Giotto's hand

by Iain Pears

  Alas, more than stone walls were needed. Just as Argyll was thinking how quiet it was, there came another low rumble from somewhere over the horizon. As he stood there, trying to work out what sort of storm was in the offing, the sound grew in volume and changed from something that resembled a slow-motion roll of thunder into an ever more high-pitched whine. Then, with an explosive blast that made the ground beneath his feet vibrate, two black and very threatening shapes shot through the air a few hundred feet above him, flashing through the skies at an almost unbelievable speed. Then they disappeared over the line of trees at the far end of the grounds, and the noise slowly dissipated once again.

  “What in God’s name was that?” he asked his new hostess, who appeared to pay no attention to the phenomenon. She merely glanced at her watch.

  “Five-thirty,” she said mysteriously. “Must have been bombing Scotland again.”

  “Eh?”

  They’re F1-11s,” she explained with all the indifference that long familiarity breeds. “American bombers,” she added, lest Argyll’s aircraft recognition skills be rusty. “Their base is about five miles away, and we’re underneath their flight path. When they’re feeling a bit perky, they see the avenue cut through the trees, and can’t resist belting up it for all they’re worth. Bloody noisy, aren’t they?”

  “Can’t anyone stop them? The house’ll fall down if it vibrates like that.”

  She pointed up at the house, and one long crack coming down the side. “I’m trying to persuade the Americans it’s all the fault of their pilots and that they should pay for it. In fact, I suspect that crack appeared before the Wright brothers were even born, but never mind. With a bit of luck they’ll cough up before they go.”

  “Go where?”

  She shrugged. “Wherever they come from. The base is closing, as they think there’s nothing to defend us from any more. Disaster.”

  “Why? It’ll be much quieter.”

  “Yes. And that’s the problem. No commuters want to live here because it’s so noisy; so when they pack up, Weller will become another bedroom community. Also, the Americans were incredibly generous. They so wanted to be liked they paid for every house for miles around to have double-glazing; repaved all the roads their lorries used, and threw annual parties and excursions for the local children. Wonderful people. Much better than the local council. And the party’s over. The general feeling round these parts is that it’s all the fault of the Russians for being so weak and feeble. Come along.”

  Digesting this strange analysis of geo-politics, Argyll followed Mrs. Verney through the big wooden doors covered with peeling and blistered paint, and into the hallway. He waited patiently, examining distinct signs of woodworm in the dark brown panelling, while she worked herself up into an artificial fit of indignation and then telephoned the base commander to protest about his pilots using her arboretum for target practice. Yet again, Colonel, yet again, as she put it so primly.

  “Now, then,” she said afterwards. “Tea. And gossip. But tea first.” Then she led the way down a grim staircase to a kitchen so ancient that it might well have been transported complete for exhibition on Edwardian domesticity, and began to brew up.

  “No modern equipment, and no servants to work the old equipment either,” she observed. “The worst of both worlds. I spend my life trying to fix the fuses when they blow. It’s amazing how much you learn about electrical circuitry when you join the landed gentry.”

  “I thought you were born into it. Isn’t that the whole point?”

  “Depends on how resilient the breed is. In the case of my family, not very. They die like flies. I’m about the last. My Uncle Godfrey, who reduced the place to the dire state which you can see, dropped off his perch about fifteen years ago. His daughter died last winter. Leaving me this bloody mausoleum, for which generosity I was not overly grateful. And her dog, of course. Worst day of my life, when I inherited this place. The dog’s OK, though.”

  “You don’t have to live here, do you? Couldn’t you just close it up and move into a comfortable bungalow?”

  She sighed as she poured the boiling water into a kettle the size of a bathtub. “Then who’d fix the fuses when they blow? Or the plumbing when it gets stuck? Or the roof when it leaks? Without constant attention this baroque slum would fall down in a week. You can’t just walk out and leave it. And before you suggest it, don’t think I haven’t thought about it. Fat insurance policy, nice fire, and me crying my eyes out as I cash the check.”

  Argyll sat down at the kitchen table and grinned at her.

  “But, of course, I’d get caught, wouldn’t I? And I’m damned if I’m going to spend the rest of my life in jail for this place.”

  “You can’t give it to someone?”

  She snorted. “Who? I’m the only Beaumont who’s ever earned a penny. If I can’t manage, that lot certainly couldn’t. The only thing to be said for them is that they’re too sensible to try. They know a loser when they see one.”

  “What about the National Trust?”

  “They’d take it. But not encumbered with debts, which is the problem at the moment. So I’m stuck with it, unless I can lay my hands on some cash. Funny world, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you have a couple of million you have no use for? We could turn the place into a conference centre, or fill it with geriatrics and squeeze every last penny out of them.”

  “Not on me.”

  “Pity.”

  “No children, then?”

  “Three. Twins and a single. They’re all scattered to the winds, thank God. I mean, I love them dearly, but now they’re off learning for themselves how beastly life is, I find my existence is very much calmer. Quite like being young again.”

  “Goodness.”

  “Now, tell me about yourself. Who are you? Where do you come from? Do you live alone? Are you married? What, most importantly, is going on in the village? And are you responsible for it?”

  So Argyll sang for his tea, giving the details of his life as the vivaciously waspish woman opposite nodded and asked supplementary questions. Her eager cross-questioning over the death of Geoffrey Forster would have done a skilled lawyer proud. For the first time since he got off the plane, he felt relaxed, and as a result he stayed chattering much longer than he should.

  “But are you a good art dealer, dear?” she asked after she’d exhausted the topic of Geoffrey Forster and moved on to excavate Argyll’s personal life.

  He shrugged. “I’m not bad at the art bit. It’s the dealing side that lets me down. I’m told I lack the killer instinct.”

  “Not ruthless enough, eh?”

  “That’s the general opinion. In fact, the main trouble is not having enough money to buy pictures in the first place. The really major dealers start off either with oodles of their own, or a backer who will put up capital. But I haven’t noticed the queues forming.”

  “I wish you luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  And so the conversation harmlessly meandered along and it was nearly eight before he glanced at the clock on the wall, gave a start and stood up.

  “Are you in a hurry?” she asked.

  “Not exactly. But I should go; I have to find somewhere to stay the night.”

  “Stay here.”

  “I couldn’t possibly do that.”

  “Please yourself. How long are the police going to be interested in you?”

  “I’ve no idea. I can’t imagine what else they might need. But they seem to expect me to hang around. And they’ve got my passport as well.”

  She nodded. “A bit of a captive, then. Tell you what, if you’re still here tomorrow, come for dinner. I can guarantee that the food will be better than the pub, if nothing else.”

  Argyll said he’d be delighted.

  6

  Flavia got back from Florence in a fairly jolly mood, and before knocking off for the evening, went into the office to tell Bottando of her findings. “Is he about?” she asked Paolo, who was standing by the
coffee machine.

  “Think so,” replied the colleague. “Go carefully, though. He’s a real misery this afternoon. I was going to ask him for a day off, as a reward for catching the Leonardo man. I thought better of it when I saw his face. It was his compulsory overtime on a Sunday face.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. Just getting old, I guess. However good you were once, too long doing the same thing…”

  Aha. Forewarned is forearmed. Paolo had gone over to the enemy. She mounted the stairs with a proper mixture of sympathy and caution, to present her findings.

  When she told him about her trip, however, he didn’t seem impressed. Just nodded in an absent-minded fashion.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Paolo said you were an old sourpuss today.”

  “Did he, indeed? Very indiscreet of him. Nor is it accurate. I am, in fact, more furious than I have ever been in my entire life.”

  “Argan?”

  Bottando nodded.

  “Those disks I gave you?”

  He nodded again. “Argan absconded with much of the Giotto file, read it, and has now written and circulated an enormous memorandum. Talking about how we waste our time, use up resources concocting fictions, have not the slightest idea about what modern crime is all about. He pours fun on the whole exercise, manages to get across the idea that the Giotto material is taken seriously, which it isn’t. That we are working on it at the moment, which we are not. And that I personally am so obsessed with my own theories that the smooth running of the department is being sacrificed to my daft ideas. Using your going to this Fancelli woman as evidence. And your trip to Florence, although how he found out you were doing anything on it there I don’t know.”

  “Whoops.” Not a brilliant comment, but justifiable. Flavia wondered whether Paolo might have been making his bid for promotion with the new broom.

  “The general thrust is that I personally am ineffective, if not actually senile, that action is required immediately so that the department can be placed in a pair of safe hands who understands how to run things properly.”

  “Hands which are attached to the body of Corrado Argan?”

  “Even he doesn’t say so directly, but that’s the idea.”

  “Wipe the disk.”

  “What would that accomplish?”

  “It would win you some time.”

  “Not much. Besides, it’s too late. He’s already printed fifteen copies and sent them out.”

  “Fifteen?”

  “Top copy to the minister. And everybody else down.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Is that all you can say? I’ll kill the little bastard.”

  “Now, now. Calm down.”

  “Why? What is there to be calm about? I don’t want to be calm.”

  “Evidently. But I don’t think it’ll do much good at the moment. You’re turning Argan into a demon. And that’s not the best way of reacting.”

  “So what do you suggest? I wouldn’t be so mad, except for the fact that today of all days, fragments of evidence suggest that the lead this woman gave us might go somewhere after all. I don’t know where, of course. Except that I can’t risk doing anything about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your Jonathan. The English police rang to ask about him. He found out that Forster was an art dealer who has just been found dead. Possibly murdered.”

  “Ah,” said Flavia with interest. “Tell me all.”

  Bottando gave her what little information he had.

  “That is a little awkward,” she said when he finished.

  “But it does make him interesting enough to investigate, doesn’t it?”

  “Not if it turns out that it was an accident.”

  “Anything else?”

  “‘Just that they want us to let them know if we have anything on Forster, if he had any contacts or business here. Awkward.”

  “Why? That won’t take us long. And it’s fairly routine.”

  “I know. But it will be a formal, on-the-record request which will no doubt note the fact that we are already interested in the damn man. Which will make my insistence to Argan that we are not seem even more duplicitous. I mean, I could have passed off your efforts as the inexperienced enthusiasm of a junior…”

  “Thank you.”

  “But official bits of paper, noting my conversation with them re Forster. That’s more difficult. Your Jonathan was trying to be helpful, I suppose, and accomplishing the exact opposite. As usual. You did tell him not to bother with Forster?”

  “Ah…”

  “Oh.”

  “But it’s just as well he did,” she said robustly. “Because I talked to Signora della Quercia. She’s completely loopy, but her ramblings seemed consistent with what Fancelli told us. Even remembered Forster and Fancelli.”

  “Hmm.”

  “More importantly, I also had a chat with Sandano. Who now maintains that he didn’t steal that Fra Angelico. He was railroaded into confessing by the Carabinieri, so he says, which is quite possible. He reckons he was just delivering it for someone.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “An Englishman called Forster.”

  Bottando looked at her stolidly. “Oh, God.”

  “He’s not the most truthful of people but I was thinking about it. That Padua job was very neat. Well executed, no hitches at all. It only went wrong because of a keen customs man. Now, does that really sound like Sandano to you?”

  Bottando considered. “Not really. So, we have a couple of very interesting leads…”

  He rubbed his chin and drummed his fingers on the desk and sighed. “It’s a gamble, isn’t it? We investigate Forster and come up with something, then we can cobble together something to prove we weren’t wasting our time and make Argan seem vindictive. Investigate him and come up with nothing…”

  “You’ll have to rely on your instincts.”

  “My instincts say something very odd is going on, and that makes me cautious.” He thought some more, then slammed his open palm on the desk. “No,” he said. “I’ve had enough. Let’s see what we can find out. If Argan says it’s a waste of time, then there’s bound to be something worthwhile there.”

  7

  Argyll was leaning against the bar of the pub and, very much less chirpy than before, considering the miserable choices before him. He had arrived just before nine, and went to the bar for some food before seeing about somewhere to stay for the night.

  Scotch egg, pickled onion, pork scratchings, came the reply. Or we could do you a nice ham sandwich, if you like. There might be one left over from lunch-time.

  He shook his head in mixed sadness and horror. A pint of bitter and a packet of crisps, please.

  “Don’t blame you,” came a voice, clearly not local and more likely hailing from somewhere in the vicinity of Wisconsin. He looked to the end of the bar, and spied two men, one old, gnarled, bright-eyed and local and the other young, fresh-faced, glum and foreign. He was in uniform and the one who had roused himself to comment on the quality of the traditional pub fayre.

  “You’re new around here, aren’t you?” asked the wizened old duffer perched on the stool, taking over the conversation.

  “You’re the person I saw in Forster’s house this morning,” he continued accusingly. “The one who told me to move along. You in the police then?”

  There was going to be no escape, that was clear. Probably everybody in East Anglia knew who he was by now and wanted a private conversation about Geoffrey Forster. But, as with Mary Verney, that was all right as long as it was mutually advantageous. Argyll knew of no reason why he should be discreet.

  “No,” he said. “I just found the body.”

  “You kill him?”

  The question rather took Argyll aback. It seemed a bit rude, really. He hastened to explain that he had only ever seen Forster dead.

  “Who did kill him, then?”

  “I really don’t know. What makes you think anyone
killed him?”

  “Hope they did,” the old man said, and the Wisconsin flyer looked glumly into his beer.

  “Right,” he said. Not a brilliant conversationalist.

  “This is Hank,” the old duffer continued. “He’s got another name, but there’s no point telling you what it is. It’s unpronounceable. That’s because he’s foreign. I’m George.”

  Argyll nodded politely.

  “So, who do the police think did it?” he continued methodically, lest he leave a loophole for Argyll to hide relevant information in. “Anyone seen leaving the scene of the crime?”

  “Not as far as I know. And I don’t even know it was a crime,” Argyll repeated.

  “Met Mrs. Verney already, I gather,” George continued, switching direction rapidly.

  “Oh. Yes. I met her. Nice woman, I thought.”

  “A dark one, her.”

  “Oh yes? Why’s that?”

  “She’s a foreigner. Only came here when she got Weller House. When Miss Veronica died.”

  “So I gather.”

  “Not got the ways, you know.”

  “What ways?”

  “Tries hard, I’ll give her that. But she doesn’t really know. Take the village fête.”

  “What about the village fête?” Argyll asked politely. He wished he could find a way of steering the conversation back to Forster. Oddly, they didn’t seem to want to talk about him. He would have thought that a real murder would have got them chattering away like crazy.

  “Refused to turn up. Too busy, she said. That’s the trouble, y’see. She’s not here so often. Always going down to London and places. Miss Veronica, now. She never missed a fête in her life, even though she was sick all the time.”

  “Now, George, don’t go prattling,” said the barman easily as he came over to return a pint glass to its rightful place. “This gentleman doesn’t want to hear about Mrs. Verney.”