To Cut a Long Story Short (2000) (31 page)

‘Yes, I did it about an hour ago. I got the best rate I could, but I’m afraid the kora always strengthens whenever the President makes his official trip back to his place of
birth.’

Henry avoided adding ‘And death’, simply saying, ‘I want the entire amount converted back into sterling.’

‘I must advise you against that,’ said Bill. ‘The kora has strengthened further in the last hour. And in any case, such an action would have to be sanctioned by the High
Commissioner.’

‘The High Commissioner is in Dorset on his annual leave. In his absence, I am the senior diplomat in charge of the mission.’

‘That may well be the case,’ said Bill, ‘but I would still have to make a full report for the High Commissioner’s consideration on his return.’

‘I would expect nothing less of you, Bill,’ said Henry.

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Henry?’

‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘And while you’re at it, I also require that the kora we are holding in the Contingency Fund be
converted into sterling.’

‘I’m not sure …’ began Bill.

‘Mr Paterson, I don’t have to remind you that there are several other banks in St George’s, who for years have made it clear how much they would like to have the British
government’s account.’

‘I shall carry out your orders to the letter, First Secretary,’ replied the bank manager, ‘but I wish it to be placed on the record that it is against my better
judgement.’

‘Be that as it may, I wish this transaction to be carried out before the close of business today,’ said Henry. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

‘You most certainly do,’ said Bill.

It took Henry another four hours to reach the capital. As all the streets in St George’s were empty, he assumed that the news of the President’s death must have been announced, and
that a curfew was in force. He was stopped at several checkpoints - grateful to have the Union Jack flying from his bonnet - and ordered to proceed to his home immediately. Still, it
meant he wouldn’t have to drop into Mrs Davidson’s bazaar and pick up the cheque for two hundred kora.

The moment Henry arrived back home he switched on the television, to see President Narango, in full-dress uniform, addressing his people.

‘Be assured, my friends,’ he was saying, ‘you have nothing to fear. It is my intention to lift the curfew as soon as possible. But until then, please do not stray out onto the
streets, as the army has been given orders to shoot on sight.’

Henry opened a tin of baked beans and remained indoors for the entire weekend. He was sorry to miss Bill’s fiftieth, but he felt on balance it was probably for the best.

HRH Princess Anne opened St George’s new swimming pool on her way back from the Commonwealth Games in Kuala Lumpur. In her speech from the poolside, she said how impressed
she was by the high diving board and the modern changing facilities.

She went on to single out the work of the Rotary Club and to congratulate them on the leadership they had shown throughout the campaign, in particular the chairman, Mr Bill Paterson, who had
received an OBE for his services in the Queen’s Birthday Honours.

Sadly, Henry Pascoe was not present at the ceremony, as he had recently taken up his post as High Commissioner to the Ascensions - a group of islands which isn’t on the way to
anywhere.

‘Y
OU MAY WONDER
why this sculpture is numbered “13”,’ said the curator, a smile of satisfaction appearing on his face. I was
standing at the back of the group, and assumed we were about to be given a lecture on artists’ proofs.

‘Henry Moore,’ the curator continued, in a voice that made it clear he believed he was addressing an ignorant bunch of tourists who might muddle up Cubism with sugar lumps, and who
obviously had nothing better to do on a bank holiday Monday than visit a National Trust house, ‘would normally produce his works in editions of twelve. To be fair to the great man, he died
before approval was given for the only casting of a thirteenth example of one of his masterpieces.’

I stared across at the vast bronze of a nude woman that dominated the entrance of Huxley Hall. The magnificent, curvaceous figure, with the trademark hole in the middle of her stomach, head
resting in a cupped hand, stared out imperiously at a million visitors a year. She was, to quote the handbook, classic Henry Moore, 1952.

I continued to admire the inscrutable lady, wanting to lean across and touch her - always a sign that the artist has achieved what he set out to do.

‘Huxley Hall,’ the curator droned on, ‘has been administered by the National Trust for the past twenty years. This sculpture,
The Reclining Woman
, is considered by
scholars to be among the finest examples of Moore’s work, executed when he was at the height of his powers. The sixth edition of the sculpture was purchased by the fifth Duke - a
Yorkshireman, like Moore - for the princely sum of PS1,000. When the Hall was passed on to the sixth Duke, he discovered that he was unable to insure the masterpiece, because he simply
couldn’t afford the premium.

‘The seventh Duke went one better - he couldn’t even afford the upkeep of the Hall, or the land that surrounded it. Shortly before his demise, he avoided leaving the eighth
Duke with the burden of death duties by handing over the Hall, its contents and its thousand-acre grounds to the National Trust. The French have never understood that if you wish to kill off the
aristocracy, death duties are far more effective than revolutions.’ The curator laughed at his little
bon mot
, and one or two at the front of the crowd politely joined in.

‘Now, to return to the mystery of the edition of thirteen,’ continued the curator, resting a hand on
The Reclining Woman
‘s ample bottom. ‘To do this, I must first
explain one of the problems the National Trust faces whenever it takes over someone else’s home. The Trust is a registered charity. It currently owns and administers over 250 historic
buildings and gardens in the British Isles, as well as more than 600,000 acres of countryside and 575 miles of coastline. Each piece of property must meet the Trust’s criterion of being
“of historic interest or natural beauty”. In taking over the responsibility for maintaining the properties, we also have to insure and protect their fabric and contents without
bankrupting the Trust. In the case of Huxley Hall, we have installed the most advanced security system available, backed up by guards who work around the clock. Even so, it is impossible to protect
all our many treasures for twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year.

‘When something is reported missing, we naturally inform the police immediately. Nine times out of ten the missing item is returned to us within days.’ The curator paused, confident
that someone would ask why.

‘Why?’ asked an American woman, dressed in tartan Bermuda shorts and standing at the front of our group.

‘A good question, madam,’ said the curator condescendingly. ‘It’s simply because most petty criminals find it almost impossible to dispose of such valuable booty, unless
it has been stolen to order.’

‘Stolen to order?’ queried the same American woman, bang on cue.

‘Yes, madam,’ said the curator, only too happy to explain. ‘You see, there are gangs of criminals operating around the globe who steal masterpieces for clients who are happy
that no one else should ever see them, as long as they can enjoy them in private.’

‘That must come expensive,’ suggested the American woman.

‘I understand that the current rate is around a fifth of the work’s market value,’ confirmed the curator. This seemed to finally silence her.

‘But that doesn’t explain why so many treasures are returned so quickly,’ said a voice from the middle of the crowd.

‘I was about to come to that,’ said the curator, a little sharply. ‘If an artwork has not been stolen to order, even the most inexperienced fence will avoid it.’

He quickly added, ‘Because …’ before the American woman could demand ‘Why?’

‘… all the leading auctioneers, dealers and galleries will have a full description of the missing piece on their desks within hours of its being stolen. This leaves the thief in
possession of something no one is willing to handle, because if it were to come onto the market the police would swoop within hours. Many of our stolen masterpieces are actually returned within a
few days, or dumped in a place where they are certain to be found. The Dulwich Art Gallery alone has experienced this on no fewer than three separate occasions in the past ten years, and,
surprisingly, very few of the treasures are returned damaged.’

This time, several ‘Whys?’ emanated from the little gathering.

‘It appears,’ said the curator, responding to the cries, ‘that the public may be inclined to forgive a daring theft, but what they will not forgive is damage being caused to a
national treasure. I might add that the likelihood of a criminal being charged if the stolen goods are returned undamaged is also much reduced.

‘But, to continue my little tale of the edition of thirteen,’ he went on. ‘On September 6th 1997, the day of Diana, Princess of Wales’s funeral, just at the moment the
coffin was entering Westminster Abbey, a van drove up and parked outside the main entrance of Huxley Hall. Six men dressed in National Trust overalls emerged and told the guard on duty that they
had orders to remove
The Reclining Woman
and transport her to London for a Henry Moore exhibition that would shortly be taking place in Hyde Park.

‘The guard had been informed that because of the funeral, the pick-up had been postponed until the following week. But as the paperwork all seemed to be in order, and as he wanted to hurry
back to his television, he allowed the six men to remove the sculpture.

‘Huxley Hall was closed for the two days after the funeral, so no one gave the incident a thought until a second van appeared the following Tuesday with the same instructions to remove
The Reclining Woman
and transport her to the Moore exhibition in Hyde Park. Once again, the paperwork was in order, and for some time the guards assumed it was simply a clerical error. One
phone call to the organisers of the Hyde Park exhibition disabused them of this idea. It became clear that the masterpiece had been stolen by a gang of professional criminals. Scotland Yard was
immediately informed.

‘The Yard,’ continued the curator, ‘has an entire department devoted to the theft of works of art, with the details of many thousands of pieces listed on computer. Within
moments of being notified of a crime, they are able to alert all the leading auctioneers and art dealers in the country.’

The curator paused, and placed his hand back on the lady’s bronze bottom. ‘Quite a large piece to transport and deliver, you might think, even though the roads were unusually empty
on the day of the theft, and the public’s attention was engaged elsewhere.

‘For weeks, nothing was reported of
The Reclining Woman
, and Scotland Yard began to fear that they were dealing with a successful “stolen to order” theft. But some
months later, when a petty thief called Sam Jackson was picked up trying to remove a small oil of the second Duchess from the Royal Robing Room, the police obtained their first lead. When the
suspect was taken back to the local station to be questioned, he offered the arresting officer a deal.

‘“And what could
you
possibly have to offer, Jackson?” the Sergeant asked incredulously.

‘“I’ll take you to
The Reclining Woman
,” said Jackson, “if in return you only charge me with breaking and entering” - for which he knew he had a
chance of getting off with a suspended sentence.

‘“If we recover
The Reclining Woman
,” the Sergeant told him, “you’ve got yourself a deal.” As the portrait of the second Duchess was a poor copy that
would only have fetched a few hundred pounds at a boot sale, the deal was struck. Jackson was bundled into the back of a car, and guided three police officers across the Yorkshire border and on
into Lancashire, where they drove deeper and deeper into the countryside until they came to a deserted farmhouse. From there, Jackson led the police on foot across several fields and into a valley,
where they found an outbuilding hidden behind a copse of trees. The police forced the lock and pulled open the door, to discover they were in an abandoned foundry. Several scraps of lead piping
were lying on the floor, probably stolen from the roofs of churches and old houses in the vicinity.

‘The police searched the building, but couldn’t find any trace of
The Reclining Woman
. They were just about to charge Jackson with wasting police time when they saw him
standing in front of a large lump of bronze.

‘ “I didn’t say you’d get it back in its original condition,” said Jackson. “I only promised to take you to it.”’

The curator waited for the slower ones to join in the ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’, or simply to nod their understanding.

‘Disposing of the masterpiece had obviously proved difficult, and as the criminals had no wish to be apprehended in possession of stolen goods to the value of over a million pounds, they
had simply melted down
The Reclining Woman
. Jackson denied knowing who was responsible, but he did admit that someone had tried to sell him the lump of bronze for PS1,000 -
ironically, the exact sum the fifth Duke had paid for the original masterpiece.