laughed. He had been thinking about their reception aboard
The Isles of Greece
. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that the Captain knew they were coming. And if he did, how did he know? Had Kostas’s brother told him? And where was Kostas’s brother? There had been no sighting of him on the ship or at the railway station. Had he too been taken for a cruise on the circus ship and tossed into the sea by the acrobats or served as lunch for the lion? Had he been asked to escort the container all the way to Brindisi, only to be disposed of when he arrived? For if he had disappeared, two of the porters at the British Museum, intimately involved with the Caryatid, had both vanished. One body under the Piccadilly Line train might be an accident, but two disappeared brothers was unlikely to be a coincidence. More and more, Powerscourt was convinced that this was an inside job. Who might have suborned the two porters he had no idea.
It was only in the late afternoon that Powerscourt caught sight of a southern Italian newspaper in Bologna railway station.
Inferno a Hotel Mazzini
, said the headline. He could just make out the main points of the story. A huge fire had enveloped the hotel shortly after two o’clock in the morning. The staff of the Mazzini and all the guests save two had been evacuated safely. Two English tourists were still missing. Their rooms had been at the very epicentre of the blaze. The local fire chief gave it as his opinion that their bodies would be unrecognizable, so fierce had been the blaze. The local mayor, who prided himself for being a reformer in one of the most conservative parts of Italy, speculated that the fire was the work of the local Mafia.
The huge coffin dispatched from South Wales arrived safely in New York. The crossing had been peaceful, without any storms that might have disturbed the cargo. The passengers had all disembarked when a couple of men in shiny suits and with large hats pulled down over their eyes made their way aboard. They demanded to see the records of all freight carried on the voyage. Then they removed all mentions of the coffin from Bristol, details of its size, weight, length and general appearance. The vessel’s clerk was initially reluctant to carry out their instructions, maintaining that falsification of documents was a sackable offence. Two stilettos, one under each ear, persuaded him of his folly. When the men in the shiny suits had finished their work on the great ledger where the records were kept, it was as if the funeral statue, so carefully dispatched from the Welsh mountains, had never existed.
The visitors went below to supervise the unloading of the coffin. It was transferred to the back of a nondescript lorry which drove off in the direction of New Jersey.
Powerscourt told Lady Lucy on his return that he had rather enjoyed being a dead man walking. The terrible fire in the Hotel Mazzini was not reported in the British newspapers, fires and other disasters being regarded as part of the natural order of things in the unruly lands on the far side of the Channel. Now he was going to meet the Head of Greek and Roman Antiquities who had invited him to lunch at a fashionable restaurant near the British Museum, a place where people went to be seen as much as for the quality of the food.
‘A glass of prosecco, Lord Powerscourt?’ Tristram Stanhope was wearing a dark pinstripe suit with a cream shirt and the scarlet and gold MCC tie. ‘I always think champagne has grown rather vulgar nowadays. Every Tom, Dick and Harry seems to be drinking it.’ They were in a private room, the dark red walls lined with prints of famous actors and actresses from the past. Powerscourt examined Tristram Stanhope very carefully. Here at last was the man he had heard so much about. Here was a man who could answer many of the questions about the Caryatid that tormented him day and night. He thought the early halo of glamour that had marked Tristram
The Isles of Greece
. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that the Captain knew they were coming. And if he did, how did he know? Had Kostas’s brother told him? And where was Kostas’s brother? There had been no sighting of him on the ship or at the railway station. Had he too been taken for a cruise on the circus ship and tossed into the sea by the acrobats or served as lunch for the lion? Had he been asked to escort the container all the way to Brindisi, only to be disposed of when he arrived? For if he had disappeared, two of the porters at the British Museum, intimately involved with the Caryatid, had both vanished. One body under the Piccadilly Line train might be an accident, but two disappeared brothers was unlikely to be a coincidence. More and more, Powerscourt was convinced that this was an inside job. Who might have suborned the two porters he had no idea.
It was only in the late afternoon that Powerscourt caught sight of a southern Italian newspaper in Bologna railway station.
Inferno a Hotel Mazzini
, said the headline. He could just make out the main points of the story. A huge fire had enveloped the hotel shortly after two o’clock in the morning. The staff of the Mazzini and all the guests save two had been evacuated safely. Two English tourists were still missing. Their rooms had been at the very epicentre of the blaze. The local fire chief gave it as his opinion that their bodies would be unrecognizable, so fierce had been the blaze. The local mayor, who prided himself for being a reformer in one of the most conservative parts of Italy, speculated that the fire was the work of the local Mafia.
The huge coffin dispatched from South Wales arrived safely in New York. The crossing had been peaceful, without any storms that might have disturbed the cargo. The passengers had all disembarked when a couple of men in shiny suits and with large hats pulled down over their eyes made their way aboard. They demanded to see the records of all freight carried on the voyage. Then they removed all mentions of the coffin from Bristol, details of its size, weight, length and general appearance. The vessel’s clerk was initially reluctant to carry out their instructions, maintaining that falsification of documents was a sackable offence. Two stilettos, one under each ear, persuaded him of his folly. When the men in the shiny suits had finished their work on the great ledger where the records were kept, it was as if the funeral statue, so carefully dispatched from the Welsh mountains, had never existed.
The visitors went below to supervise the unloading of the coffin. It was transferred to the back of a nondescript lorry which drove off in the direction of New Jersey.
Powerscourt told Lady Lucy on his return that he had rather enjoyed being a dead man walking. The terrible fire in the Hotel Mazzini was not reported in the British newspapers, fires and other disasters being regarded as part of the natural order of things in the unruly lands on the far side of the Channel. Now he was going to meet the Head of Greek and Roman Antiquities who had invited him to lunch at a fashionable restaurant near the British Museum, a place where people went to be seen as much as for the quality of the food.
‘A glass of prosecco, Lord Powerscourt?’ Tristram Stanhope was wearing a dark pinstripe suit with a cream shirt and the scarlet and gold MCC tie. ‘I always think champagne has grown rather vulgar nowadays. Every Tom, Dick and Harry seems to be drinking it.’ They were in a private room, the dark red walls lined with prints of famous actors and actresses from the past. Powerscourt examined Tristram Stanhope very carefully. Here at last was the man he had heard so much about. Here was a man who could answer many of the questions about the Caryatid that tormented him day and night. He thought the early halo of glamour that had marked Tristram
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