Giotto's hand

by Iain Pears

  “There is a difference, though. I hate to have to point it out, but I have a lot more money than you do. I can afford to indulge my conscience. And it’s an expensive luxury.”

  Argyll looked even glummer, so Byrnes hammered on. It was, he thought, necessary. He’d been meaning to say it for some time. He liked Argyll and had a high opinion of him, but he did need educating in the realities of life a little.

  “You have to face the facts, Jonathan,” he said kindly. “You like your clients and you like pictures. Both are rare attributes in dealers and, frankly, neither is very helpful. Your job is to get as much money as possible and give as little as possible in return. It is to spot things and keep quiet about them. Telling the world that a Chardin is not a Chardin is fine for a connoisseur or an historian; not so smart for a dealer. You have to choose between your scruples and your income. You can’t have both.”

  And so the conversation went on, Byrnes being kind, sympathetic and saying everything that Argyll knew perfectly well already and didn’t want to hear. Ultimately, Byrnes concluded that Argyll’s only real option, if he didn’t want to take up the offer of a job teaching, was simply to wait until the market recovered again. “It’ll never be like the good old days,” he said. “But it’s bound to pick up eventually. If you can survive another year or so, you’ll be fine.”

  Argyll wrinkled his nose with dissatisfaction. Obviously, he’d been foolish to think that Byrnes—who was well disposed towards him—was going to come up with a magical solution. As the man said, a major discovery, preferably cheap, would do the trick. Dream on, he thought.

  “Oh, well,” he said. “I’ll have to think about it some more.”

  “I’m not being much help, I’m afraid,” Byrnes said sympathetically.

  “Nothing you can do, really. Except maybe order another bottle of wine…”

  No sooner said than done. For some reason, knowing that even Byrnes couldn’t think of anything slowly began to cheer him up. Partly because it confirmed that at least he wasn’t missing anything. And secondly because even Byrnes, it seemed, was going through a lean period. If you’re going to suffer, then it’s somehow better not to be on your own.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” he said when the bottle had come, a glass had been poured out and he’d drunk half of it. “I can’t take any more reality today. Does the name Forster mean anything to you? Geoffrey Forster?”

  Byrnes looked at him cautiously. “Why?”

  “Flavia. Somebody said he stole a painting. Decades ago. She wanted me to see if I could find out who he was. It doesn’t really matter, but I’m sure she’d appreciate anything I can dredge up. It’s nothing hugely important, I think, but you know what she’s like. Who is he?”

  “A dealer,” Byrnes said. “At least, he was once. I haven’t seen him for years. When the end of the eighties hit, he diverted into freelance expertise.”

  “Oh yes? What does he do?”

  “Vulturing mainly,” Byrnes said half admiringly. “Picking over the semi-dead bodies of old families. You know, advising impoverished aristocrats and selling off their collections for them. He’s got a sort of half-permanent post with some old lady in Norfolk. Lives up there now. As an example of how to sit out troubled times, it’s a line of business you might investigate.”

  “Lucky him.”

  “Yes. Useful sideline. His great problem is that he’s a bit difficult.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I didn’t like him. Quite charming, in a way, if you like that sort of thing, but not many clients could stand him over the long-term either. That was why he was never very successful. There was something a bit insidious about him. Hard to describe, really.”

  “Crooked?”

  “Not that I’ve heard, no. And if he was, then no one would have been reticent about saying so. What is this picture?”

  Argyll explained the circumstances.

  “Youthful indiscretion?” Byrnes suggested. “Perfectly possible. Does Flavia want to nail him?”

  Argyll shrugged. “Not desperately. But if it was something that could be wrapped up quickly I’m sure she’d love to give him a hard time. Although as far as I can see there’s not much chance of doing anything else.”

  “No. Not after so many years. Even if you could prove it. Are you meant to be skulking round and finding out?”

  “Not really. But, on the other hand, I’ve not got anything else to do, and I have a day or so here, so I might as well contact him, at least. Do you know what his address is?”

  Byrnes shook his head. “No. But he rents space from Winterton. Just to give him a respectable address and telephone number, really, and I don’t think he’s ever there. It’s only five minutes from here. You could walk up and see. They’d know.”

  The older man’s benign sympathy and good taste in wine, if it was of no practical help, had ultimately managed to lift his spirits off the floor, and the prospect of doing something which had no connection to his own career furthered this process. By the time he got to Winterton Galleries, he was almost in a decent mood, even though it was very much on probation.

  He explained his business, or part of it, to the secretary inside. Was Geoffrey Forster around?

  No, he wasn’t.

  Did she know where to get hold of him?

  Why?

  Business. He was on a flying visit from Italy and wanted to talk to him before he flew back.

  Very grudgingly, she said he was undoubtedly at his house in Norfolk. He virtually never came here. If Argyll thought it was really important, she could ring him.

  Argyll did think it was really important.

  Forster had one of those voices which are very much the stock in trade of a certain sort of English art dealer: the type of accent and intonation that can make a nineteenth earl feel socially inferior at a distance of several miles. It was one reason Argyll quite liked Italy. Even over the phone, he felt his hackles rising when Forster asked him, in a tone of drawling impatience, what exactly he wanted.

  He explained that he was after information about a painting, and understood that Forster may have had it once.

  “What is this? A guessing game? Tell me which picture. I have handled one or two in my time.”

  Argyll suggested that it might be better if they met. It was a delicate matter.

  “Don’t be such a damned fool! Tell me what it is or stop wasting my time.”

  “Very well. I wish to ask you about an Uccello, which was in your possession shortly after it was stolen from the Palazzo Straga in Florence in 1963.”

  There was a long silence from the other end, followed, rather irritatingly, by what sounded very much like a laugh. The secretary in the gallery was impressed as well.

  “Was it indeed?” Forster said. “Well, well. Maybe I should talk to you about that. Whoever you are.”

  He managed to say it with something approaching a contemptuous sneer. Argyll disliked him intensely already, but nonetheless agreed to meet him, in Norfolk, at eleven the next morning. It was, he thought as he put the phone down, a pity he couldn’t persuade Flavia to take a more active interest in locking the man up.

  “Know what you mean,” said the secretary in the flat accent of south London, interpreting the sour look on his face with accuracy. “Real bleeder.”

  Argyll glanced at her, and decided to be forthcoming. “Is he as bad as he sounds?”

  “God, yes. Worse. Luckily, he almost never comes here.”

  “Why does he come here at all? I thought he had a job with some old lady?”

  “Oh, she died at the end of last year. Her successor took one look and kicked him out. So he’s a bit short of money. God knows why he’s allowed in here though. The boss loathes him, but somehow he’s part of the fittings. Every time he turns up my life’s a misery. No creep like an old creep. Hey, what’s all this about then? Been a naughty boy, has he?”

  Argyll shrugged noncommittally. “If anything, he’s been a
very clever boy, I think,” he said, unashamedly doing his best to blacken the name of a man who, for all he knew, might be as innocent as a new-born babe.

  “Oh, yes? Did you mention something about a stolen picture? Lifted it, did he? When was this?”

  Even Argyll, however, retained some shred of discretion. So he looked vague, said he really didn’t know all the details, and asked about how to get to the village of Weller, Norfolk. The girl was disappointed in him, and in a disapproving voice told him that Liverpool Street was the place to start.

  Outside, he stood on the street and thought about it. Could he be bothered? He did have some time to kill before the plane back, but on the other hand was reluctant to go interfering in Flavia’s job too much. Over the years, he’d decided that the more police work was left to her, the safer their relationship was. It was only the purely malicious desire to cause this arrogant voice on the other end of the phone some discomfort which prevented him from dismissing the idea entirely.

  He decided he’d sleep on it. He had friends to visit, and he’d go and see them that evening. Then he’d rest, relax and consider. In the morning, he would decide what to do.

  4

  While Argyll was distracting himself in this fashion, Flavia was similarly stuck with activities which, in her opinion, made no sensible contribution to the maintenance of Italy’s slightly shaky grasp on law and order. She was, for much of the day he left, doing her paperwork.

  It had been building up for days. Vast quantities had made their way to her desk, liked it, and settled down to nest and produce offspring. This was the disadvantage with having made yourself semi-indispensable over the years. Sometimes she didn’t quite understand why it was that certain administrative matters required her attention, but there it was. A mountain of reports on thefts, a hillock of reports on arrests and a virtual Alpine range of standard nonsense about all sorts of things. Archives wanted a new photocopier. What about Susannah’s day off next Thursday to go to her ex-husband’s wedding? An odd request, that one, but why not? No harm in being broad-minded. Accounts wondered whether another researcher had really needed to stay in the most expensive hotel in Mantua on a routine trip recently.

  And on, and on. What would happen, she wondered absently, if she shredded the whole lot? No; that wouldn’t work. Lose an entire art gallery and no one turns a hair; lose a copy of an invoice and the whole world gets turned upside down until it is found. She decided instead to experiment with a holding action. On top of every form, note and memorandum she wrote her initials in large letters, and then sent them all back to where they’d come from. See how long it takes to figure that out, she thought.

  That taken care of, she turned to the real reports and, to cheer herself up, began with the arrests and recoveries. Only two of those, one concerning a stash of seventeenth-century ceramics in a left luggage locker at Naples railway station, which came with the observation that they had probably been stolen and did anyone know where they’d been stolen from? And an exultant note from Paolo, announcing that the case of the Leonardo man had finally been wound up. Flavia took it up to Bottando. It wasn’t often they managed to bring a case to a decided end, complete with an arrest, confession and evidence, and he liked to know on the rare occasion that it did happen.

  “Oh good,” Bottando said as she told him and handed over the report. “Thank heavens for that. Who is he?”

  She grinned. “Just an art student, trying to earn a bit on the side. Bit of a problem what to do with him, really.”

  True enough. The Leonardo man had attracted more than his fair share of attention in the press, which had pounced on a nice story of Italian criminality. It was simple enough; someone had been producing, and peddling, what were claimed to be Leonardo juvenilia on to an imbecile, and generally foreign, public. At least half a dozen people had trotted off home bearing bits of paper supposedly produced by a youthful, but already inquisitive, Renaissance genius.

  As far as forgeries went, they were not in the top class: the handwriting was OK, but the paper was new and the ink was so obviously ballpoint that it shouldn’t have deceived a child. And the subject matter had made Flavia gurgle with merriment when confronted with the first in a series of outraged collectors. Had they honestly, she asked, taken seriously something claiming to be a design for a late fifteenth-century vacuum cleaner? Quite ingenious, and might have worked had you persuaded some servant to set to work on a pair of bellows large enough, but really. And what about the hand-cranked. Renaissance food-processor? Personally, she thought that if people were daft enough to be taken in by such an obvious joke, she didn’t see why they should be helped out, at the taxpayers’ expense, by the Italian legal system.

  But, of course, it had got into the papers, and Corrado Argan decided that something had to be done. And so last night they’d hauled him in. A nice lad, apparently, who’d used his skill to pay for a lifestyle marginally above the penurious level at which Italian art students habitually live. What’s more, he’d implicated a dealer, who he claimed had been behind the entire thing.

  “I suppose we interview him, make clucking noises and see if we can get him off with a caution or a suspended sentence.”

  “I guess.”

  Then Bottando rethought. “On the other hand, it’s about time we were seen to be cracking down on something. Tell you what, get the magistrate in Florence to lock him up for a week or so. Who is it?”

  “The magistrate? Branconi, I think.”

  “Oh, that’s all right then. Yes. Get the dealer and bung him in the bin too. Then when all the interest has died out, let him go. Besides, there’s no harm in giving him a good scare. Maybe a severe interrogation or two. Frighten the wits out of him.”

  “I’ll send Paolo. He could do with a day out.”

  “Ah, no. I was going to send him to Palermo for a couple of days. Could you do this yourself?”

  She nodded. “Sure. I can go tomorrow if you like. Does this mean I can check out Maria Fancelli’s statement? As I’m going to be there anyway?”

  Bottando smiled at her persistence. “Oh, very well. But remember…”

  “Don’t waste any time on it. I know. Oh, by the way,” she fumbled in her handbag and took out an envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “Copies of Argan’s computer disks. I took the liberty of popping in when he was out for lunch yesterday. I thought you might want them. In the interests of departmental coordination.”

  “Flavia, you’re wonderful.”

  “I know.”

  She went off to Florence the next day with a full shopping list of little tasks to accomplish to make the trip worthwhile and fit in with Bottando’s strictures about efficiency. While she could have done most by phone, there was undoubtedly a lot to be said for taking care of many of them in person and in one day. She had to collect reports on thefts, inspect a few sites of robberies, have a brief chat with the local police, interview the Leonardo man, talk to the magistrate about what should be done with him, interview someone Bottando thought might be suitable for a job, and so on.

  But the first stop was the establishment of Signora della Quercia, whose continued existence had been ascertained by that most sophisticated tool of police enquiry, the telephone directory. Had she not been in Florence anyway, she would probably not have bothered. But she had half an hour to kill before her first appointment, and it was a cheaper way of spending the time than sitting in a cafe. At first sight she appeared to live in one of the very grand places occupied by the well-heeled Florentine establishment, a few hundred metres away from the Piazza della Repubblica down a dark but nonetheless imposing side street. At second sight, however, it was clearly an old town palazzo that had been sold, rehabilitated and turned into a set of offices for some vast and anonymous company selling who knew what. Flavia hesitated, then went in and asked the secretary guarding the gate. She assumed the signora had moved; did she know where she had gone?

  The secretary was surprisingly tal
kative and, having nothing better to do, gave her the whole story; more, in fact, than she really wanted to hear. The signora had sold up about twelve years previously, but all the money had gone to her son, who’d effectively stolen it. He now lived in considerable splendour in Milan while the signora was left virtually penniless. The new owners, partly out of charity and partly because of the legal costs and bad publicity that would have gone with evicting her, allowed her to live in the attic, in what were the old servants’ quarters. They had assumed it would be a temporary measure, but the old lady had lived on, and on, and still showed no signs of dying. It must be the exercise she got from climbing up and down six flights of stairs every day. She was at least ninety, the woman said, and as mad as a hatter. She was the last of the old inhabitants: even the Palazzo Straga was now the headquarters of a firm importing computers. If Flavia wanted to see her, she should go up. But it would probably be a waste of time.

  Flavia walked to the back of the courtyard where the dark stairs to the servants’ floor began and paused. Six flights of stairs? Was anything worth climbing up six flights of stairs?

  It was pitch black, chilly despite the weather, and very unwelcoming in the stairwell, and Flavia had to pause periodically to make sure she didn’t arrive at the top too breathless to introduce herself. The trip took some time, but eventually she stood outside a thin wooden door and knocked loudly on it.

  She stood quietly, listening for signs of life, and eventually heard the sound of creaking floorboards and someone coming towards her. A tiny woman, bent over with age, opened the door, and peered at her quizzically. Flavia announced herself.

  “Eh?” she said, cupping her hand to her ear.

  Flavia bellowed that she was a policewoman and wanted to talk to her.