Murder at the Ashmolean Read online

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ snorted Grafton. ‘He’s no longer on the force and I want him arrested.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘On any charge. He’s interfering with a Special Branch investigation.’

  Clare fixed Grafton with a firm look, then said levelly, ‘Mr Wilson is a private citizen going about his lawful business. I’ve not heard of any crime he may have committed.’

  Grafton glared at the superintendent. ‘He threatened to kill me,’ he said. ‘That’s a serious charge.’

  ‘It is,’ said Clare. ‘Do you have witnesses to this threat?’

  Grafton hesitated. ‘No,’ he admitted.

  ‘So it would be your word against his.’

  ‘The word of a Special Branch inspector.’

  ‘Do you wish to press charges?’ asked Clare. ‘Making the case, and your name, public?’

  Grafton glowered at him, doing his best to contain his temper.

  ‘Are you deliberately obstructing a Special Branch investigation?’ he demanded.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Clare. ‘I’m doing what I’m paid to do, which is to uphold the law in Oxford and protect its citizens.’ He looked coldly at Grafton, then said, ‘Perhaps you’d enlighten me on the investigation you are carrying out here in the city. It cannot be to do with the death of Mr Everett because I was informed by telegram from the War Office that the verdict of suicide was sound and there was to be no further investigation. Or do you have contrary information that would mean us reopening the case?’

  ‘Listen—’ snarled Grafton, but he was cut short by Clare grating at him, ‘No, you listen. You may be from Special Branch, but you are an inspector, and as a superintendent, I outrank you. You do not come here and give me orders as if I was just some lackey. If you have an official request to make for action by my men, backed by evidence, then tell me what it is and we’ll do our best to comply. Otherwise, get the hell out of my police station.’

  Grafton swallowed hard, glaring at Clare.

  ‘You have just made a very big mistake, Superintendent,’ he hissed. ‘You’ll be hearing from my superiors.’

  ‘And they’ll be hearing from me with a complaint about a rude, ill-mannered lout of an inspector who doesn’t know how to conduct himself when addressing a superior officer. I wish you good day.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Abigail stood by the open display case, the plate in her hands, watched by Gladstone Marriott and Hugh Thomas with expressions of horror on their faces. An attendant stood guard at the temporary barrier that had been set up to stop the public from coming into the Egyptian Rooms.

  ‘A f-fake?’ stammered Marriott hoarsely.

  ‘Or, more exactly, a copy of the original, I suspect. But not an old one, and not Egyptian. It’s recent and made in this country. Which means, yes, I’m afraid it’s a fake.’

  Marriott stared at the plate, then at her.

  ‘But … but …’ he stammered. He gulped hard. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely certain,’ said Abigail. She pointed at the areas of blue paint in the design. ‘It was the blue that first caught my attention. The ancient Egyptians used lapis lazuli for decoration, which gives a very intense ultramarine blue. It was highly prized and very expensive. Only the highest classes in Egyptian society could afford it, so it was a statement of wealth. I’ve observed many examples of lapis lazuli decoration both when I was in Egypt, and also in some of the pieces we received when I was curating Egyptian relics at the Fitzwilliam. This blue, however, is just an ordinary commercial blue paint, the sort that can be found in any modern hardware store.’

  She turned the plate over and showed the underside to Marriott and Thomas. ‘What’s worse, and the final incontrovertible proof, is this.’ She tapped a patch in the middle of the underside where the white surface had been scratched to reveal long gouges in the clay beneath. ‘I hate to say it, but this is just an ordinary commercial plate available in many shops. The mark here is where the maker’s stamp had been removed.’ She turned it over to show the decorated side again. ‘This is a modern copy of an ancient Egyptian design. Locked behind a glass case, there’s no reason for anyone to examine it closely; unless, like me, they have made a study of ancient Egyptian lapis lazuli decoration.’

  Marriott’s face wore an expression of horror. ‘But … but … Are you sure it couldn’t have been sent, even as a copy, with a consignment from Egypt?’

  ‘No,’ said Abigail. ‘I have seen copies being illegally added to consignments in Egypt that are to be sent out to museums abroad, but even those can be identified as having been produced in Egypt by hand. I’m certain this kind of earthenware is the product of the potteries here in England. Which would suggest it was introduced into the glass case once the original ancient Egyptian plate had been removed. In other words, a switch.’

  Marriott’s face was ashen.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I’m having difficulty working out how it can have happened. The items in the glass case are under lock and key. How could someone make a copy of the original and then swap them over?’

  ‘I’m afraid it can only have been done with the connivance of someone with the key,’ said Abigail.

  ‘But only three of us have keys to the cases!’ burst out Marriott. ‘Myself, Mr Thomas, and Gavin Everett, when he was alive.’

  Abigail looked at the bewildered and horrified expression on the faces of the museum director and his chief steward, then said, ‘I think we may have stumbled upon a possible motive for Mr Everett’s death.’

  ‘You mean, he was involved in swapping original artefacts and replacing them with copies?’ said Marriott, shocked.

  ‘Well, if it wasn’t either of you who put it in the glass display case, that does only leave Everett.’

  ‘But … I’d have trusted him with everything here!’ He looked at her aghast, and then, clutching at straws, said imploringly, ‘Perhaps he did it unwittingly. He sent a piece for restoration, and when the criminal sent back a copy instead of the original, he put it into the glass case in good faith?’

  ‘Highly unlikely,’ said Abigail. ‘In daylight, no longer obscured by glass, any curator familiar with the items would have been suspicious about the blue and would have spotted that it wasn’t lapis lazuli on further inspection. Not to mention the fact that this is not an ancient piece of pottery but a modern plate. I can’t believe that someone like Mr Everett, with his museum experience, wouldn’t have noticed.’

  ‘But … but what can we do?’

  ‘I suggest the first thing is to examine the other items in this case and see if there are any other copies that have been introduced,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Others?’ echoed Marriott, and this time he went visibly pale and began to sway, and if Hugh Thomas hadn’t grabbed him quickly, he’d have fainted to the floor.

  Daniel left Kemp Hall police station with a feeling of frustration. Pitt hadn’t been available, the desk sergeant informing him that the inspector was out on an investigation. Daniel had left a note for Pitt asking him to call at the Ashmolean when it was convenient but adding ‘Not urgent’ at the end of his note. He knew from experience how busy the job of a police inspector was and he didn’t want to add to his burden unnecessarily. He was just leaving the yard and about to walk up the high street towards the Ashmolean, when he saw the familiar figure of Inspector Grafton leaving the police station.

  Immediately, Daniel was alert. He withdrew into the cover of a black police van and watched the inspector. There was no mistaking the very unhappy scowl on Grafton’s face as he stomped across the cobbled yard. So, whatever his mission had been, it had come to naught. But what had been his mission? There were two options, both connected to the death of Everett. The first was that Grafton was trying to find out information about Everett. The second was that he’d come to Kemp Hall to try and get Daniel and Abigail stopped from continuing their investigation, especially after what he’d said to Daniel at the Ashmolean. But he obviously hadn’t been successful.

  One thing that puzzled Daniel was why Grafton seemed to be acting on his own. There had been no sign of a sergeant accompanying him, and the usual practice for any Scotland Yard detective inspector on an official investigation was to have a detective sergeant with him. Again, the thought occurred to him that perhaps Grafton was acting unofficially. If so, who was he working for? The War Office seemed the most likely, in view of the telegram the Oxford police had received warning them off. But even so, Daniel would have expected Grafton to have a sergeant with him. But then, Special Branch often made up its own rules.

  Intrigued, Daniel set off in slow pursuit of the inspector, curious to see where he would go next. Fortunately, Grafton seemed deep in thought, so he didn’t look around to see if he was being followed. But then, Daniel supposed that Grafton didn’t consider the possibility that he might be followed here in Oxford.

  Daniel followed the inspector as he walked along the wide street that took him past the ancient sandstone university buildings, past the Bodleian, past the circular building that housed the Radcliffe Camera – thanks to Abigail he now had a basic grasp of the locations and purposes of some of the city’s ancient buildings – and then down a narrow street. At the end of the street, Grafton disappeared into an old building, going up the steps and past the high columns.

  Daniel arrived at the building, where a red and gold sign outside informed him it was the Swan Inn.

  Daniel mounted the steps and went in. There was a bustle of people inside, well-dressed men and women, some sitting at tables with pots of tea or coffee in front of them, some with alcoholic drinks. So, not so much an inn but a hotel.

  Daniel kept by the main door, his gaze sweeping the area, and only when he was certain that Grafto
n was not to be seen did he approach the reception desk.

  ‘Excuse me.’ He smiled at the clerk on duty. ‘I’m just checking if I have the right place. A friend of mine, Walter Grafton, told me he was coming to Oxford and would be staying at the Swan, but I forgot to ask him for the address, and I’ve discovered there are at least three establishments called the Swan in Oxford: yourselves, then there’s the Swan Hotel, and the Old Swan. I was wondering if he might be staying with you.’

  ‘Why yes, we do have a Mr Grafton staying with us,’ said the clerk. ‘In fact, he’s just arrived back and gone to his room. Would you like me to send a message up to him?’

  Daniel smiled again. ‘No, that’s fine. I don’t want to disturb him now. I said I’d see him later, and at least I now know I’ve got the right place. Which room is he in?’

  ‘Room 7, sir.’

  So now I know where he’s staying, thought Daniel with satisfaction as he left the inn.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Abigail was sitting at the desk in their temporary office when Daniel returned.

  ‘Ah, you’re back,’ she said. ‘How did it go with Inspector Pitt?’

  ‘It didn’t,’ he said. ‘Pitt was out, but I did find out where Inspector Grafton is staying.’

  ‘Will that help us?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Daniel. ‘But it’s always a good thing to know where your enemy is based.’

  ‘And Inspector Grafton is our enemy?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Daniel firmly. ‘How did you get on with Esther Maris?’

  ‘She’s going to look into Everett’s social life and see what she can uncover. But more importantly, I may have found a motive for Everett’s death.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Abigail told him about the fake ancient Egyptian plate she’d discovered.

  ‘I then found another three copies, one in the Egyptian Rooms and two in the Greek collection – all decorated plates. As you can imagine, Mr Marriott is petrified there’s even worse to come, that huge numbers of the items on display have been copied and the originals replaced. Sculptures. Costumes. Jewellery. I hope I was able to reassure him I think that’s unlikely. Most people who make fakes keep to one type of subject or style. What we found suggests it’s the decorated plates that might be suspect, rather than more ornate ceramics.’

  ‘Because it’s easier to paint a design on a plate than recreate a three-dimensional piece.’ Daniel nodded.

  ‘And cheaper,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Yes, we found that was the case with fakes and forgeries we uncovered when I was at Scotland Yard. There was one artist we caught doing his own versions of George Stubbs’ paintings of horses, and they weren’t bad. But horses were all he could do. He got caught because he tried to do a kangaroo, and it looked awful. He might have got away with it if he hadn’t put Stubbs’ signature on the painting. In this case, I wonder what’s happened to the originals?’

  ‘Sold, I expect,’ said Abigail. ‘To private collectors.’

  ‘By Gavin Everett?’

  ‘It couldn’t have been done without his involvement,’ said Abigail.

  ‘But how did he get them copied without anyone noticing?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Restorers,’ said Abigail. ‘All museums use restorers to bring a piece that may be damaged, or faded, back to life. It’s then replaced. But in this case, the restorer made a copy and it was the copy that was put back into the display case and the original sold. Which makes me think that some of the artefacts were stolen to order.’

  ‘Someone comes in, sees a piece they like, and approaches Gavin Everett about buying it.’

  Abigail nodded. ‘That’s the size of it, which means they have to know he’s corrupt.’

  ‘And perhaps one of his clients took umbrage at something that Everett did over one of these pieces. Perhaps Everett may have slipped him a fake rather than the genuine article, and – with no recourse to law – the angry client kills him.’

  ‘That’s one possibility,’ said Abigail. ‘But with fakery like this, there could be many other motives. Thieves falling out.’

  ‘That explains why this person with the alleged Shakespeare came to him, because word had spread that he’s in the market for fakes,’ said Daniel. ‘But how was he able to get away with it without being caught?’

  ‘By keeping his business small, only a very few trusted clients. And as for the copies not being spotted, why should they be? Behind glass, they look fine to the layperson’s eyes.’

  ‘So, what’s the next move?’

  ‘I asked Mr Marriott for the name of the restorer they use so that we could talk to him, but he wasn’t sure if Everett was still using the same one. Anyway, the restorer he mentioned is a Mr Ephraim Wardle, so I suggest we go and talk to him. If he did the work, he may have made the copies in all innocence.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Not necessarily. Everett asks him to make a copy of the original for – I don’t know – so they have a copy in case the original gets broken. The restorer doesn’t know the copy will be used as part of a scam to cheat the museum.’

  ‘I still think it’s unlikely,’ said Daniel. ‘The restorer would surely wonder why he was only asked to make copies of certain items and not others.’

  ‘I’m trying to give whoever the restorer was the benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proven guilty, remember.’

  ‘I think we’ll get an indication of guilty or innocent when we start asking him questions.’ He gave her an approving look. ‘Well, out of the pair of us you’ve been the busiest and most successful today.’

  ‘And there’s more,’ she said.

  ‘More?’

  Abigail produced the small card with the engraving of the quill pen on it and handed it to Daniel.

  ‘The undertakers returned the few possessions that were on Everett’s body. This was in his wallet.’

  Daniel studied the small card.

  ‘What’s it mean?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘I have no idea, and neither does Mr Marriott.’

  There was a tap at the door and they turned to see Inspector Pitt in the doorway.

  ‘I got your note when I got back to Kemp Hall,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ said Daniel. ‘I’d had a visit from Inspector Grafton, the Special Branch detective I told you about, which annoyed me. He tried to warn us off, so I came to tell you about it.’

  Pitt grinned. ‘Yes, he came to Kemp Hall and tried the same on my guv’nor. He wanted you arrested.’

  ‘Arrested!’ said Abigail, shocked. ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Threatening behaviour,’ said Pitt. ‘He said you threatened to kill him.’

  Abigail turned to Daniel and demanded angrily, ‘Daniel, what have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Daniel defensively. ‘It was just a bit of a shouting match, that’s all.’

  ‘Anyway, Superintendent Clare told him to sling his hook.’

  ‘I’m grateful to your superintendent,’ said Daniel. He held out the small white card to Pitt. ‘Any idea what this is?’

  Pitt took the card and looked at it.

  ‘Where did it come from?’ he asked.

  ‘It was in Gavin Everett’s wallet,’ said Abigail. ‘It turned up today when the undertakers brought his personal possessions here to give to Mr Marriott.’

  ‘Have you seen anything like it before?’ asked Daniel, catching the look of recognition on the inspector’s face.

  ‘Yes,’ said Pitt. ‘It’s a membership card for the Quill Club, which is a very private gentlemen’s club here in Oxford.’

  ‘So private that they don’t put its name on the card,’ observed Daniel.

  ‘Nor that of the member,’ added Abigail.

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Pitt, handing the card back to Daniel. ‘On the surface it appears respectable, professional types and a few academics from the university, but we had a complaint from a young woman who worked there, an Eve Lachelle, that she’d been attacked by some of the men while they were drunk.’

  ‘How attacked?’

  ‘Raped. Her clothes torn. We went to investigate, but of course they denied any such attack had ever taken place. We spoke to the women who worked there as waitresses, and they also said there’d been no attack. What made me suspicious was that at first these other women denied even knowing Eve Lachelle. It was only after we pressed them that they admitted she had worked there, but they insisted there’d been no attack that they knew of, and that she had left of her own volition. But it was their denial of even knowing her at first that made me suspicious.’