Buckingham Palace, which was not his favourite building from the outside, was the solid doors, which slotted into place as crisply as the breach in a shotgun.

  As Mordaunt’s door clicked shut, Edward could hear the equerry already speaking into the phone. ‘Windsor switchboard? Francis Mordaunt here. I wish to be connected with Her Majesty. Find her, wherever she is. Tell her it’s me and that the matter is urgent.’

  5

  Sunday

  When Edward did, finally, contact Ramsay, he was in despair and very angry. Mordaunt’s request – Mordaunt’s diktat – had ruined his weekend. Ramsay, it turned out, had spent Saturday in, of all places, Yorkshire. But Edward had been unable to reach him and so had himself been confined to London.

  Nancy had been surprisingly forgiving, when he had phoned her with the news. ‘I’m a lousy Yank, don’t forget,’ she had said with a chuckle. ‘For us, work always comes first. Mordaunt is sure as hell acting like royalty himself.’

  ‘And why won’t he tell me anything?’ Edward had fumed. ‘What is it about these pictures?’

  ‘I’m not a great Canaletto fan, are you, Woodie?’ asked Nancy. ‘His people are just cartoons.’

  ‘They don’t move you, I agree. But put a Canaletto in a room, a view of Venice or the Thames, for example, and you get a wonderful feeling of space.’ Edward sighed. ‘That was clever, getting me on to art. I’m coming off the boil.’

  ‘Call me tomorrow,’ said Nancy softly
. ‘After you find this Ramsay guy. The phone is better than nothing.’

  No sooner had he put the phone down on Nancy than it rang. He snatched at it; was it Ramsay at last?

  ‘Can you hear me, Edward?’ No, it was his father.

  ‘Yes, Dad. Fine. Where are you?’

  ‘Overbister.’

  ‘Over where?’

  His father chuckled. ‘It’s in the Orkneys. We’ve been looking at rare birds. I’m staying with Roddy Dunne and Marjorie – you remember: he’s number two at the RAF base up here, at Sanday. But we’ll be in London on Wednesday – I’m looking at a Ferrari GTO you might like to see.’

  Almost the only thing Edward and his father had in common was their love of cars.

  ‘What year?’

  ‘Nineteen sixty-two.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Edward need no reminding that 1962 GTOs were as rare as Orkney birds and far more expensive.

  ‘Coxwold Cars, Eaton Mews West. Wednesday at twelve. We can have lunch afterwards.’

  ‘I shall be in Paris, Dad. A conference at the Louvre.’

  ‘Damn! We’re going back to California next morning.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, I am too.’ The phone went dead.

  Edward sighed. His father thought he didn’t like Barbra. It wasn’t true, but what was true was that, since he had met Barbra, Edward’s father had changed. He was trying to stave off old age and Edward found it embarrassing. The old man may well have thought the conference story a lie. Oh well. Edward cheered himself up by ordering the tickets for Sammy’s trip to the Albert Hall. He ordered four. Nancy could come too.

  It was late on Sunday morning before Ramsay answered his phone and early afternoon before he could meet Edward in his office at the National Gallery. As instructed by Mordaunt, Edward didn’t mention the Canaletto but instead pretended that others in the royal household wanted to see for themselves that the Raphael was indeed included in the list of Nazi looted pictures before deciding what to do.

  ‘What’s going to happen to it, Edward?’ Ramsay asked.

  Edward shrugged, as casually as he could. ‘It will be returned, of course – eventually. Some sort of diplomatic ceremony, I assume. You won’t say anything just yet, will you? There are inquiries to be made, and the Palace would like to make any announcement. You wouldn’t wish to embarrass us.’

  ‘Of course not. Don’t worry. You lend us too many pictures. But I’ll be interested to know what’s behind it all.’

  ‘You’ll know as soon as I do, I promise.’

  Ramsay said that Edward could borrow the book on looted pictures and he dropped it into the basket attached to the handlebars of his bike.

  He rode off down Pall Mall, but as soon as he was out of sight of Ramsay and the National Gallery he pulled over to the side of the road, by the Reform Club, and opened the book. On page 83 a view of Venice stared up at him. It had been looted from Parma in 1940 and had been painted by Antonio Canale, better known as Canaletto.

  That afternoon he tracked Mordaunt down at Windsor and confirmed the news. The equerry thanked him, warned him again not to discuss the matter, and rang off. Edward then called Nancy.

  She was out but phoned back in the evening. When she asked how he had got on, Edward didn’t know how to reply. ‘Mordaunt keeps swearing me to secrecy. You’d better forget anything I’ve told you.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about all that, anyway. Guess what I did today?’

  ‘You haven’t been at the chocolate again?’

  ‘That’s none of your goddam business. No, I saw the collection of death masks at Milton Rudby.’

  ‘Grisly.’

  ‘No! Fascinating. We should revive the practice – they’re much more immediate, more faithful, than portraits.’

  ‘I’d like a portrait of you, Nancy. I’m forgetting what you look like. When are you coming back?’

  ‘Another week up here, perhaps. Maybe we can do next weekend what we didn’t do this weekend.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s hope no more pictures turn up.’

  ‘What pictures? See – I’ve already forgotten. So long.’

  WEEK TWO

  The Apollo Brigade

  6

  Monday

  Edward was at his desk, as instructed, by nine o’clock. The weekend had been a washout but there was Paris to look forward to. He had already booked one dinner, at L’Ambroisie in the Place des Vosges where they did the best ravioli in the world, Italy not excepted. He spent part of the morning discussing his lecture with colleagues. Every time the phone rang he expected it to be Mordaunt but, by the time he went out for lunch, the equerry still hadn’t called.

  Edward was lunching with Thierry Dinant, a distinguished Belgian scholar from the Royal Museum in Brussels. Dinant had called Hillier about a week before but, on finding that the Director of the Royal Collection was in hospital, had invited Edward to Overton’s instead.

  Edward made his way there shortly after one. Dinant’s choice could not have been more convenient. The Belgian was tall and rather stern-looking, with thick glasses. He spoke perfect English. He was already seated at the table and greeted Edward warmly.

  ‘Monday’s not the ideal day for fish, I know. But I can never resist the whitebait here. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Edward shook his head. ‘You seem more of a regular here than I am – and my office is across the road.’ He smiled.

  ‘I have been travelling a lot recently, it’s true, and to England as much as anywhere. I’ll tell you why in a minute – but let’s order first.’

  Dinant caught the waiter’s eye and for a while he was engrossed in ordering the food. Edward was half amused and half comforted by the seriousness with which he did this. When he had finished, Dinant sat back on the banquette seating and looked at Edward.

  ‘How bad is Hillier?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He’s had an operation for two slipped discs. It’s a tricky business. Some people recover quickly – and completely. Some don’t. With him it’s too early to tell.’

  ‘I’ll deal with you, then.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I said I would explain why I have been travelling so much. For the last three years, besides my duties at the Royal Museum in Brussels, I have been head of something known as the Rubens Research Project. As you know, Rubens had a vast output and a large studio. Towards the end of his life he had gout. These facts taken together mean that there are inevitably certain pictures attributed to him that are nothing of the kind. It’s the task of the Rubens Research Project to separate the wheat from the chaff.’

  The waiter brought the wine and Dinant tried it.

  ‘Over the past months, I’ve been inspecting so-called Rubenses in – oh, Madrid, Milan, Melbourne, Moscow. Pleasant work but hard. I’ve also looked at the pictures in your Royal Collection.’

  At this, Edward flashed him a look. That must have been agreed with Hillier, for this was the first Edward had heard of it. What was coming?

  Dinant, who had been leaning forward, now sat back as the whitebait arrived. He squeezed lemon over them.

  ‘You … or should I say Her Majesty has a picture entitled The Three Marys at the Sepulchre. I’m sorry to say that my colleagues and I do not think this is by the master.’ He swallowed some whitebait.

  Edward had guessed what Dinant was going to say moments before he said it. He toyed with his food. How should he respond?

  Dinant spoke again. ‘I’m telling you this out of courtesy, of course. Our research report will not be published until next year. You may like to alert Her Majesty in advance and perhaps alter your own attribution in anticipation. I’m sure that some newspaper will make play with the idea that a Rubens in the Royal Collection is a fake.’

  Dinant showed no emotion as he said all this and he could not have guessed what was going on inside Edward’s head. All Edward said now was, ‘What is your evidence, Thierry?’

  Dinant pulled down the corners
of his mouth. ‘The picture is not mentioned in the letters. The minor figures, which in a real Rubens would have been painted by assistants, do not fit with the style of any known assistant, and the provenance is the same as one or two other pictures which we believe are fake.’

  Edward didn’t reply immediately but sipped some wine. Dinant was right about one thing: if the papers got hold of this they would have a field day. A fake in the Royal Collection! However, that wasn’t what concerned him most.

  ‘Hillier is not going to like it.’

  Dinant lowered his eyes. ‘I know. But I can’t help that. They are not his pictures. They couldn’t be sold anyway. We are not hurting anyone’s pocket.’

  ‘Yes – I see that. That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘What did you mean, then?’

  ‘It calls his scholarship into question. He is certain the Three Marys is a genuine Rubens.’

  ‘He is? I’m surprised. There must be – what? – two thousand pictures in the Royal Collection. He can’t be expected to know everything intimately.’

  ‘No … I agree with that. You’re a good scholar, Thierry, but there are certain things you don’t know.’