chippings. “Stonecutter, I reckon. You see, sir? These are pieces of Craigleith stone from the statue of Nelson. My theory is that they had to cut through its base before they could detach it from the column and carry it away.”
“By the dirigible?”
“How else?”
“But it must have been a hell of a weight.
“Several tons, sir.”
“How tall was the statue?”
“Seventeen feet,” said Williams. “And the column is a hundred and forty-five. Devonshire granite from Foggin Tor. It supports a bronze capital cast from old guns from Woolwich Arsenal.”
“You’ve done your homework. Good man.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“A hot air balloon couldn’t have winched it up,” said Hurrell, “but a large airship might have. Several sightings of a flying object were reported. People couldn’t pick it out clearly but they thought they saw something dangling from it. They didn’t realize that it was a priceless chunk of English history.”
“No,” grumbled Milton. “Anything else, Williams?”
The detective rattled off the other information he had gleaned before being sent back to interrogate the witnesses for a second time. They were a motley crew: tramps, winos and homeless students. There was one old woman among them, singing hymns at the top of her voice. Milton ran a jaundiced eye over them. None would be at all reliable in a witness box. He turned to face Hurrell.
“This was a well-planned operation, Ken.”
“Yes, sir. Involving several people.”
“Do we know any French extremists capable of this?”
“Not really, sir,” said the other, “though I was surprised to find out just how many different political groups there are. Apart from the usual anarchists, nihilists and assorted nutcases, that is. There’s a Pro-Euro Ginger Group, a Friends of General de Gaulle Society, a Jacobin Club, a League of French Imperialists, a Marquis de Sade Brotherhood and heaven knows what else. I’m told there are some pretty dodgy characters in the Gerard Depardieu Fan Club as well. France is steeped in revolution. It’s in their blood. When something rouses them, they act. One thing is certain about this lot.”
“What’s that?”
“They mean business.”
“Yes, they stole one of our great national heroes,” said Milton bitterly. “And what they they give us in return? Those tasteless Golden Delicious apples and seventeen feet of Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“Amazing, really. You’ve got to admire them.”
The Commander was appalled. “Admire those thieving Frogs!”
“They whisked Nelson off into the sky.”
“They did more than that, Ken. Apart from insulting a naval man by flying him out, they achieved an even greater feat.” He glanced up at the statue. “They stuck that monstrosity up there at the same time. How? One dirigible, two national heroes. How on earth did they remove one and replace him with another in such a short space of time?”
“The blackout lasted for a few hours.”
“That means they were working in the dark.”
“Maybe they had a second dirigible.”
“None of the winos mentioned it and they’re used to seeing double.”
“I don’t think we can trust their word,” said Hurrell with a sad smile. “They were either too drunk to notice much or too frightened to remember what they did see and hear. The other reports are the ones to trust. Something moving silently across the sky with an object dangling from it. There were a number of sightings.”
“It must have made two journeys,” decided Milton. “Nelson was spirited away to a nearby hiding place then Napoleon was brought back in his stead.” He took out his mobile phone. “Let’s knock old Nappy off his perch, anyway. Who were those people who cleaned the statue recently?”
“Gostelow and Crabtree.”
“Sounds like a firm of corrupt solicitors.”
“Are there any other kind?”
They traded a professional laugh. Hurrell gave him the phone number and the Commander dialled it. After barking a few orders, the latter switched off his mobile and put it in his pocket.
“They’re on their way.”
“How will they get up there?”
“Scaffolding.”
“Then what?”
“Well,” said Milton firmly, “the first thing they can do is to get that VIVE LA FRANCE banner down. It’s making my stomach heave.” He looked across at the massed ranks of cameramen and journalists. “I suppose that I ought to throw them a bone. Give them the idea that we have everything under control. Ho, ho! You wait here, Ken. I’ll go and make a non-committal statement to the media or they’ll be hounding us all day.” He gazed up at Napoleon again. “By the way, what’s French for ‘We’re coming to get you, you mad bastard’?”
Emblazoned with the name of “Gostelow and Crabtree”, the lorry arrived within half-an-hour. In the rear was a large tarpaulin and an endless number of scaffolding poles. The lorry was closely followed by a huge mobile crane. Fresh interest was stirred up in the crowd and the cameras recorded every moment for the television audience. While waiting for the men to arrive, Commander Milton had pacified the media, given his statement, and spoken to some of the denizens of Trafalgar Square to hear first-hand their reminiscences of a night to remember. Two of them came out of their drunken stupor to claim that they had seen a balloon in the sky with something dangling from it.
Milton went across to introduce himself and Kenneth Hurrell to the newcomers. They treated him with muted respect.
“Who’s in charge?” he asked.
“I am,” said a hefty man in his thirties.
“Who are you? Gostelow or Crabtree?”
“Neither, sir. Mr Gostelow died years ago.”
“What about Crabtree?”
“On holiday.”
“Lucky devil! So was I until this little caper.”
“My name’s Pete Sylvester,” said the foreman, extending a gnarled hand. “I was in charge of cleaning Nelson, so I have a real stake in getting him back. You grow to like a man when you’ve been chiselling away at him for as long as we did.”
“I thought you just gave him a wash and brush-up.”
“I wish it was that easy, sir. But we’re not just cleaners. We’re trained sculptors. We actually have to re-carve bits from time to time. Freshen up the contours. It’s skilled work. We’ve sculpted bits of half the churches in London before now.”
“What about taking a statue down?”
“That’s more difficult.”
“But you have done it before?”
“A few times. We’ll manage somehow. Leave it to us.”
Peter Sylvester’s craggy face split into a grin. He had a reassuring jauntiness about him. While he was chatting to the detectives, his men were already starting to build the scaffold around the column. In the background, another crew was assembling the crane.
“Listen, Pete,” said Hurrell familiarly, “when you were working on the Admiral, did you see anything?”
“We saw everything, mate. Best view in London.”
