40
‘I RECEIVED THIS communiqué yesterday morning from Philip Matthews, our ambassador in Argentina,’ said the cabinet secretary, handing out copies to everyone seated around the table. ‘Please read it carefully.’
After Sir Alan had received the sixteen-page communiqué from Buenos Aires on his ticker tape machine, he’d spent the rest of the morning checking each paragraph carefully. He knew that what he was looking for would be secreted among the reams of trivia about what Princess Margaret had been up to on her official visit to the city.
He was puzzled about why the ambassador had invited Martinez to the royal garden party, and even more surprised to discover that he had been presented to Her Royal Highness. He assumed that Matthews must have had a good reason for flouting protocol in this way, and hoped there wasn’t a photograph filed away in some newspaper cuttings library to remind everyone of the occasion at some time in the future.
It was just before midday when Sir Alan came across the paragraph he’d been searching for. He asked his secretary to cancel his lunch appointment.
Her Royal Highness was gracious enough to bring me up to date on the result of the first Test match at Lord’s, wrote the ambassador. What a splendid effort by Captain Peter May, and such a pity that he was run out unnecessarily at the last minute.
Sir Alan looked up and smiled at Harry Clifton, who was also engrossed in the communiqué.
I was delighted to learn that Arthur Barrington will be returning for the second Test in Southampton on Sunday 23rd June, because with a test average of just over 8, it could make all the difference for England.
Sir Alan had underlined the words Arthur, Sunday, Southampton, and the number 8, before he continued reading.
However, I was puzzled when HRH told me that Tate would be a welcome edition at No. 5, but she assured me that no less a figure than John Rothenstein, the director of cricket, had told her, which had me thinking.
The cabinet secretary underlined Tate, No. 5, edition and Rothenstein, before he continued reading.
I shall be returning to London in Auguste, well in time to see the last Test at Millbank, so let us hope by then we’ve won the series of nine. And, by the way, that particular pitch will need a two-ton roller.
This time Sir Alan had underlined Auguste, Millbank, nine and two-ton. He was beginning to wish he’d taken a greater interest in cricket when he was at Shrewsbury, but then he’d been a wet bob, not a dry bob. However, as Sir Giles, who was sitting at the end of the table, had been awarded an Oxford cricket blue, he was confident that the intricacies of leather upon willow were about to be explained to him.
Sir Alan was pleased to see that everyone appeared to have finished reading the communiqué, although Mrs Clifton was still making notes.
‘I think I’ve worked out most of what our man in Buenos Aires is trying to tell us, but there are still one or two niceties that are eluding me. For example, I’ll need some help on Arthur Barrington, because even I know the great Test batsman is called Ken.’
‘Sebastian’s middle name is Arthur,’ said Harry. ‘So I think we can assume that he will be arriving in Southampton on Sunday June the twenty-third, because Test matches are never played on a Sunday, and there isn’t a Test ground at Southampton.’
The cabinet secretary nodded.
‘And eight must be how many million pounds the ambassador thinks is involved,’ suggested Giles from the far end of the table, ‘because Ken Barrington’s Test average is over fifty.’
‘Very good,’ said Sir Alan, making a note. ‘But I’m unable to explain why Matthews misspelt addition as edition, and August as Auguste.’
‘And Tate,’ said Giles. ‘Because Maurice Tate used to bat for England at number nine, certainly not number five.’
‘That also had me stumped,’ said Sir Alan, amused by his own little play on words. ‘But can anyone explain the two misspellings?’
‘I think I can,’ said Emma. ‘My daughter Jessica is an artist, and I remember her telling me that many sculptors cast nine editions of their work, which are then stamped and numbered. And the spelling of Auguste hints at the identity of the artist.’
‘I’m still none the wiser,’ said Sir Alan, and from the expressions around the table, it was clear that he was not alone.
‘It has to be Renoir or Rodin,’ said Emma. ‘And as it wouldn’t be possible to conceal eight million pounds in an oil painting, I suspect you’ll find it’s been hidden in a two-ton sculpture by Auguste Rodin.’
‘And is he hinting that Sir John Rothenstein, the director of the Tate Gallery on Millbank, will be able to tell me which sculpture?’
‘He’s already told us,’ said Emma triumphantly. ‘It’s one of the words you failed to underline, Sir Alan.’ Emma was unable to resist a smirk. ‘My late mother would have spotted it long before I did, even on her death bed.’
Both Harry and Giles smiled.
‘And what word did I fail to underline, Mrs Clifton?’
No sooner had Emma answered the question, than the cabinet secretary picked up the phone by his side and said, ‘Call John Rothenstein at the Tate, and make an appointment for me to see him this evening after the gallery has closed.’
Sir Alan put the phone down and smiled at Emma. ‘I’ve always been an advocate of employing more women in the Civil Service.’
‘I do hope, Sir Alan, that you’ll underline more and women,’ said Emma.
Sebastian stood on the upper deck of the Queen Mary and leaned over the railings as Buenos Aires receded in the distance until it looked like no more than a traced outline on an architect’s drawing board.
So much had happened in the short time since he’d been rusticated from Beechcroft, although he was still puzzled why his father had travelled all that way just to let him know he hadn’t lost his place at Cambridge. Wouldn’t it have been a lot easier just to phone the ambassador, who clearly knew Don Pedro? And why had the ambassador personally given him his passport, when Becky could have handed it to him at the reception desk? And even stranger, why had the ambassador wanted to know his middle name? He still didn’t have any answers to these questions by the time Buenos Aires had disappeared from sight. Perhaps his father would supply them.
He turned his thoughts to the future. His first responsibility, for which he had already been handsomely recompensed, was to ensure that Don Pedro’s sculpture passed smoothly through customs, and he didn’t intend to leave the dockside until Sotheby’s had picked it up.
But until then, he decided to relax and enjoy the voyage. He intended to read the last few pages of Officers and Gentlemen, and hoped he might find the first volume in the ship’s library.
Now that he was on the way home, he felt he should give some thought to what he could achieve in his first year at Cambridge that would impress his mother. That was the least he could do after all the trouble he’d caused.
‘The Thinker,’ said Sir John Rothenstein, the director of the Tate Gallery, ‘is considered by most critics to be one of Rodin’s most iconic works. It was originally designed to be part of The Gates of Hell, and was at first entitled The Poet, as the artist wished to pay homage to his hero, Dante. And such became the artist’s association with the piece that the maestro is buried under a cast of this bronze at Meudon.’
Sir Alan continued to circle the great statue. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Sir John, but is this the fifth of the nine editions that were originally cast?’
‘That is correct, Sir Alan. The most sought after works by Rodin are those that were cast in his lifetime by Alexis Rudier at his foundry in Paris. Since Rodin’s death, unfortunately in my opinion, the French government has allowed limited editions to be reproduced by another foundry, but these are not considered by serious collectors to have the same authenticity as the lifetime casts.’
‘Is it known where all the nine original casts are now?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the director. ‘Apart from this one, there are three in Paris – at the Louvre, the Musée Rodin, and the one at Meudon. There is also one at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, and another in the Hermitage in Leningrad, leaving three in hands of private collectors.’
‘Is it known who owns those three?’
‘One is in Baron de Rothschild’s collection, and another is owned by Paul Mellon. The whereabouts of the third has long been shrouded in mystery. All we know for certain is that it’s a lifetime cast and was sold to a private collector by the Marlborough Gallery some ten years ago. However, that shroud might finally be lifted next week.’
‘I’m not sure I’m following you, Sir John.’
‘A 1902 cast of The Thinker is coming under the hammer at Sotheby’s on Monday evening.’
‘And who owns that one?’ asked Sir Alan innocently.
‘I’ve no idea,’ admitted Rothenstein. ‘In the Sotheby’s catalogue, it’s simply listed as the property of a gentleman.’
The cabinet secretary smiled at the thought, but satisfied himself with, ‘And what does that mean?’
‘That the seller wishes to remain anonymous. It often turns out to be an aristocrat who doesn’t want to admit that he’s fallen on hard times and is having to part with one of the family’s heirlooms.’
‘How much would you expect the piece to fetch?’
‘It’s difficult to estimate, because a Rodin of this importance hasn’t come on the market for several years. But I would be surprised if it went for less than a hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Would a layman be able to tell the difference between this one,’ Sir Alan said, admiring the bronze in front of him, ‘and the one that’s coming up for sale at Sotheby’s?’
‘There is no difference,’ said the director, ‘other than the cast number. Otherwise they are identical in every way.’
The cabinet secretary circled The Thinker several more times before he tapped the massive mound the man was sitting on. He was now in no doubt where Martinez had secreted the eight million pounds. He took a pace back and looked more closely at the bronze cast’s wooden base. ‘Would all nine casts have been fixed on the same kind of base?’
‘Not exactly the same, but similar, I suspect. Every gallery or collector will have their own opinion on how it should be displayed. We chose a simple oak base that we felt would be harmonious with its surroundings.’
‘And how is the base attached to the statue?’
‘For a bronze of this size, there would usually be four small steel lips moulded on to the inside of the bottom of the statue. Each will have had a hole drilled in it, through which a bolt and a bevelled rod can be lowered. Then all you have to do is drill four holes through the base, and attach it to the bottom of the statue with what are called butterfly screws. Any decent carpenter could do the job.’
‘So if you wanted to remove the base, all you would have to do is unscrew the butterfly bolts and it would become detached from the statue?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Sir John. ‘But why would anyone want to do that?’
‘Why indeed,’ said the cabinet secretary, allowing himself the suggestion of a smile. He now knew not only where Martinez had hidden the money, but how he intended to smuggle it into Britain. And, far more important, how he planned to be reunited with his ￡8 million in counterfeit five-pound notes without anyone becoming aware of what he was up to.
‘Clever man,’ he said as he gave the hollow bronze one final tap.
‘A genius,’ said the director.
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Sir Alan. But to be fair, they were talking about two different people.