EG02 - The Lost Gardens (20 page)

‘Oh, and it can make the sound of a siren, if you want,’ said Andrew, looking as pleased as Punch.

‘Heaven forbid,’said Kingston.

Bibendum, in the proto-art-deco Michelin building on the Fulham Road, had its usual high-energy lunchtime buzz. Tables of wine-sipping, well-dressed business types competed with the chirp and chatter from isolated drifts of tourists, cranking up a decibel level that was red needling. Settled in at their table, each with a glass of wine, Andrew and Kingston had just finished studying the menu.

‘So, what’s this place you’re going to this afternoon?’ Andrew asked, sliding the two menus to the edge of the table.

‘The Art Loss Register. It’s been in operation for about fourteen years. They have offices in several cities around the world now.’

‘And they track down stolen art?’

‘That’s a big part of what they do. Their other function is to locate and return to the rightful owners works of art that were lost or looted during and after the Second World War. I looked them up on the Internet. They have a database of over 150,000 items, all stolen or missing.’

‘That’s a lot of loot!’

‘I know. It’s been called the most systematic government-supported art robbery in history. The strange thing about it is that many of the stolen items were well documented. Not only was there no attempt to conceal their activities, the Nazis actually kept track of their entire haul on—if you can believe it—index cards that meticulously described each work.’

‘That doesn’t sound too bright,’ said Andrew, trying to catch the waiter’s eye.

Kingston shrugged. ‘I suppose it didn’t occur to them that they might lose the war and have to give them back one day.’

The waiter finally arrived and took their orders.

‘Where were we?’ asked Kingston, after the waiter had left.

‘Keeping records.’

‘Right. I read that a typical card of one of the major SS art-plundering outfits would list the name of the piece, its dimensions, the artist’s name, scholarly notes on the significance of the work and sometimes—believe it or not—where and from whom it was stolen. They had lists of paintings from all over Europe and knew exactly where they were, and which ones they wanted.’

‘That’s unbelievable. I take it a lot of the art belonged to victims of the Holocaust?’

‘Absolutely. From private collections and from pre-war victims of Hitler’s Third Reich.’

‘Are we talking about masterpieces?’

‘Most definitely. Da Vinci, Botticelli, Titian, you name it. A lot of the French Impressionists, too. All museum quality stuff.’ Kingston paused for a moment. ‘As a matter of fact, sad to say, many of the finest and most reputable art collections around the world are filled with stolen artwork. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’ Andrew smiled. ‘So what’s going on, Lawrence? Have you turned up a missing masterpiece?’

‘No, not exactly. But I may be on to something down in Somerset and before I start shaking the trees I want to see if the Art Loss people can dig up some information for me on a French art dealer who was a partner of this Major Ryder chap I told you about, the one who left Jamie Gibson his estate.’

Andrew raised his eyebrows. ‘Quite mysterious!’

‘In a way it is, Andrew. During the war and afterwards a lot of artwork was smuggled out of Europe through neutral countries like Spain and Portugal and cities like Buenos Aires and Havana. I have a strong hunch that Ryder was involved in selling looted art but I need more information. I’ll let you know how it turns out.’

Andrew was smiling again. ‘How come you always manage to get yourself involved in these weird situations, Lawrence?’

Before Kingston could reply, the waiter arrived with their dishes.

The meal lasted another hour, finished off with pear sorbet and lattes.

Outside Bibendum, facing a curtain of grey drizzle blurred with crimson from the passing rumble of buses, they parted company and Kingston got a cab to the Art Loss Register offices, off Blackfriars Road.

As they shook hands, the crown of Jennifer Ingels’ shoulder-length blonde hair came barely level with Kingston’s chin. She was model-slender with a soap-commercial English complexion and a disarming smile; the blush in her cheeks definitely not from a brush. Expecting an older lady in a suit or a blouse and skirt, Kingston was at first taken aback at the trendy jacket over black turtleneck shirt and trousers. Somehow it belied her position of Public Affairs Director.

When Kingston had phoned, he had been careful how he phrased the reason for his visit. To come right out and say that several stolen French Impressionists might be hidden somewhere on an estate in Somerset could send off all kinds of alarms and if the press ever got wind of such a story all hell could break loose at Wickersham. It would undoubtedly mark an ignominious end to his employment and his relationship with Jamie would be damaged beyond repair. On the phone he had resorted to a couple of white lies and a salting of charm to gain this interview.

‘So, doctor.’ Jennifer Ingels leaned back, arms folded, in the black leather chair. ‘You have information about some stolen paintings.’

‘Possibly, yes.’

‘Tell me again, how did you learn about them?’

‘A friend of mine who used to live in Paris made the acquaintance of a French art dealer immediately after the war. He seems to think that the dealer, a man by the name of Girard—I don’t know his first name—could have gone into business with another person, an Englishman. I’m trying to find out who that person was and locate him. It has to do with an estate in the West Country that was recently inherited by an associate of mine.’

‘Do you have reason to believe that either of them was dealing in stolen art?’

‘I really can’t say. But if I can find this man, he might be able to answer that question for you.’ Kingston then gave her the bait. ‘If you want an educated guess, I believe he could, at the very least, provide valuable information on a number of art transactions that took place in the months and years right after the war. Whether these were all above board, who knows.’

‘So, what is it specifically that you’re asking me to do?’

‘Two things. One, to provide all the information you might have on the French dealer, Girard. And two, I’d like to get a list—if one exists, that is—of all the people in Paris, the dealers, the galleries, and anyone else who was buying and selling art from 1945 on.’

‘Just Paris.’

‘That’s right.’

She unfolded her arms and pulled herself close to her desk, picking up a pen. Ready to write, she eyed Kingston momentarily, then said, ‘I’ll see what I can do. First, why don’t you give me your full name and an address where you can be reached, fax number, e-mail—all that stuff.’

Kingston complied, as Jennifer Ingels wrote the information on the blue-lined notepad in front of her.

At six thirty the next morning, Kingston locked the door to his flat with the shiny new key and walked to the garage. The drive back to Somerset would give him plenty of time to think about the string of things that had happened since he had first joined Jamie at Wickersham. It would be the first time in quite a while that he would have the luxury of several hours’ quiet uninterrupted thought.

He was still convinced that most, if not all, of the events were in some way connected. It would defy all odds if they weren’t. The burglaries in particular perplexed him. It seemed to be just too much of a coincidence that his flat and the cottage had been broken into within the span of a few weeks. But if the two
were
connected, perpetrated by the same person or persons, what on earth were they looking for at the flat? Certainly not missing French paintings.

As the traffic started to back up approaching the exits to Heathrow he gave up thinking about it. Andrew was probably right, he concluded. It was just one of those bizarre coincidences.

Pulling into the courtyard at Wickersham, Kingston saw Dot standing on the doorstep wringing her hands, the door open behind her. It was as if she had been watching and waiting for him. He pulled up and got out of the car, legs a little unsteady. As she approached he could see that she looked even grimmer than her customary stone-faced demeanour.

‘Mr Kingston. I’m so glad you’re back. Jamie’s been in an accident.’

Chapter Seventeen

With an economy of words—this was one time when Kingston appreciated her laconicism—Dot told him that Jamie’s car had run off the road into a ditch. She wasn’t seriously hurt and was being kept in the hospital in Taunton for X-rays and observation. Anticipating his reaction she handed him a note that gave the hospital address and precise directions.

Twenty-five minutes later, at three o’clock, Kingston was at Jamie’s bedside.

With the exception of a gash on her forehead and an ugly bruise on the cheekbone, she didn’t look too much the worse for wear. Her wincing at the slightest movement told him that she was in pain in spite of her reassurances of feeling all right. ‘Mostly aches and bruises, according to the nurse,’ she said, forcing a smile.

Jamie told him what had happened. The good news, she said, was that she wasn’t going very fast. Three or four miles after leaving the house she started to notice that the steering didn’t seem right. Her immediate thought was that one of the front tyres was going flat. She slowed down with the idea of limping to the nearest turnoff where she could pull over and take a look. Approaching a sharp curve she had to correct the steering. As she did so she heard a loud metallic noise, as if something had sheared or broken. The steering wheel now spun freely in her hands and the car was out of control. Seeing that the car was heading straight for the verge and a shallow dip in the grass beyond, she curled up into a ball, scrunching as far below the windshield as the seatbelt would allow. When the car finally bounced to a rest and she saw blood on her hands and on the dashboard her heart was beating a mile to the minute, she said.

Immediately a passing motorist came to her aid. He called 999 and within five minutes a police car was at the scene. Ten minutes after that an ambulance and a tow-truck arrived.

Kingston spent the next half-hour telling Jamie about what had happened at the flat, including Andrew’s canine gift. At least that made her smile. Kingston left, assuring her that he would pick her up the minute she was discharged. In the meantime, he would find out where they had taken her Volvo, and see if he could find out more about the failed steering. He left buoyed with a huge sense of relief, knowing that Jamie wasn’t seriously hurt but also with a sense of foreboding, praying that this was not another calculated incident meant to harm.

Back at Wickersham Kingston stopped by the cottage to change his clothes. In the living room, the answering machine light was flashing. The message—a brief one—was from Loftus. Considering the stroke, Kingston thought he sounded remarkably well—even chipper. In a minute or so Kingston had him on the line. Loftus’s health took up the first minute or so of the conversation. He was taking physiotherapy and was back at his sister’s and doing ‘quite well thank you.’

‘Well, I’m delighted to hear you’re making such a good recovery. If you weren’t so far away I’d come and pay you another visit.’

‘I’d enjoy that,’ Art replied.

‘I have a question to ask you, Art. This is going to test your memory.’

‘What’s left of it.’

‘You said in your note—the one you sent me with the picture of Jeremy and Kit—that Jeremy was shot.’

‘Yeah, I remember that.’

‘This could be important. Do you remember where he was shot?’

Before Kingston had a chance to finish his question, Art replied.

‘Sure, I told you, it was in that Dutch town.’

Kingston smiled to himself. ‘I know that, Art. I should have phrased it better. I meant where on his body?’

‘Crikey—well, let me think a moment.’

While he waited, Kingston looked around the room. Seeing an empty vase on one of the window ledges, he made a mental note to buy some flowers for Jamie. Loftus came back on the line.

‘You know, I do remember, because his bandages were such a mess. Our medics had been killed and we were all pitchin’ in trying to take care of the wounded. Jeremy was one of them that couldn’t walk—’

‘Where was he wounded, Art?’

‘In the leg.’

‘Where was the bandage? Was it around his knee by any chance?’

Loftus mumbled something that Kingston couldn’t quite get, then said, ‘I wouldn’t swear to it but I think that’s where it was. Yeah, I think you’re right.’

‘Good man.’

‘Why is it so important, doctor?’

‘It’s too long a story to tell you on the phone but I promise you, Art, if I get to the bottom of it, I’ll come up to Nottingham and tell you all about it. If it’s what I think it is, you’re going to be very surprised.’

Kingston went to the bedroom and changed into more comfortable clothes: corduroy trousers, tattersall flannel shirt and an old cardigan that, over the years, had stretched up two sizes from the one on the label. Whenever he was in London—though he knew it was unnecessary in this day and age—he still felt obliged to wear more dressy clothes. He was half of a mind to take a nap before setting off for the village and a light supper at the Griffin. Instead, knowing he might well doze off for several hours, he decided to go up to the house to see if there was any mail and tell Dot about his visit to Jamie. Then he could get an early night.

Opening the cottage front door, he was almost face-on with the key rack on the wall. It wasn’t until a few seconds later, after he’d stepped through the door, that he realized something was wrong. The iron key to the chapel was on the wrong hook. There was no question about it. It always hung on the last hook. Now it was two hooks over. He took the key, put it in his trouser pocket, closed the door and walked up to the house.

He found Dot in the kitchen, ironing sheets.

‘How is Jamie?’ she asked, standing the iron on end.

He dragged a chair out from the pine table and sat down. ‘She seems to be fine, thank God. A bit bruised and a nasty gash on her head but nothing’s broken. They’re going to keep her in overnight but she’s going to be okay. She’s in good spirits.’