Seventy-Seven Clocks(7)

‘I am most certainly not a member of the public,’ said the man, hiking his endless scarf about his neck like the coils of a particularly drab snake. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Arthur Bryant, and you’ve just allowed your criminal to escape.’

George Stokes stared unhappily from the tall windows like a man preparing to face the scaffold. He was obviously concerned for the future security of his position.

Arthur Bryant crossed the floor of the gloomy staffroom and stood beside him. ‘How’s the nose?’ he asked.

‘A bit bruised,’ said Stokes, gingerly touching his tissue-filled nostril. ‘The poor lad, though. Fancy being shot at.’

‘He’ll be fine. The bullet just nicked the top of his arm. Went on to make a nasty little hole in a still life by Peter de Wint.’

‘You don’t understand, Mr Bryant,’ said Stokes, watching the rain sweep across the deserted square below. ‘We’re the custodians of the treasures of the empire. The paintings housed here form part of the very fabric of our heritage. They are entrusted to us, and we have failed to maintain that trust.’

‘Human beings are fallible creatures, Mr Stokes. We never attain the perfection of those exquisite likenesses in the gallery. This sort of vandalism has occurred before, hasn’t it?’ Bryant shucked off his sepia scarf and draped it over a chair. He turned back to the steaming mugs on the table and withdrew a silver hip flask from his overcoat, pouring a little cherry brandy into each.

The police were clearing away the mess downstairs, and several agitated members of the board were already waiting to speak to their head guard. Bryant wanted to interview Stokes while the guard’s memory was fresh, before the recollection of the event had hardened into a much-repeated statement.

‘Yes, it has happened before. The da Vinci Madonna was damaged. There have been other small acts of violence toward the paintings.’ Stokes shook his head in bewilderment. ‘The people who do these things must be deranged.’

‘And do you think this gentleman was deranged?’

Stokes thought for a moment, turning from the window. ‘No, actually I don’t.’

‘Why not? You say he had an odd manner of speaking.’

‘His speech was archaic. He looked and sounded like a proper old gentleman. Turn of the century. Funny sort of an affectation to have in this day and age.’

Bryant pulled out a chair and they sat at the table. The detective made unobtrusive notes while the guard sipped his laced tea. ‘Was there something else apart from his speech that made you think of him as Edwardian?’

‘You must have glimpsed him yourself, Sir. His clothes were about seventy years out of date. When he first came in, he reminded me of someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Oh, nobody still alive. He looked like the painter John Ruskin. Because of the whiskers, you see.’

‘And he seemed to know his way around the building?’

‘He must have been familiar with the floor layout, because there’s only one exit from that side of the gallery and he ran towards it immediately after the attack. You just have to go through two rooms, thirty-four and fortyone, before reaching the stairs that lead down to one of the exits.’

‘You don’t think his act was one of arbitrary vandalism? He couldn’t have been equally happy, say, knocking the head from a statue?’

‘Oh, no, certainly not. I had the feeling he knew exactly where he was heading.’

‘Which was where?’

‘Toward the new Pre-Raphaelite exhibition in the British Rooms. He was looking for a specific painting in the exhibition. The acid went all over one picture.’ ‘Which one?’

‘The Favourites of the Emperor Honorius by John William Waterhouse. It’s quite a large canvas, but he covered the whole thing.’

‘I don’t know much about restoring,’ said Bryant. ‘Do you think they’ll be able to save it?’

‘It depends on the strength and type of acid used, I imagine. From an international point of view, this is very embarrassing for us, Mr Bryant,’ said the warden. ‘Many of the paintings in the show are on loan from the Commonwealth.’

‘Including the one that was attacked?’

Stokes nodded miserably.

‘Where had it come from?’

‘A gallery in Southern Australia. Adelaide, I believe.’

‘The painting is insured, though.’

‘That’s not the point.’ Stokes drained his mug and set it down. ‘It’s not a particularly important picture, but even so it’s quite irreplaceable. If it can’t be saved, Mr Bryant, a piece of history has been eradicated for ever.’