‘So which artists should I be looking out for now, remembering my salary?’ William asked.
‘Diana Armfield, Craigie Aitchison, and Sydney Harpley. You’ll find them all in the RA’s Summer Exhibition.’
William made a note of the names.
Over lunch William had jokingly suggested that they substitute a few grains of sand from Blackpool beach for the moon dust, as he was confident that the American undersecretary wouldn’t know the difference. Talbot had laughed, but pointed out that his opposite number at the Smithsonian certainly would, even though he’d probably never been to Blackpool.
William finally opened his RA Magazine to check which exhibitions were coming up that he couldn’t afford to miss. He selected three, circled them, and put the dates in his diary: Picasso, the early years; Hockney’s California or bust; and the annual Summer Exhibition at the RA, where he would check out the three artists Dr. Talbot had recommended. But they were all quickly forgotten when he turned the page to find that Dr. Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean, would be giving a lecture on the history of the museum, followed by a guided tour, in a couple of weeks’ time. Tickets were five pounds, and only fifty people would be admitted. He wondered if Mrs. Walters would consider that a legitimate expense. Either way, he wasn’t going to miss it.
William didn’t sleep that night, although his only companion was a locked briefcase. He would have liked to tear up both copies of the release form, but he accepted that the Americans would get their way in the end.
William didn’t go straight to Scotland Yard the following morning, but took the tube to Green Park, before walking across to New Bond Street. He was standing outside the auction house long before a porter opened the doors at nine o’clock.
Melanie Clore studied Dr. Talbot’s signature carefully, and compared it to the one on the sale document, before she was willing to part with Lot 19. She then disappeared to collect the phial from its safe, returning a few minutes later.
William couldn’t believe it when he saw the phial for the first time. It was smaller than his little finger. He wrapped it in a tissue before putting it back in the box. More forms to sign before he could leave and make his way to Grosvenor Square. He climbed the steps of the American Embassy fifteen minutes later and reported to a marine sergeant on the front desk. He asked to see Mr. Underwood.
‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’
‘No,’ he said, producing his warrant card.
The marine pressed three buttons on his phone, and when a voice came on the line he repeated William’s request.
‘I’m afraid the undersecretary is in a meeting at the moment, but he could fit Mr. Warwick in at four this afternoon.’
‘Tell him I’ve got his moon dust,’ said William.
He could hear a voice saying, ‘Send him up.’
William took the lift to the fourth floor, to find the undersecretary standing in the corridor waiting for him. They shook hands before Underwood said, ‘Good morning, detective,’ but didn’t speak again until he’d closed the door of his office. ‘You move quite quickly for an Englishman.’
William didn’t respond, but opened his briefcase and took out the little box. He opened it, unwrapped the tissue slowly, and like a conjurer, revealed the phial of moon dust.
‘That’s it?’ said Underwood in disbelief.
‘Yes, sir,’ said William as he handed over the cause of so much trouble.
‘Thank you,’ said Underwood, placing the box on his desk. ‘I’ll be sure to get in touch with you again should any other problems arise.’
‘Not unless someone’s stolen one of your nuclear warheads,’ said William.
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.