cigar between his lips. It showed him at the height of his powers, a confident and forceful personality who had guided our nation to victory during World War II. In the picture, he was contemplating something across to his left (maybe the Labour party!) and was shown seated in his study with booksaround him and papers scattered across his desk. It was a fine picture of a widely respected statesman and it had been in the Moon and Compass Inn for several years.
It was one of those pictures which brighten the bars of our village inns, and many a glass had been raised to Winston, later Sir Winston, in his silent pose above the cosy, welcoming fire of the Moon and Compass. During my official visits to the inn, Sir Winston was still alive and I had admired the picture and complimented David Grayson, the landlord, upon its merits. This pleased him, although he had acquired the painting with the fittings of the pub.
The possibility that there could be a problem associated with that picture never entered my head until I received a visit from a tourist. He arrived on the stroke of two o’clock one Wednesday afternoon just as I was about to embark upon a tour of duty in the mini-van. I noticed the sleek grey Jaguar 340 glide to a halt outside my house and a smart man in his sixties emerged. He was dressed in light summer clothes of the casual kind, and his wife remained in the car. I met him in the drive to the police house.
‘Good afternoon,’ I greeted him.
‘Ah, I’ve obviously just caught you, Constable. Are you in a hurry? You can spare a minute or two?’
‘Yes, of course,’ and I offered to take him into my office but he said he could tell me his business where we stood in the front garden.
‘You know the Moon and Compass Inn, at Craydale?’ he put to me.
‘Yes, it’s on my beat,’ I said.
‘Ah, well, there is a problem. A delicate one, I might add,’ he began. ‘I hate to make accusations which I cannot substantiate, but I feel you ought to be aware of this …’
I wondered what was coming next, but waited as he gathered his words together.
‘It’s the picture of Winston Churchill,’ he said eventually. ‘You know it?’
‘It hangs over the fireplace in the bar,’ I informed him. ‘A nice picture, very realistic. I know it well.’
‘And so you should!’ His voice increased in pitch. ‘It wascommissioned from a special sitting – Churchill actually posed for that picture, Constable. It’s not a copy, not a print but the original by Christopher Tawney. It’s the only one in the world, Constable.’
‘It must be valuable, then?’ I said inanely.
‘I have no idea of its value,’ he said shortly. ‘No idea at all; it’s not an old master so we’re not talking in huge sums, but I’d guess it can be measured in thousands, if not tens of thousands. And this is why I’ve called, Constable. That painting has been stolen. It should not be there; that pub has no right to that picture, no right at all.’
‘Stolen? But it’s been in that pub for years,’ I told him. ‘Long before I came here. Eight or ten years even. Are you sure it’s the one you think it is?’
‘I’ve never been so sure in my life, Constable. You see, I had it done, I was the person who commissioned the artist and persuaded Winston to undertake that sitting. I know that picture like I know my own belongings. If you care to examine it, you’ll see Tawney’s signature in the bottom left-hand corner too.’
‘You’d better come into the office,’ I said.
I asked Mary to make a cup of tea, and to include the gentleman’s wife who waited in the car. She was persuaded to come into the lounge where Mary and the children entertained her as I discussed this matter with her husband.
His name was Simon Cornell and he was a retired director of one of Britain’s largest and most famous manufacturers of cigars.
‘I retired about six years ago,’ he said. ‘And now Jennie and I spend a lot of time touring
It was one of those pictures which brighten the bars of our village inns, and many a glass had been raised to Winston, later Sir Winston, in his silent pose above the cosy, welcoming fire of the Moon and Compass. During my official visits to the inn, Sir Winston was still alive and I had admired the picture and complimented David Grayson, the landlord, upon its merits. This pleased him, although he had acquired the painting with the fittings of the pub.
The possibility that there could be a problem associated with that picture never entered my head until I received a visit from a tourist. He arrived on the stroke of two o’clock one Wednesday afternoon just as I was about to embark upon a tour of duty in the mini-van. I noticed the sleek grey Jaguar 340 glide to a halt outside my house and a smart man in his sixties emerged. He was dressed in light summer clothes of the casual kind, and his wife remained in the car. I met him in the drive to the police house.
‘Good afternoon,’ I greeted him.
‘Ah, I’ve obviously just caught you, Constable. Are you in a hurry? You can spare a minute or two?’
‘Yes, of course,’ and I offered to take him into my office but he said he could tell me his business where we stood in the front garden.
‘You know the Moon and Compass Inn, at Craydale?’ he put to me.
‘Yes, it’s on my beat,’ I said.
‘Ah, well, there is a problem. A delicate one, I might add,’ he began. ‘I hate to make accusations which I cannot substantiate, but I feel you ought to be aware of this …’
I wondered what was coming next, but waited as he gathered his words together.
‘It’s the picture of Winston Churchill,’ he said eventually. ‘You know it?’
‘It hangs over the fireplace in the bar,’ I informed him. ‘A nice picture, very realistic. I know it well.’
‘And so you should!’ His voice increased in pitch. ‘It wascommissioned from a special sitting – Churchill actually posed for that picture, Constable. It’s not a copy, not a print but the original by Christopher Tawney. It’s the only one in the world, Constable.’
‘It must be valuable, then?’ I said inanely.
‘I have no idea of its value,’ he said shortly. ‘No idea at all; it’s not an old master so we’re not talking in huge sums, but I’d guess it can be measured in thousands, if not tens of thousands. And this is why I’ve called, Constable. That painting has been stolen. It should not be there; that pub has no right to that picture, no right at all.’
‘Stolen? But it’s been in that pub for years,’ I told him. ‘Long before I came here. Eight or ten years even. Are you sure it’s the one you think it is?’
‘I’ve never been so sure in my life, Constable. You see, I had it done, I was the person who commissioned the artist and persuaded Winston to undertake that sitting. I know that picture like I know my own belongings. If you care to examine it, you’ll see Tawney’s signature in the bottom left-hand corner too.’
‘You’d better come into the office,’ I said.
I asked Mary to make a cup of tea, and to include the gentleman’s wife who waited in the car. She was persuaded to come into the lounge where Mary and the children entertained her as I discussed this matter with her husband.
His name was Simon Cornell and he was a retired director of one of Britain’s largest and most famous manufacturers of cigars.
‘I retired about six years ago,’ he said. ‘And now Jennie and I spend a lot of time touring
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