Giotto's hand

by Iain Pears

  “Quite right,” Argyll said, deciding that the direct approach might be better. “I want to hear about Geoffrey Forster.”

  “Pfuff! A piece of scum, he was,” was George’s considered opinion on this. “And I’ll say this for Mrs. Verney, she’d have no truck with him. She may be odd, but she’s no fool.”

  “So why did she sell him a house?”

  “That was Miss Veronica’s doing,” he said. “Thought he was wonderful, she did. Thought the sun shone out of his backside. Course, she was a bit…”

  “George,” said the barman sharply. “Now you shut up. I’ll not have that sort of idle gossip here.”

  What sort of gossip? Argyll thought. Come along, you old fool. Don’t listen to him…

  “It’s not gossip,” George protested, “I’m not saying anything…”

  “Can I buy you a drink?” asked the gossip-hating Argyill.

  “Don’t mind if I do. Pint, please. And a half for the dog.”

  A small mongrel looked up expectantly from the floor, with bright eyes and a slightly alcoholic expression. The American airman said he had to get back to base, and wandered off with a couple of comrades who’d been playing a surprisingly good game of darts.

  When master and dog both had their snouts stuck in a bowl of bitter, Argyll resumed the hunt. He decided he’d start discreetly.

  “And what about Miss Beaumont? What was she like?”

  George scowled as he swivelled round to see if the barman was in earshot, decided he had a brief opening as the man drew a Guinness at the far end of the bar, and then discreetly tapped the side of his head.

  “Barking, if you know what I mean,” he said in a loud stage whisper that could be heard outside in the car park. “Of course, it was all kept private. But I was told she ate lots of pills. That’s what killed her, you know, the pills. Poor Mrs. Verney found her. She was staying as Miss Veronica was ill. Only relation who’d have anything to do with her. Anyway, Mrs. Verney went out to London for a day, came back, and there she was, dead in her bed.”

  “What about Forster, then? You don’t seem to have liked him.”

  George made a facial expression consistent with not liking someone. “Nasty man. Glad he’s dead. And it’s a pity you didn’t kill him, young man.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “ ’Cause if you had, I’d buy you a drink.”

  “You’re going to buy me one anyway,” Argyll said. “It’s your round. What was wrong with Forster?”

  “Dishonest, crawling, mean, vicious.”

  “A good start,” Argyll conceded. “Anything more specific?”

  “Nothing that I’d tell you. But I will say I was always surprised that a respectable woman like Miss Veronica would have anything to do with him, if you see what I mean, and him married to that poor downtrodden woman who should have left him years ago.”

  “Oh,” Argyll said, a confused enlightenment dawning.

  “Not someone who was ever seen in here, I can tell you that for nothing,” the barman added from his side of the counter.

  Sipping his beer, Argyll decided that this wasn’t really all that interesting. Nothing such as you might call a full curriculum vitae, so to speak. If he did indeed keep himself to himself, then no one in the village was going to know much about his art dealing. Only Mary Verney might be able to help there. Which meant that he was going to have to get her into a much longer conversation.

  “Tell me,” he said abandoning the search for knowledge in the bar, “do you have a room for the night?”

  A few minutes later he was led up into a bleak, cold chamber, the very sight and feel of which made shivers run up and down his spine. If one wanted to kill oneself, or maybe even write a neglected masterpiece in a romantic sort of way, it would have been ideal. If you wanted a good and comfortable night’s sleep, it wasn’t right at all. When the barman—who did have the grace to look embarrassed—mentioned the price, his spirit rebelled.

  And a useful idea came to him. A bit of a nerve, of course. On the other hand, she had offered.

  He marched back up the road, turned in on the gates once more, encouraged by the fact that lights were burning cheerfully in a couple of rooms on the ground floor, and knocked with more certainty than he felt on the door.

  “Hello again,” he said with an apologetic smile as it swung open and an enquiring face appeared.

  “Jonathan! What a pleasant surprise. I was afraid you were the local burglar come to visit me at last. Do come in. I’m having my late-night cocoa by the fire. Trying to keep warm.”

  “Is that why you’re wearing a mac?”

  “Eh? Oh, no. I was bringing in some wood. Chopped with my own fair hands. It’s another skill you learn

  when you’re privileged. Come in. Would you like some cocoa? Slice of cake?”

  Try as he might to avoid salivating, something about him must have given off strong hints about what he thought of a mere slice of cake.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked with a motherly concern.

  “Umm,” he said hesitating between politeness and self-interest.

  “You are, aren’t you?”

  He smiled regretfully, abandoning the politeness option. “I am absolutely starving,” he said. “I’ve never felt so hungry in my life. I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Oh, you poor thing. The state of the cuisine in the pub doesn’t reach great heights, does it? It was the sausage rolls that put you off, I suppose?”

  “A sausage roll I could have managed. The Scotch eggs, though…”

  “Ah, yes. I ate one of those once. I can do you a plate of bacon and eggs, with some fresh bread and butter. Not wonderful, but I’m afraid that’s about all there is, until I go shopping tomorrow. But they’re fresh eggs, at least. I have a hen, you know. I keep it in the state bedroom.”

  “You really mustn’t,” he said, hoping she would brush the objection aside as mere politeness.

  Being a well brought up lady, she did exactly that. “Why not? The bedroom’s not used for anything else. And hens are quite clean, if you treat them properly. Now,” she went on, “come down to the kitchen and do as you’re told. This won’t take long.”

  “Is there really a local burglar?” he asked as he settled himself down and surrendered to the comforting feeling that being cooked for by a woman old enough to be your mother brings with it.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, as she broke the eggs and fiddled with the bacon. “At least, it strikes me it’s a local.”

  “Why?”

  “Because all the houses burgled belong to the foreign interlopers.”

  “The Americans?”

  “Lord, no. No one would dare. They’re convinced all Americans sleep with machine guns under their pillows. Just the English foreigners, if you see what I mean. The police reckon it’s because they have the bigger houses, but I think it’s the countryman’s revenge. No one’s bothered me, mind you. I’m not exactly thought of as a local, but a sort of resident alien. An honorary citizen, so to speak.”

  “So who’s your suspect?”

  “There’s a lad called Gordon. A bit wild. Lots of dubious friends who drive around in cars they can’t possibly afford on their incomes—not that many of them have jobs. He’s the one I’d put my money on.”

  She put the eggs in the oven, and turned her attention to the bread, slicing thick lumps and putting it on the table. Argyll got down to business.

  “I didn’t think they had crime in the countryside,” he said.

  “Considering you may have discovered a murder this morning, that’s not very observant of you. It’s a bit like the wild West round here at times. You should see them getting drunk and beating each other up on a Friday night.”

  “The locals do that?”

  “When they’re not beating their wives.” She looked at him with a grin. “I can see you’ve never lived in the country. You think it’s all thatched cottages and cider and merrymaking in the hay.”

  Argyll smile
d at the absurdity of the thought.

  “Not a bit of it, my sweet,” she went on. “All human life, red in tooth and claw, can be found in an English village. Incest, adultery, you name it. We even have one suspected axe murderer. He’s a church warden. Jane Austen didn’t know the half of it.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Maybe. But he didn’t get on at all well with his brother, who mysteriously managed to cut off his own leg with a chain saw and bleed to death in a field. Many years back, this was. Conclusions, as they say, could be drawn. Not that the police bothered.”

  “Didn’t his family protest?”

  There was only his wife. And it was her affair with the brother that caused all the trouble in the first place. So they say.”

  “Oh,” he said with his mouth full.

  “You are hungry, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “But I hope you don’t think I came to visit in the hope I’d be fed.”

  “I wouldn’t have minded if you did. Living on your own, children flown the coop, is all very liberating, but it occasionally gets a bit solitary in the evenings. Especially in this bloody great barn.”

  “Ah.”

  “Here’s your bacon and eggs and cocoa,” she said, changing the subject. Conversation lapsed while Argyll ate. After some consideration he decided that it was not merely because he was so hungry; they really were delicious. She had taken the bacon, cut it into strips and grilled it, then laid them in a thin blanket on the bottom of a dish. Then put a knob of butter and three fresh eggs on top, added a healthy slug of cream on top and liberally covered with fresh pepper. All into the oven to cook. Wonderful.

  “Forgive me for asking,” Argyll said when his head, slightly yellowed round the mouth, finally lifted itself out of the bowl, “but have you ever lived abroad?”

  “What makes you think that, Sherlock?”

  “The bacon and eggs are unorthodox to the point of being heretical,” he said.

  “Ah, yes. You’re right. It’s details like cooking that give me away, I’m afraid. You know: not boiling the beans for three quarters of an hour before eating them. Please don’t let on though; it’s bad enough the locals think I come from London. But I’m surprised you concluded that from my food.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve evidently been to the pub. I would have thought they would have filled you in on my life history in the time it took for you to cast an eye over the food tray.”

  “There was a comment or two,” he said. “Nothing scandalous, alas, although not turning up for the village fête seems to have knocked your reputation rather badly.”

  “Oh, God, that,” she said despairingly. “I shall never live it down. It’s about the only village function I’ve missed since Veronica died, you know. I spend my life turning up to things. I never realized that being privileged was such a lot of work. I’ve admired so many prize peonies and babies and pigs I wake screaming in the middle of the night. And if I ever eat another scone again I shall throw up. I had to go away on the day of the fête. Simple as that. The vicar opened it instead and did a better job than me, I’ve no doubt. These people don’t realize that any form of life exists outside Norfolk.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Sorry. Sometimes this place drives me crazy. What else did they tell you?”

  “Not a lot, really. I was trying to find out about Geoffrey Forster.”

  “And?”

  “And not much. I gathered that your cousin liked him and sold him the house, that you didn’t like him, and that was about it.”

  “George Barton, was it?”

  “I think so. Old chap with a dog.”

  “That’s him. He’s the village radar set.”

  “He seems a bit gloomy.”

  “I would have thought he’d be celebrating. Forster owned his cottage and was about to evict him. He was going to develop it into a weekend cottage for rich Londoners. Presumably, George has a stay of execution now. If that’s not an unfortunate way of phrasing it.”

  Argyll said he thought that was very interesting. Local colour. He liked that.

  “Tell me,” she went on, “if you didn’t come for my cooking, why did you come?”

  “An even bigger favour, I’m afraid.”

  “Go on.”

  “You sort of offered me somewhere to stay…”

  “No room at the inn?”

  “Well…”

  “Not exactly the Hilton, is it? Of course; a pleasure. I can hardly claim not to have room. You can have any one of, I believe, twelve bedrooms. Most of which have not been slept in for a decade or more.”

  “That sounds like the pub.”

  “Better decorated, though, where the rain hasn’t brought the wallpaper off. Although probably just as chilly. Are you married?”

  “Eh?”

  “You. Married?”

  “Oh. No. Not exactly.”

  “Getting married?”

  “I think so. Maybe.”

  “You think? Maybe? Not exactly?”

  “Flavia’s very slow in some departments. Quick as lightning generally, but a bit retarded when it comes to making up her mind over things like getting married.”

  “Maybe you should make up your mind instead?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sorry. None of my business.”

  “It’s all right. You’re probably right. Anyway…”

  “Is she in the art business as well?”

  “Who?”

  “Your fiancée.”

  “Sort of,” Argyll conceded. “Do you mind putting me up like this? It’s an awful lot to ask, I know. I feel very guilty about imposing…”

  “Either stay or go. But don’t stay and feel guilty. It’s a waste of time.”

  “Oh. Well. In that case, I’ll stay.”

  “There you are. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she said with a pleasant, but slightly mocking smile. “And I don’t mind at all. I’d love the company. Especially if you can tell me what happened to Geoffrey Forster. It’s about the most exciting thing to happen in Weller since the Saxons invaded.”

  8

  “Ha!” said Flavia with pleasure when, at 11 o’clock the next morning, 10 o’clock Norwich time, she put the phone down after a conversation with Argyll. He had rung to ask what, exactly, she thought he should do. Very nice part of the world. East Anglia, apart from the danger of catching a cold in the chill, but he did feel he was imposing a little.

  On whom? she had asked, and he had explained at some length about the famous hospitality of the English aristocracy, their surfeit of bedrooms and his discovery that their central heating was not up to the rigours of an English summer.

  “Far be it from me to get unpaid labour out of you, but if you could just hang around and listen, then that might be useful for us. And if you could find that Forster was a thief, preferably on a big scale, then we’d be eternally grateful. Bottando is fighting back.”

  “Ah. I don’t know that I understand what you’re on about, but no matter.”

  “Could you go through Forster’s business papers?”

  “I shouldn’t think so for a moment. If I were a policeman, I wouldn’t let me look at them. I’ll try, if you like.”

  “Thank you. Apart from all that, how did you get on in London?”

  “Oh,” he said, dragging his mind back to the distressing subject of his career. “You mean Byrnes? All right, I suppose. That is, his general view is that I should be a little more ruthless in my approach. And make up my mind about this teaching job.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Are you going to listen?”

  “I’m not sure I agree with either of you. Or Mrs. Verney, in fact, even though you all seem to tell me the same thing. But I have decided to decide by the end of the week. About this job.”

  “That’s progress. So what’s this woman like? Your hostess?”

  “Oh, she’s splendid. Quite delightful.”

  “She doesn’t want
to buy any pictures?”

  “Afraid not. She’s about as strapped for cash as I am. On a grander scale, of course, but I suppose these things are all relative. She’s more likely to sell some.”

  “Are there any?”

  “Quite a few. I had a look around this morning when she was out. They’re OK, but nothing special. The Beaumont family wasn’t adventurous in its tastes, and I gather Forster sold anything worth much. But I thought I might double-check, in case he missed something.”

  “Who did you say?”

  “Forster. He sold things from the collection.”

  “Not him. The other one. Did you say Beaumont?”

  He agreed that he had. “It seems to be the family name,” he explained. “Why?”

  Because there was a woman called Beaumont at Signora della Quercia’s. Whom Forster was keen on, so it seems.”

  He grunted. “It sounds like cousin Veronica. Mrs. Verney doesn’t seem the finishing school type. Shall I ask?”

  “If you could.”

  And then she went to report to Bottando, who was, yet again, in an ill-humour. Argan, he said, was lobbying for the Leonardo forger to be clapped in irons and was going around accusing everybody of being slapdash over a raid on an antiquities gallery in the via Giulia. Someone had driven a small truck through the window, loaded up and driven off. Happened every day of the week, almost. Why Argan was in such a fuss over this one had escaped him, until someone pointed out that the gallery was owned by his brother-in-law. And, of course, it served to make the department look bad.

  “I did say the fake Leonardos were entirely trivial, but that, of course, is not the point. It got into the papers, and so there’s an opportunity for the department to have a high profile.”

  “The paperwork will take me at least a month.”

  “Will it?”

  “If you want it to, yes. I could spin it out indefinitely, if that’s what you want.”

  Bottando nodded. “Splendid,” he said with satisfaction. “We’ll make an apparatchik of you yet. Now, Forster. What is the state of things there?”

  “Interesting, since you ask. Signora Fancelli points the finger, and much of her story is supported by della Quercia. Sandano reckons Forster was behind the Fra Angelico. He was working in some way for a woman called Beaumont who was also at della Querela’s. And he’s dead, of course. As far as I know, the police in England have not yet decided whether he fell or was pushed.”