The Labyrinth Makers

England's stupidity the collection need never have gone to Berlin in the first place. Schliemann offered everything to the British Museum — as a gift. And Winter Jones turned him down . . . He turned him down because there was no room for it!'

Fate had been cruel to the treasure of Troy. The Russians and the French had bid high for it. The Greeks, having overlooked it in one sack, claimed it by right of Homer. But all three nations had combined to help Schliemann resist Turkey's demand for the restoration of her property, each in the hope of receiving it as a reward.

And the British turned it down as an inconvenience!

'The irony of it, Dr Audley, is that it would have been safe in every museum except the one which acquired it. . .'

So the Germans got it, only to lose it to the Russians, who in turn lost it (in Sir Kenneth's considered view) to some grubby black marketeer who melted it down for its simple gold value.

King Priam's gold. Hecuba's crown, and rings for Helen's fingers.

The drinking cup of Paris and the weapons of Hector.

'Of course it didn't really come from Homer's Troy: it was a thousand years older than that. But that is beside the point, Dr Audley. It was beautiful and it was beyond price.'

Someone else had said that already: little Morrison, that very afternoon–echoing Steerforth.

Audley looked across the table at Steerforth's daughter, the dummy4

offspring of a man who might well have pulled off one of the great art thefts of history. She presented a picture of dejection, and he sympathised with her: it was hardly a distinction for a respectable chemistry mistress.

'Cheer up, Faith! I could be wrong.'

She regarded him unhopefully.

'You don't think you are wrong, though, do you?'

'I could be. In a way I shall be surprised if it is the Schliemann treasure Panin's after. Up to now I'd discounted the possibility of mere loot–it shouldn't interest the Russians as much as this. And it certainly shouldn't interest a man like our Russian. He's got far bigger matters to attend to than a heap of golden trinkets stolen from a museum.'

She shook her head at him. 'You really don't understand what you've been saying, David, do you? It's just a heap of golden trinkets to you! I suppose you've never read about what Schliemann discovered.'

She didn't wait for him to answer.

'I know you know about Schliemann. Everyone knows it–it's a good capitalist legend. Inside every banker there's a romantic archaeologist! And one in the eye for all the experts who said Troy was a fable!'

She thought for a moment, before speaking.

'When I was a little girl I read a book which described your heap of trinkets. I can't remember all the details now, but I do remember one bit about the jewellery.

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'There was a golden diadem, David, one of a pair. All gold wire and little rings and leaves and tiny ornaments. There were over 16,000 pieces in it. And that was just one item in the hoard. Just one item! And there were thousands of golden objects. Earrings and rings and bracelets and buttons and cups and ornaments.'

She paused. 'Nowadays people don't take Schliemann very seriously–he dug up the wrong Troy, and everything he dug up he thought was part of Homer, when it wasn't at all.

'I expect the real Trojan war was just a squalid little squabble over trade and taxes–not at all like Homer's war either. Nothing like the legend at all. But the legend was glorious and heroic and the treasure he found fitted it perfectly, so in one way he wasn't wrong at all. And if your Russian archaeologist is half a real man–if he's got any heart at all–he'd never rest while there was a chance of giving it all back to the world.'

She shrugged helplessly. 'And that's what my father stole–and it's not just loot, David. It's not just stealing from someone: it's stealing from the whole world. It's–it's a crime against humanity.'

Her sudden anger astonished him almost as much as her unaccountable knowledge. Scientists, even female ones, were in his experience neither so vehement nor so well-informed on classical art.

And now she was pacing up and down the kitchen.

'My gallant father! The bastard!'

He felt bound to check her, to defend the unfortunate man, whatever he'd done.

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'Hold on there, Faith. We still don't know that he took it. And if he did, we don't know that he realised what he was taking. It was just loot to him–stolen gold for the taking. And he wasn't the only one who reckoned there was something owing to him for services rendered!'

She turned on him.

'Didn't know? Didn't know! Oh, David–he knew! He knew all too bloody well! He knew because I know–doesn't it surprise you that I know so much about Troy?'

Again she didn't wait to be asked, but stormed furiously on: 'I know because I inherited a big, beautiful book from him all about Heinrich Schliemann and his wonderful discovery of Troy. And I loved that book because it was his–I've read it a dozen times. When I was little I even wanted to be an archaeologist because of it–that's a laugh now, isn't it!

'I found all his books in the attic when I was little. Mostly he had rotten taste–pulpy thrillers with a bit of