arms from either side, causing him to slide over on the floor. The scruffy, balding man rose indignantly and hauled his trailing sepia scarf about him as his attackers apologized, set him on a bench, and thundered on. At the corner of the next room the guards were met by a startled fourth.
“He’s heading for – ”
“The new exhibition,” called Stokes. “We know.”
The British Artists’ section was housed in a series of chambers leading from a central octagon. Here the walls were filled with imposing portraits of forgotten English landowners. Tilted to the public eye and ornately framed in gold, they were overlooked by a splendid glass dome through which rain glittered in a shower of dark diamonds. Wentworth had no time to appreciate this pleasing theatrical effect, however. He had just spotted their suspect standing in the room ahead.
The four guards ground to a halt at the entrance to Room 37.
The Edwardian gentleman was standing by the far wall with the carpetbag at his feet, and a cane tucked beneath his arm, looking for all the world as if he had just stepped down from one of the paintings at his back. He ignored them, bobbing his head from side to side as his eyes searched the room. When he found what he was looking for, he reached down into his bag.
“Stop right there!” called Wentworth, throwing out an arm. The other attendants crowded in behind him. They had never thought they might actually have to guard a painting.
For a moment, nobody moved.
The Edwardian gentleman slowly raised his head and turned his attention to his pursuers, as if noticing them for the first time. His eyes glared beneath the brim of his tall hat.
“Leave me be and none of you shall suffer,” he said, low menace sharpening his voice. “I must warn you that I am armed.”
“Did you press the alarm?” whispered Stokes to one of the others.
“Yes, Sir,” the boy whispered back. “Soon as he started running.”
“Then we must keep him from harming anything until the police get here.”
Wentworth could hardly see how. The most lethal item he had on him was a plastic comb. He knew none of the others was likely to be packing a pistol. For want of a better course of action, all four stood watching as the old man stooped and reached inside his carpet bag.
As soon as Wentworth realized what he was about to do, he started out across the floor toward the far side of the chamber, but he had not given himself enough time to prevent disaster.
For now the gentleman’s arms were free of the bag and rising fast with a jar held firmly in his right hand, the broad rubber stopper being deftly removed by the fingers of the left, and the contents of the glass were flying through the air, the liquid splashing across one of the canvases, searing varnish and paint and filling the air with the stinging smell of acid. As Wentworth dived to the floor and slid hard into a wall, the vandal hurled the emptied jar at him. The glass shattered noisily at his side.
Now the other wardens were running past his head, and further footfalls came from one of the distant halls. Wentworth heard a shout and then a shot, both small and sharp. Stokes fell heavily beside him, blood gushing from his nose. Acid was pooling along the base of the skirting board, crackling with acridity, the fumes burning Wentworth’s eyes. He realized that it was no longer safe to lie still, and scrambled to his feet.
The attendants were in disarray. Stokes was unconscious. Another appeared to have been shot. One of the paintings was dripping and smouldering. The police had arrived and were shouting into their handsets. Of the Edwardian gentleman there was no sign at all.
“Excuse me, please.”
The scruffy man they had accidentally assaulted in the side corridor was tapping a policeman on the shoulder.
“I said
The constable turned around and began to push the scruffy man back toward the chamber’s entrance. “No members of the public allowed in here,” he said, holding his arms wide.
“I am most certainly not a member of the public,” said the man, hiking his endless scarf about his neck like the coils of a particularly drab snake. “I’m Detective Inspector Arthur Bryant, and you’ve just allowed your criminal to escape.”
¦
George Stokes stared unhappily from the tall windows like a man preparing to face the scaffold. He was obviously concerned for the future security of his position.
Arthur Bryant crossed the floor of the gloomy staffroom and stood beside him. “How’s the nose?” he asked.
“A bit bruised,” said Stokes, gingerly touching his tissue-filled nostril. “The poor lad, though. Fancy being shot at.”
“He’ll be fine. The bullet just nicked the top of his arm. Went on to make a nasty little hole in a still life by Peter de Wint.”
“You don’t understand, Mr Bryant,” said Stokes, watching the rain sweep across the deserted square below. “We’re the custodians of the treasures of the empire. The paintings housed here form part of the very fabric of our heritage. They are entrusted to us, and we have failed to maintain that trust.”
“Human beings are fallible creatures, Mr Stokes. We never attain the perfection of those exquisite likenesses in the gallery. This sort of vandalism has occurred before, hasn’t it?” Bryant shucked off his sepia scarf and draped it over a chair. He turned back to the steaming mugs on the table and withdrew a silver hip flask from his overcoat, pouring a little cherry brandy into each.
The police were clearing away the mess downstairs, and several agitated members of the board were already waiting to speak to their head guard. Bryant wanted to interview Stokes while the guard’s memory was fresh, before the recollection of the event had hardened into a much-repeated statement.
“Yes, it has happened before. The da Vinci
“And do you think this gentleman was deranged?”
Stokes thought for a moment, turning from the window. “No, actually I don’t.”
“Why not? You say he had an odd manner of speaking.”
“His speech was archaic. He looked and sounded like a proper old gentleman. Turn of the century. Funny sort of an affectation to have in this day and age.”
Bryant pulled out a chair and they sat at the table. The detective made unobtrusive notes while the guard sipped his laced tea. “Was there something else apart from his speech that made you think of him as Edwardian?”
“You must have glimpsed him yourself, Sir. His clothes were about seventy years out of date. When he first came in, he reminded me of someone.”
“Who?”
“Oh, nobody still alive. He looked like the painter John Ruskin. Because of the whiskers, you see.”
“And he seemed to know his way around the building?”
“He must have been familiar with the floor layout, because there’s only one exit from that side of the gallery and he ran towards it immediately after the attack. You just have to go through two rooms, thirty-four and forty- one, before reaching the stairs that lead down to one of the exits.”
“You don’t think his act was one of arbitrary vandalism? He couldn’t have been equally happy, say, knocking the head from a statue?”
“Oh, no, certainly not. I had the feeling he knew exactly where he was heading.”
“Which was where?”
“Toward the new Pre-Raphaelite exhibition in the British Rooms. He was looking for a specific painting in the exhibition. The acid went all over one picture.”
“Which one?”
“
“I don’t know much about restoring,” said Bryant. “Do you think they’ll be able to save it?”
