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Title: Lost in the Fogg
Author: Lane Carlson
ISBN: 0966788338
Description:
Lost in the Fogg begins with the theft of the Irish crown jewels from Dublin Castle early in the century, and moves to a seemingly inexplicable theft of a religious statue from the 80,000-piece art collection in the Fogg Museum of Art at Harvard University. The statue, donated to the museum, is considered virtually valueless until two men dressed as utility workers steal it one evening. Independent insurance claims investigator Lou Clarke, a former FBI agent, usually concerned with arson cases in southeast New England, finds himself investigating the theft, its companion kidnapping of a young art historian, and the thread of the caper that began in 1907. The event, though a simple burglary, is still an open case for Scotland Yard because it concerns the highest levels of the British government.
Lost in the Fogg was written by Lane Carlson, author of several
books, and retired newsman who lived in Cambridge while a Nieman Fellow
at Harvard. With Lost in the Fogg, Carlson, a student of Irish
history, uses his knowledge of the pre-Civil War Ireland and weaves a
compelling tale about the efforts of Irish rebel leaders Michael
Collins, Eamon De Valera and other founders of Irish independence and
their sometimes ill-conceived attempts to fight the British. One of
these was the theft of the Crown Jewels at Dublin Castle and their
disappearance, to the consternation of Scotland Yard and the British
Royal Family. Lost in the Fogg flashes forward to current day in
Cambridge where an shadowy IRA elder enlists a band of often comic
bumblers - including a ne'er-do-well jailbird and a Mafioso wannabe
from Newark -- to steal a modest statue of the Virgin Mary from the
basement of Harvard's famed Fogg Museum. No one knows that hidden in
the humble statue is a fortune in stolen gems. But the theft goes awry
and one of the victims, a bored young co-ed, turns into a surprising
and eager companion of one of the incompetent thieves. All the while,
the old Irish rebel stays in the shadows and emerges to keep the dream
of Irish independence alive.
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Highlights:
- Take a major theft in 1907 of the Crown Jewels
- Mix leaders of the Irish nationalist movement
- Stir in a strange bequest to Harvard's Fogg Art Museum and you have a mystery-caper that pits insurance investigator Lou Clarke against two thieves and the mystery man behind them.
"Stivey knew: he was being tested for some scam of some sorts. The caper wasn't clear, but he knew the approach."
"A couple grand for a few hours work, and no mess. I like that..."
"In the midst of all this Brian saw the statue--blue, white and gold. She stood about 4-foot tall, head cast downward, palms up. Amazing! She looked like all the statues Brian remembered from his childhood with the nuns."
The robbery goes awry. The thieves disagree with gunfire. One kidnaps a witness and finds she doesn't want to miss the excitement. The theft draws unwanted attention to Harvard. The missing statue is returned. But what's happened to the Crown Jewels? Lost in the Fogg tells the tale.
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Excerpt from Chapter 1:
Bosom of Empire - 1907
Inspector John Hoyt stared out at the July rain flowing down the window about four feet from his desk. A typical London summer, he thought sourly. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and pulled his large pocket watch from his vest. Three o'clock. Damn! Too early to slip away to the local for a needed whisky. Drinking this early was frowned on in Scotland Yard in this year of our Lord, 1907. Drinking itself wasn't frowned on - just the hours. After 4 p.m., the "tea time" it was proper. But not beforehand, when an officer was supposed to be on watch.
Damn! Hoyt felt his stomach churn. That blasted lamb curry at the midday meal. The wine, too, had a touch of the sour. Too dry. He shifted his bulk in his chair. Just a few minutes before he had been standing before the Chief Inspector, the round-faced Welshman, learning how he, Hoyt, would be spending his summer.
"This is a matter of importance at the highest levels, Hoyt," Chief Inspector Jones had intoned solemnly. "This matter is of serious concern to His Majesty." Jones cleared his throat, and leaned at Hoyt over his desk. "He has sent word to the Yard that he wants this matter, ah, completed quickly. That's why, ah, we're sending you over to Dublin, to, ah, assist..."
Hoyt knew that his plan for a quiet summer, a bit of racing, a bit of drink, a bit of womanhood, was dashed. Hoyt knew he was going because he was on the job while the others went away, and because he had a good record. In a way he was honored to get the assignment. Anything for His Majesty, of course.
A 30-year old bachelor, Hoyt was still youngish, handsome, despite a great fondness for curry and good port. And whisky. He had been a Scotland Yard inspector for five years. An individual with an impeccable record. Hoyt had been involved with a case connected with the Royal Family. The year before, or was it two? He was called in to determine who had been stealing silver plate from Windsor. A footman was quickly charged. He denied it, of course, as they all did. Even to the end, as they were transporting him to prison. The footman claimed that it was one of the children, playing pranks. Hoyt never believed that.
What earthly purpose could one of the children have with the silver? Chief Inspector Jones preferred to believe that the silver had been melted down. Hoyt didn't believe that. He knew that the London gangs had a reverence for Edward, and anyone foolish enough to try to pass on Royal Family silver emblazoned with the family crest would have been turned in. Where did the silver go? He didn't know. He didn't really care.
The case had allowed Hoyt to spend time investigating in the West End. Jones had given Hoyt loose tether for a period. And Hoyt had made use of it. He developed a taste for gaming, and for the ladies. Hoyt found Emily during the investigation, a short, round woman from Cornwall who worked in a middling posh gaming hall as a shill.
She was red haired, and charming in bed, though uneducated. Hoyt soon met Alice, a thinner, more handsome woman he found working in a mercantile outlet that had been undergoing a rash of jewelry thefts. While watching from a back room, he developed a fondness for Alice that was pleasurable. She willingly moved from her boarding room to the small apartment he found for her. Alice was London Cockney, but she was naturally quiet and pliant. At 25 she expected little from life, and therefore wasn't disappointed.
Hoyt was able to support the women from his pay and winnings and bit of extra he earned from his contacts in the slippery world of thieves.
Now, instead of a small, pleasant summer, Hoyt would spend time over in crass, dirty Dublin, a town famed for its dirt. Hoyt didn't care for ships, or even small boats.
Dumb bastardy, Hoyt thought as he watched the rain soak his mood.
Chief Inspector had laid it all out for him, but he knew much of it from the newspaper accounts. On the afternoon of June 28, Sir Arthur Vicars, had reported to Dublin police that he was missing his key to the main door of Bedford Tower at Dublin Castle. Five days later a cleaning woman, a Mrs. Agnes Farrell, told police that when she arrived for work at 7 a.m. she found the main door open, and she noticed that the door to the strongroom, where the Crown Jewels were kept, was open. None of this apparently alerted the dumb bastardy, Hoyt thought when he read the accounts.
The end result, as Inspector Jones was fond of saying, was that the Star and Badge of the Order of Saint Patrick, known within the Empire as the Irish Crown Jewels, were missing. Hoyt knew that the jewelry included a gem-studded necklace and it showed small gold harps and shamrocks linked together. Harps and shamrocks, indeed! The Badge, he knew, was a sun-burst design, set in gold and diamonds.
Hoyt found the crime distasteful, for a variety of reasons. First, it involved the Royal Family, and that was abominable. Second, the stupid bastardy could have easily secured the gems. He, Hoyt, had not three years before set up a system of peep holes for guards at the British Museum, and arranged for large guard dogs to roam freely through museum corridors at night. Let any felon try night maneuvers and he would be gored beyond recognition.
"You'll work with an Inspector Clarke of Dublin police," Jones had told Hoyt. Jones had cleared his throat. "The Home Secretary has given me explicit orders that we are to cooperate in every way, but the Dublin crowd will control the investigation. The minister says the political climate over there is such that it cannot appear that the Yard is sending in a squad or controlling the situation..."
"But it involves the Royal Family," Hoyt had protested. Jones waved him down.
"You know the situation over there. Home rule and all that. Agitators, protests. All with one aim - to tear Ireland from the bosom of Empire."
It's nothing but treason, Hoyt thought but did not say. At his desk Hoyt sat and thought of the unfairness of it all.
