DI Stott was getting frustrated. He had no reason to suspect this older chap, but he just had a gut instinct that all was not as it should be. A couple of hours of intensive interviewing had produced nothing. It was time for something different. It was time to call Oscar.
Seventy-two-year-old Albert Williams was a volunteer at Bashcombe House, a stately home in Surrey that housed a somewhat obscure art collection. It was best known (if known at all) for a painting by Mondrian called The Foxtrot on display in the dining room. Except now the home was best known for not having the painting.
As soon as the curator realised the painting had been replaced by a forgery the previous day’s CCTV footage was viewed and quickly showed a woman carrying a large bag standing in front of the painting for about a minute. When she moved away, the forgery was revealed. The woman was wearing a scarf and large sunglasses, so little of her face was visible. Shortly afterwards, a tall man wearing a hoodie was seen walking past the camera. The house was not a exactly a major draw, so there were no other visitors present.
Inattentive attendant
Williams, the duty attendant, could be seen entering some hours before and leaving some hours afterwards. But the camera was focused on the painting, not the other side of the room where Williams was sitting. He told the police he couldn’t explain how he had failed to notice the painting being stolen: maybe he’d fallen asleep.
Stott didn’t think it was likely that Williams’ vision was so bad that he wouldn’t have seen what was happening in front of his nose. But he thought that he might open up with another similar old duffer, Oscar.
When Oscar arrived he found a kindly white-haired man who seemed to seize on him as a friend at first sight. Oscar soon found that he could read the bottom line of his test chart at three metres in both eyes.
Almost as an afterthought, he did a quick confrontation test. As he explained what he was about to do, Williams piped up: “I know, I have a bit of a problem on my right side after I had a stroke about 10 years ago.” The confrontation test did indeed reveal quite a large scotoma on the right side. “When did you last have your eyes tested?” Oscar asked. “About three years ago,” was the reply, and the cue for Oscar to make a plan.
Oscar explained to Stott that he’d really like to do a sight test at his practice. He explained this would be free under the NHS. As Williams was about to be bailed, and Oscar had a “cancellation” the next day, this was arranged.
Oscar began his examination the next day by taking symptoms and history as usual. Williams said that he had no problems with his +2.00 ready-made glasses. His general health was good, but he revealed that his sister had glaucoma when Oscar asked about family history. Oscar advised him that he should have his eyes examined annually.
Intraocular pressures and disc appearance were normal, but the visual field showed a right superior quadrantanopia. Williams said the only time this caused him a problem was occasionally when he played tennis. Oscar was mildly surprised to find he was still a tennis club member.
Oscar had the next day off, so he decided to make a visit to Bashcombe House. On the wall in the dining room was a gap with a note saying “painting unavailable”. Next to it was a small photograph of the Mondrian, coloured squares separated by thick black lines. There was a lady with a badge saying “volunteer” keeping an eye on Oscar, who seemed to be the only visitor of the day. She was sitting directly opposite where the painting would have hung, so it should have been directly in Williams’ line of sight.
What a racquet
But what if somebody had distracted him? Suppose it had been a couple from the tennis club, the man taking Williams’ attention so he would have missed the woman making the swap?
In conversation the next day Stott asked Oscar what he thought of Williams. “He seems to be a bit lonely,” Oscar said. “He doesn’t seem to have any family, apart from his sister up in Arbroath.” Stott hadn’t enquired after Williams’ family. “We’d better check her out,” he replied.
Three days later the case was solved. An art dealer in Edinburgh had reported rumours of a Mondrian for sale locally. It turned out that Williams’ sister had been a decent amateur artist who now was topping up her pension by selling off her paintings. She was afraid of losing her sight from glaucoma and quickly admitted persuading her brother that nobody would notice if she swapped the real Mondrian for her copy. She had quickly found a buyer in Scotland, gambling that few dealers north of the border would have heard about the theft.
Stott visited Oscar the next day to thank him for the tip off. “The sister’s eyesight must have got worse than she thought,” the DI said, “because the curator noticed her forgery immediately. Mind you, modern art went down the toilet with Duchamp, literally in his case.”
The meaning of this comment was lost on Oscar. He was trying to think of a witty remark that combined the suspended sentences that Williams and his sister would get with hanging paintings. But the moment passed.
Read more from Oscar
Short story: A fatal prescription? (part 1)
