Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

“What are they doing here?” he growled.

“Somebody must have tipped them off,” said Hurrell.

“They’re in on the conspiracy.”

“If that’s what it is, sir.”

When they got out of the car, Milton took his first proper look at the statue which had displaced Nelson. He craned his neck to get a good view, realizing how rarely he even noticed the usual occupant of the fluted Corinthian column. Nelson was such an essential part of the fabric of London that he could be taken for granted. Like St Paul’s Cathedral or Westminster Abbey. In a sense, it was a compliment not to look at him, an acknowledgment of his status and permanence. Only foreign tourists actually stared at the column. Everyone was staring now. The new arrival compelled attention. Napoleon looked bigger, bolder, more authoritative. There was a mutinous rumble among the spectators.

Dick Milton shared their disgust. His faced reddened angrily.

“What, in God’s name, is he doing up there?”

“Making a statement, sir.”

“I’ll make a bloody statement myself in a minute.”

“Not when there are so many microphones about,” warned Hurrell. “We have to be diplomatic. Keep our own opinions private.”

“Well, he’s not keeping his opinion private, is he?” said Milton, looking up at the banner. “VIVE LA FRANCE! That doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does it?”

“No, sir.” Hurrell gave a signal and a detective walked briskly across to them. “Let’s see if we have any more leads. DS Williams was in charge of taking statements from witnesses.”

“Good.” He appraised the newcomer. “Well?”

“They all say the same, sir,” explained Williams, referring to his notebook. “There were over a dozen of them, sleeping here last night or sharing bottles of cheap booze. They saw very little.”

“They must have, man!”

“There was a total blackout, Commander.”

“Winos are nocturnal. They can see in the dark.”

“Not when they’re pissed out of their minds,” said Hurrell before turning back to Williams. “Sorry, Jim. Do go on.”

The Detective Sergeant nodded and ran a tongue nervously across his lips. Knowing all about Dick Milton’s hot temper, he had no wish to be on the receiving end of it. He consulted his notebook.

“They saw little but heard a lot,” he resumed. “The one thing they all agree on is the balloon. Not a hot-air balloon. The other kind. You know, like a Zeppelin.”

“A dirigible,” said Milton.

“They all called it a balloon.”

“Technically, it’s an airship. What else did they hear?”

“A strange noise.”

“Noise?”

“A sort of loud grinding,” said Williams, stooping to pick up a handful of chippings. “Stonecutter, I reckon. You see, sir? These are pieces of Craigleith stone from the statue of Nelson. My theory is that they had to cut through its base before they could detach it from the column and carry it away.”

“By the dirigible?”

“How else?”

“But it must have been a hell of a weight.

“Several tons, sir.”

“How tall was the statue?”

“Seventeen feet,” said Williams. “And the column is a hundred and forty-five. Devonshire granite from Foggin Tor. It supports a bronze capital cast from old guns from Woolwich Arsenal.”

“You’ve done your homework. Good man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“A hot air balloon couldn’t have winched it up,” said Hurrell, “but a large airship might have. Several sightings of a flying object were reported. People couldn’t pick it out clearly but they thought they saw something dangling from it. They didn’t realize that it was a priceless chunk of English history.”

“No,” grumbled Milton. “Anything else, Williams?”

The detective rattled off the other information he had gleaned before being sent back to interrogate the witnesses for a second time. They were a motley crew: tramps, winos and homeless students. There was one old woman among them, singing hymns at the top of her voice. Milton ran a jaundiced eye over them. None would be at all reliable in a witness box. He turned to face Hurrell.

“This was a well-planned operation, Ken.”

“Yes, sir. Involving several people.”

“Do we know any French extremists capable of this?”

“Not really, sir,” said the other, “though I was surprised to find out just how many different political groups there are. Apart from the usual anarchists, nihilists and assorted nutcases, that is. There’s a Pro-Euro Ginger Group, a Friends of General de Gaulle Society, a Jacobin Club, a League of French Imperialists, a Marquis de Sade Brotherhood and heaven knows what else. I’m told there are some pretty dodgy characters in the Gerard Depardieu Fan Club as well. France is steeped in revolution. It’s in their blood. When something rouses them, they act. One thing is certain about this lot.”

“What’s that?”

“They mean business.”

“Yes, they stole one of our great national heroes,” said Milton bitterly. “And what they they give us in return? Those tasteless Golden Delicious apples and seventeen feet of Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Amazing, really. You’ve got to admire them.”

The Commander was appalled. “Admire those thieving Frogs!”

“They whisked Nelson off into the sky.”

“They did more than that, Ken. Apart from insulting a naval man by flying him out, they achieved an even greater feat.” He glanced up at the statue. “They stuck that monstrosity up there at the same time. How? One dirigible, two national heroes. How on earth did they remove one and replace him with another in such a short space of time?”

“The blackout lasted for a few hours.”

“That means they were working in the dark.”

“Maybe they had a second dirigible.”

“None of the winos mentioned it and they’re used to seeing double.”

“I don’t think we can trust their word,” said Hurrell with a sad smile. “They were either too drunk to notice much or too frightened to remember what they did see and hear. The other reports are the ones to trust. Something moving silently across the sky with an object dangling from it. There were a number of sightings.”

“It must have made two journeys,” decided Milton. “Nelson was spirited away to a nearby hiding place then Napoleon was brought back in his stead.” He took out his mobile phone. “Let’s knock old Nappy off his perch, anyway. Who were those people who cleaned the statue recently?”

“Gostelow and Crabtree.”

“Sounds like a firm of corrupt solicitors.”

“Are there any other kind?”

They traded a professional laugh. Hurrell gave him the phone number and the Commander dialled it. After barking a few orders, the latter switched off his mobile and put it in his pocket.

“They’re on their way.”

“How will they get up there?”

“Scaffolding.”

“Then what?”

“Well,” said Milton firmly, “the first thing they can do is to get that VIVE LA FRANCE banner down. It’s making my stomach heave.” He looked across at the massed ranks of cameramen and journalists. “I suppose that I ought to throw them a bone. Give them the idea that we have everything under control. Ho, ho! You wait here, Ken. I’ll go and make a non-committal statement to the media or they’ll be hounding us all day.” He gazed up at Napoleon again. “By the way, what’s French for ‘We’re coming to get you, you mad bastard’?”

Emblazoned with the name of “Gostelow and Crabtree”, the lorry arrived within half-an-hour. In the rear was a large tarpaulin and an endless number of scaffolding poles. The lorry was closely followed by a huge mobile crane. Fresh interest was stirred up in the crowd and the cameras recorded every moment for the television audience. While waiting for the men to arrive, Commander Milton had pacified the media, given his statement, and spoken to some of the denizens of Trafalgar Square to hear first-hand their reminiscences of a night to remember. Two of them came out of their drunken stupor to claim that they had seen a balloon in the sky with something dangling from it.