“Heat-seeking thermonuclear missiles?” I’d hazarded.
“A dog. You get a big Alsatian, give him the run of the place and your professional thief doesn’t want to know. When I was at it, there wasn’t an alarm system in the world that I wouldn’t have a pop at. But dogs? Forget it.”
Unfortunately, clients aren’t too keen on having Rottweilers running around on their priceless oriental carpets. They’re too worried about finding dog hairs-or worse-on the Hepplewhite. So Birchfield Place had relied, like most stately homes, on a state-of-the-art mix of hardwired detectors on doors and windows, passive infrared detectors at all key points and pressure-activated alert pads in front of any items of significance. Given the fail-safes I’d put in place, I couldn’t for the life of me see how anyone could have got through my system undetected without setting off enough bells to drive Quasimodo completely round the twist.
I turned off the motorway and headed into the depths of the leafy Cheshire stockbroker, soap-star and football-player belt. As usual, I almost missed the gap in the tall hedgerow that marked the end of Birchfield Place ’s drive. The trippers’ entrance was round the back, but I had no intention of parking in a field half a mile from the house. I yanked the wheel round just in time and turned on to a narrow ribbon of road curling between fields where placid sheep didn’t even glance up from their chewing as I passed. I always feel slightly edgy out in the country; I don’t know the names of anything and very quickly I develop anxiety about where my next meal is coming from. Give me an urban landscape where no sheep in its right mind would think for even a fleeting moment it might safely graze. The field gave way to thick coppices of assorted trees that looked like they’d been on the planet longer than my Granny Brannigan. Then, suddenly, the drive took a sharp right-hand bend and I shot out of the trees to a full-frontal view of Birchfield Place.
Built by some distant Naismith who had done some unmentionable service to his monarch, the house looked as if it should be on a postcard or a jigsaw. The passage of time had skewed its black beams and white panels just enough to make sure no self-respecting building society would grant you a mortgage on it. It never looked real to me.
I pulled up beside an anonymous Ford, which I assumed belonged to the police on account of the radio. A peacock screamed in the distance, more shattering to my composure than any amount of midnight sirens. I only knew it was a peacock because Henry had told me the first time one had made me jump out of my skin. Before I could reach out for the ancient bell-pull, the door swung open and Henry smiled apologetically at me. “I really appreciate this, Kate,” he said.
“All part of the service,” I said reassuringly. “The police here?”
“An Inspector Mellor from the Art Squad,” Henry said as he led the way across the inner courtyard to the Great Hall, where the Impressionist paintings hung incongruously. “He doesn’t say much.”
We passed through the Hall Porch, whose solid oak door looked like it had taken a few blows from a heavy sledgehammer. At the door of the Great Hall, I put out a hand to delay Henry. “So what exactly happened?”
Henry rubbed his jaw. “The alarm woke me. Just before three, according to the clock. I checked the main panel. It said Hall Porch, Great Hall door, Great Hall and pressure pads. I phoned the police to confirm it wasn’t a false alarm, and ran downstairs. When I got to the Hall, there was nobody in sight and the Monet was gone. They must have been in and out again in less than five minutes.” He sighed. “They obviously knew what they were looking for.”
“Didn’t the beeper on the courtyard security lights waken you?” I asked, puzzled.
Henry looked sheepish. “I turned the beeper off. We’ve been having a bit of a problem with foxes, and I got fed up with being wakened up night after night.” I said nothing. I hoped the look on my face said it for me. “I know, I know,” Henry said. “I don’t think Inspector Mellor’s overly impressed either. Shall we?”
I followed him into the Hall. It was a surprisingly bright room for the period. It was two stories high, with a whitewashed vaulted ceiling and a gallery for Blondel unplugged. The wall that gave on to the inner courtyard had a couple of feet of wood paneling above floor level, then it was hundreds of tiny leaded panes of glass to a height of about eight feet. The outer wall’s paneling was about four feet high before it gave way to more windows. I didn’t envy the window cleaner. At the far end was a raised dais where Henry’s distant ancestors had sat and lorded it over the plebs and railed against the iniquities of the window-tax. It was around the dais that the paintings hung. A tall, thin man was stooped like a crane over the space where the Monet used to be. As we entered, he turned toward us and fixed me with a glum stare.
Henry performed the introductions while Inspector Mellor and I weighed each other up. He looked more patrician than Henry, with a high forehead over a beaky nose and a small, Cupid’s bow mouth. At his request, I ran him through the security arrangements. He nodded noncommittally as he listened, then said, “Not a lot more you could have done, short of having closed-circuit TV”
“Professional job, yeah?” I said.
“No doubt about it. They obviously chose their target, cased the place thoroughly, then did a quick in-and-out. No identifiable forensic traces, according to my colleagues who turned up after the event.” Mellor looked as depressed as I felt.
“Does it put you in mind of anyone in particular?” I asked
Mellor shrugged. “I’ve seen jobs like this, but we haven’t managed an arrest on any of them yet.”
Henry closed his eyes and sighed. “Is there any chance of getting my Monet back?” he asked wearily.
“If I’m honest, sir, not a lot. Thieves like this only take what they’ve already got a market for,” Mellor said. “Sooner or later, we’ll get a lucky break and we’ll nail them. It could be on this case. What I’d like to do is send a couple of my lads over when your staff are next in. These thieves will have been round the house more than once. It’s just possible one of your attendants noticed repeat visitors.”
“They’ll be in at half past nine on Thursday,” Henry said. “The house is closed to the public on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, excepting Bank Holidays.”
Mellor turned away and spent a few minutes studying the Boudin, the Renoir and the two Pisarros that flanked the space where the Monet had been. “Personally,” he said softly, “I’d have gone for the Boudin.”
Not me. The Monet would have looked much better with my color scheme. But maybe Inspector Mellor’s living room was blue-based rather than green, cream and peach. While Henry escorted Mellor off the premises, I mooched around the hall, wondering what to do next. Mellor’s plan to interrogate the staff had disposed of the only idea I had for pursuing any kind of investigation. I slumped in the attendant’s chair by the door and stared down the hall at the wires sticking out of the ancient paneling where the Monet had been attached to the alarm system and the wall. Inspiration failed to strike; but then, nothing does in this country anymore.
When Henry came back, I forced myself upright and said brightly, “Well, Henry, Mellor didn’t sound too optimistic about what the forces of law and order can achieve. Looks like it’s down to me to get your Monet back.”
Henry tugged at the lobe of his ear and looked uncomfortable. “Is there much point, Kate?” he asked. “I mean, if the specialists don’t know where to start looking, how can you expect to succeed?”
“Well, Henry, people have a tendency to tell me things they don’t necessarily want to share with the police. And that includes insurance companies. I also have more unorthodox sources of information. I’m sure I can develop leads the police will never encounter.” It was all true. Well, all except the last sentence.