An Architect calls.

The door was opened by a smart woman in her thirties, wearing the customary business attire of white blouse and dark blue skirt. She introduced herself as the assistant director.

“You must be the Architect.”She smiled a greeting.

“Yes. I’m John Johns, the um Architect.”

“John Johns?” she queried. “How unusual. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude.” She flushed a little.

“No problem,” I said with a shrug.

“I’m used to it. My mother had a strange sense of humour.”

“Come in, come in. We are not open to the public on Mondays so we have the place to ourselves.” She locked the door and led me along a series of corridors until we came to a large open space.

“The Atrium.” She announced, throwing her arms wide. I could almost hear the trumpet fanfare in her voice. Tra Daa!

I followed her gaze up to the vaulted ceiling as she pointed out a small patch of discolouration on the dome high above us.

“We think its damp seeping through from above. But that’s only a guess. So we thought it best to call the experts in.” She smiled and led the way into a large room lined with paintings.

“This is the Romanticism room and it’s directly below the stain, so we’re very worried about any dampness reaching the paintings. That would be a disaster. Some of these exhibits are literally priceless.”

We paused for a moment to admire the masterpieces hanging on the walls. I could identify a couple of Constables and a Vemeer. I could also see the motion detectors blinking their silent warning to some hidden master control panel.

She swiped a card across a pad and a small door opened to reveal a staircase.

“This leads to the Mezzanine.” She said over her shoulder. “From there we can access the gantry just below the dome. You’ll get a better idea of the problem from there.”

She led the way up a series of wooden staircases, apologising that the lift was out of action.

The Mezzanine was lined with offices and storerooms; this was obviously the business heart of the building, but no less protected with the ubiquitous motion detectors. Another swipe of her card and a smaller door opened leading to a narrow metal spiral stairway taking us to the gantry and the base of the domed roof.

The roof it’s self was supported by what appeared to be a spiders web of metal beams supported by the top of the wall and stretching high overhead to meet in the middle.

I ran my hand over one of the beams and gave it a smart tap with my fist. It rang like a dull bell.

“Impressive steelwork.” I said.

“Yes.” She said, fumbling with the keys at the small door, no security swipe card for this opening I noted.

“Late 1890’s some of Brunel’s finest work and still as solid as the day it was erected.” She sounded very proud of the building.

She eventually managed to open the lock of the small trapdoor set in the wall and it swung inward, helped on its way by a gust of wind. The wind was much stronger up here, and it carried dust into the building. We knelt on the ledge and leaned out craning our necks to see round the bend of the roof, but I had no intention of venturing outside, I was examining the rusty lock on the trapdoor.

The roof was a vast expanse of lead and slate and ornate stone pillars.

“That is one very impressive roof.” I said, hoping to match her enthusiasm for the building. “Is there a way onto this roof from below?”

“No.” She replied, brushing dust off of her skirt. She turned to face me. “Mansard roofs are notoriously hard to maintain because of the difficulty of access.” She closed the trapdoor and, turning from the opening, suggested that we go to view the damp patch. I examined it very closely and said.

“I think you are right, the guttering is probably damaged. It may need replacing. We have the men skilled at that kind of work.”

She looked at me rather strangely and said.

“You really think so?”

“Well. Without a proper examination, it’s hard to be sure, but these old buildings need a lot of maintenance you know.”

“I think we should go down now.” She said, and quickly set off down the stairs, swiping the pads with her card as we went.

Once at ground level, she led me to an office. She sat behind the desk and invited me to take a seat.

“Now Mr Johns, or whatever your name is. How do you intend to do the job?” The friendly tone was gone now, and she looked annoyed.

I was shocked by the sudden change in her demeanour

“Well I will have to have my foreman come and examine the guttering from the outside and …” She cut me off with a look.

“No Mr Johns, we are not talking about the repair. I mean how do you intend to rob the gallery?”

“I beg your pardon madam.” I spluttered.

 “Come Mr. Johns, you have no intention of fixing the leak. You are no more an architect than I am, In fact less so, I spent two years working in an architect’s office before I got this job.”

 “Excuse me!” I blustered, “I represent one of the foremost architectural conservation firms in the country.” I started to rise but she motioned me to sit down.

“No Mr. Johns, I am afraid the game is up. It was a good try. You had a great opportunity to ‘case the joint’ as they say, but you blew it.”

I heard the door behind me open. I turned to see two uniforms and two detectives enter. Detectives that I knew rather too well.

I was busted, but I had to know.

“How did you guess I wasn’t an architect?”

“Any architect worth his salt would know that Isambard Kingdome Brunel worked with Cast Iron, not Steel, and he died in 1859. So, when I said the roof was from the 1890’s you never corrected me, it was built just before he died. That confirmed my suspicion. Then when you admired the roof, I said it was a Mansard roof, when anyone with a smattering of knowledge of the period would know the roof is  the most famous Flying Buttress roof in the country. So I pressed the alarm bell at the first swipe pad we came to. It alerts the local Guards that we are being burgled. Goodbye Mr. Johns” She dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

The detective laughed as he slipped the handcuffs on my wrists.

“Mr. Johns, Is that what he called himself? Come on Billy. It’ll be a long stretch for you this time.”

I paused at the door and looked back at her.

“They’re very lucky to have an Assistant Director with such a cool head.” I said.

She smiled, clasped her hands behind her head sat back in the office chair and threw her feet up on the desk.

“Oh no Mr. Johns, I’m not really the Assistant Director. I’m only the receptionist. But on Mondays, when no one else is here, I can play at being whoever I want to be. I suppose we all like pretending. Don’t we.”