On waking in the morning, Stephen began to do a little more research. He started with a close study of the way the university was administered. He visited the Vice-Chancellor’s office in the Clarendon Building, where he spent some time asking strange questions of his personal secretary, Miss Smallwood. She was most intrigued. He then left for the office of the University Registrar, where he was equally inquisitive. He ended the day by visiting the Bodleian Library, and copying out some of the University Statutes. Among other outings during the next fourteen days was a trip to the Oxford tailors, Shepherd and Woodward, and a full day at the Sheldonian Theatre to watch the brief ceremony as a batch of students took their Bachelor of Arts degrees. Stephen also studied the layout of the Randolph, the largest hotel in Oxford. This he took some considerable time over, so much so that the manager became inquisitive and Stephen had to leave before he became suspicious. His final trip was a return journey to the Clarendon to meet the Secretary of the University Chest, and to be taken on a guided tour of the building by the porter. Stephen warned him that he anticipated showing an American around the building on the day of Encaenia, but remained vague.
‘Well, that won’t be easy...’ began the porter. Stephen carefully and deliberately folded a pound note and passed it to the porter ‘...though I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out, sir.’
In between his trips all over the university city, Stephen did a lot of thinking in the big leather chair and a lot more writing at his desk. By the fourteenth day his plan was perfected and ready for presentation to the other three. He had put the show on the road, as Harvey Metcalfe might have said, and he intended to see it had a long run.
Robin rose early on the morning after the Oxford dinner, and avoided awkward questions from his wife at breakfast about his experience the night before. He traveled up to London as soon as he could get away, and on arrival in Harley Street was greeted by his efficient secretary-cum-receptionist, Miss Meikle.
Elspeth Meikle was a dedicated, dour Scot who looked upon her work as nothing less than a vocation. Her devotion to Robin, not that she ever called him that even in her own mind, was obvious for all to see.
‘I want as few appointments as possible over the next fourteen days, Miss Meikle.’
‘I understand, Dr Oakley,’ she said.
‘I have some research to carry out and I don’t want to be interrupted when I’m alone in my study.’
Miss Meikle was somewhat surprised. She had always thought of Dr Oakley as a good physician, but had never known him in the past to overindulge in research work. She padded off noiselessly in her white-shod feet to admit the first of a bunch of admirably healthy ladies to Dr Oakley’s clinic.
Robin disposed of his patients with less than dignified speed. He went without lunch and began the afternoon by making several telephone calls to the Boston Infirmary and several to a leading gastroenterologist for whom he had been a houseman at Cambridge. Then he pressed the buzzer to summon Miss Meikle.
‘Could you pop around to H. K. Lewis for me, Miss Meikle, and put two books on my account. I want the latest edition of Polson and Tattersall’s Clinical Toxicology and Harding Rain’s book on the bladder and abdomen.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, quite unperturbed at the thought of interrupting her lunchtime sandwich to fetch them.
They were on his desk before he had completed his calls, and he immediately started reading long sections of them carefully. The following day he canceled his morning clinic and went to St Thomas’s Hospital to watch two of his old colleagues at work. His confidence in the plan he had formulated was growing. He returned to Harley Street and wrote some notes on the techniques he had observed that morning, much as he had done in his student days. He paused to remember the words Stephen had used:
‘Think as Harvey Metcalfe would. Think for the first time in your life, not as a cautious professional man, but as a risk taker, as an entrepreneur.’
Robin was tuning in to Harvey Metcalfe’s wavelength, and when the time came he would be ready for the American, the Frenchman and the lord. But would they be willing to fall in with his plan? He looked forward to their meeting.
Jean-Pierre returned from Oxford the next day. None of the youthful artists had greatly impressed him, though he had felt that Brian Davis’s still life showed considerable promise and had made a mental note to keep an eye on his future work. When he arrived back in London he started, like Robin and Stephen, on his research. A tentative idea that had come to him in the Eastgate Hotel was beginning to germinate. Through his numerous contacts in the art world he checked all the buying and selling of major Impressionist paintings over the previous twenty years and made a list of the pictures which were currently thought to be on the market. He then contacted the one person who held it in his power to set his plan in motion. Fortunately the man whose help he most needed, David Stein, was in England and free to visit him: but would he fall in with the plan?
Stein arrived late the following afternoon and spent two hours with Jeane-Pierre privately in his little room in the basement of the Lamanns Gallery. When he left Jean-Pierre was smiling to himself. A final afternoon spent at the German Embassy in Belgrave Square, followed by a call to Dr Wormit of the Preussischer Kulturbesitz in Berlin and a further one to Mme. Tellegen at the Rijksbureau in The Hague, gave him all the information he required. Even Metcalfe would have praised him for the final touch. There would be no relieving the French this time. The American and the Englishman had better be up to scratch when he presented his plan.
On waking in the morning the last thing James had on his mind was an idea for outwitting Harvey Metcalfe. His thoughts were fully occupied with more important things. He telephoned Patrick Lichfield at home.
‘Patrick?’
‘Yes,’ mumbled a voice.
‘James Brigsley.’
‘Oh, hello, James. Haven’t seen you for some time. What are you doing waking a fellow up at this filthy hour?’
‘It’s 10 am, Patrick.’
‘Is it? It was the Berkeley Square Ball last night and I didn’t get to bed until four. What can I do for you?’
‘You took a picture for Vogue of a girl whose first name was Anne.’
‘Summerton,’ said Patrick without hesitation. ‘Got her from the Stacpoole Agency.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘No idea,’ said Patrick. ‘I thought she was awfully nice. She just thought I wasn’t her type.’
‘Obviously a woman of taste, Patrick. Now go back to sleep.’ James put the phone down.
Anne Summerton was not listed in the telephone directory — so that ploy had failed. James remained in bed, scratching the stubble on his chin, when a triumphant look came into his eye. A quick flip through the S-Z directory revealed the number he required. He dialed it.
‘The Stacpoole Agency.’
‘Can I speak to the manager?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Lord Brigsley.’
‘I’ll put you through, my lord.’
James heard the phone click and the voice of the manager.
‘Good morning, my lord. Michael Stacpoole speaking. Can I help you?’
‘I hope so, Mr Stacpoole. I have been let down at the last moment and I’m looking for a model for the opening of an antique shop and I’ll need a classy sort of a bird. You know the kind of girl.’
James then described Anne as if he had never met her.
‘We have two models on our books who I think would suit you, my lord,’ offered Stacpoole. ‘Pauline Stone and Anne Summerton. Unfortunately, Pauline is in Birmingham today for the launching of the new Allegro car and Anne is completing a toothpaste session in Oxford.’