by Iain Pears
“Because this is England, my dear, and that’s what we do here.”
“Why? I like people to be charming.”
“But you’re Italian,” he explained patiently, as she slipped the car into gear and lurched forward a few hundred yards. “In this country charm means you’re superficial, have a tendency to flattery, are probably a bumptious social climber and, moreover, the term carries very distinct implications that you like women.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“A ladies’ man,” Argyll said darkly. “Few things can be worse. It suggests a propensity to slobber over people’s hands and pay compliments like some continental. You can do that sort of thing with dogs, but not with the opposite sex.”
“You do come from a very strange country, you know. Tell me about my new hostess. Am I going to enjoy her company?”
“Mrs. Verney? Very much, I think. At least, I do. She’s quite charming. And, before you ask, women can be charming. That’s perfectly acceptable, even in England.”
“I see. And in what does her charm consist?”
“Comfort. She makes you feel relaxed and at home, even in that chilly great barn of a house. She’s very intelligent, I think; a wry sense of humour, rather quick on her feet.”
“Why is she so obliging?” she asked suspiciously.
“Curiosity about you, probably. But as you’re curious about her as well, that’s all right. Besides, I suspect the real truth is that she’s a bit lonely. She doesn’t really have much of a life up there, you know.”
They arrived at the village at well past nine, and Flavia drove straight to Weller House. The rain was finally stopping as a way of welcoming them to Norfolk, and Mary greeted them like long-lost friends, led them into the kitchen—you must be hungry, so I kept a little food over for you—then settled them down so she and Flavia could cast an eye over each other and see what was mutually in store for them. Flavia was tired, Mary seemed unusually quiet and cautious.
But they got the measure of each other fairly quickly; Flavia was better with a drink beside her, and Mary relaxed. Argyll, in fact, felt rather left out, and a little affronted by the way they hit it off. Neither of them bothered to talk to him very much at all; rather, they chattered away, discussing the state of British transport, the weather, the horrors of living in London, Rome and Paris and the problem of getting good materials for salad to grow in an English climate.
“And have you reached a conclusion about Geoffrey?” she asked after a while.
“Not really,” Flavia said. “Enquiries are continuing.”
“We may have linked him to another picture,” Argyll added, for no particular reason except for the fact that he hadn’t been able to say anything for nearly quarter of an hour and needed to make his presence felt a little. “A Pollaiuolo. But there is a bit of bad news for you as well, I’m afraid.”
“How’s that?”
Flavia explained. Personally, she wasn’t absolutely convinced that she wanted to talk about this case to someone she’d only met half an hour previously, but as Argyll seemed already to have told her everything, as she was her hostess and as she did indeed seem an eminently agreeable soul, there seemed to be little point in holding back.
“Forster might have been disguising the pictures he sold by saying they came from here,” she said.
Mary looked interested. “Why? What would that accomplish?”
“You know crooks launder money so it can’t be traced?”
“Of course.”
“Picture thieves often launder paintings. Give them a false pedigree to explain where they came from. An old collection like yours, full of pictures that no one has seen for a hundred years or more, would be absolutely perfect. Unless somebody checked with your family.”
“Which would have been a waste of breath. As I told Jonathan, Veronica wasn’t exactly coherent all the time.”
“Even better.”
Mary looked thoughtful. “That would explain why he hid the documents on what actually was in the house, I suppose.”
“Probably.”
“Anything going on here while I’ve been away?” Argyll asked. “More murders, arrests or anything?”
“No,” the older woman replied almost sadly. “Quiet as the grave. Jessica’s here, though.”
“Is that the wife?” Flavia asked.
“That’s right. She came back this morning, poor thing. She’s in a bit of a state; I suppose it must be a shock. So I asked whether she wanted to be put up as well; I couldn’t imagine she wanted to stay in that house. But she said she was fine.”
“That was very kind of you.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “It was. I must confess I was terrified that she might accept the offer. I’m all for helping the afflicted in their hour of need, of course, but frankly”—here she lowered her voice as though too many people might hear—“the woman is so wet she makes me want to scream.”
“Have the police talked to her?”
She shrugged. “How should I know? Even George Barton is in the dark about what’s going on. And if he doesn’t know, then a mere amateur like myself is unlikely to find anything out.”
After about another half hour of idle conversation— Argyll’s lack of opportunity to talk meant he finished his food very much faster than did the other two—he decided to go to bed, leaving them comfortably ensconced in the sitting room wondering whether to have a brandy.
12
He was woken up by a loud bashing on the door and a head sticking itself inside.
“Oh, Jonathan. Sorry to wake you,” said Mary. “The police have just arrived and could you get up as quickly as possible?”
Instead of a coherent response, he stuck his head out from underneath the blanket, into the dank, cold air and said “Wha?” or something like that, as he tried to orientate himself.
“Coffee’s in the kitchen,” she added brightly before disappearing.
Still fuddled, but doing as he was told, Argyll levered himself out of bed and reached for his clothes. He then wasted several precious minutes while he wondered where his left sock was, discovered it under the bed, along with generations of other debris, then dressed and went downstairs.
Inspector Wilson, with the sour look on his face of a man who has drunk too much coffee and not had enough breakfast, greeted him with a gruff sound that did little except communicate discontent.
Argyll peered at him cautiously. “What’s up?” he asked. “You do not have the air of a man at peace with the world.”
“That’s a way of putting it, Mr. Argyll. I am not. I have a question to ask you.”
“Ask away.”
“Where were you yesterday afternoon?”
Argyll looked puzzled. “I was in London,” he said cautiously. “Why?”
“Can I take it, then, that you have no idea who went into Geoffrey Forster’s house yesterday, broke through the seals, unlocked the door, and took all his papers?”
“This time Argyll was surprised. “Not a clue,” he said. “But it wasn’t me. Who’d want them, anyway?”
“Indeed.”
“When was this?”
“We’re not sure. For once, the villagers were caught unawares. Nobody saw anyone go in or out. Except for police officers.”
“Must have been one of them, then,” he suggested. “Are you sure no one took them away in a fit of diligence?”
Wilson didn’t even answer. Instead, he turned his attention to the door, as a still-yawning Flavia came in. Mary Verney performed the introductions.
“Delighted,” Inspector Wilson said.
“Do I understand that a lot of papers have gone missing?” she asked mildly.
Wilson, slightly shamefaced now that he was confronted with a colleague, even though an unlikely-looking colleague, admitted that this was the case. And, to get it over and done with, also admitted that it did look bad, a load of evidence disappearing just like that from the house of someone who was possibly a victim of murder.
&nb
sp; “I was hoping that Mr. Argyll was going to tell me he’d taken all the papers so that he could study them at leisure here,” he said. “Unfortunately, that’s not the case.”
“Have you asked Forster’s wife?” Mary chipped in. “I suppose that she inherits whatever he may have had. So she would have an interest in them. Maybe she took them off to an accountant, or something.”
Wilson agreed that this was a possibility, but they had managed to think of this already and Jessica Forster had denied doing anything of the sort.
“Would you mind if I walked down and had a look around?” Flavia asked as he prepared to go. “I’m sure I won’t be able to contribute anything useful. But it would come in useful for my report.”
Wilson said that would be fine by him. But he’d be grateful if she didn’t touch anything without his permission.
After a brief breakfast, therefore, the three of them wrapped themselves up in the warm clothing necessary for coping with an English summer morning, and set off on the short walk to Forster’s house.
“This place used to belong to you, is that right?” Flavia asked as she and Mary walked in step and Argyll was distracted by the dog. “Why did your cousin sell those cottages to him?”
“A good question. I thought of trying to get it overturned on grounds of undue influence, but the lawyers all told me I was wasting my time. Who knows, I might manage something now. I hope you don’t decide I killed him just to get my property back.”
“I’ll try not to. Was the Weller estate big once?”
“Oh, yes. It dwindled slowly. On the few occasions that I came here as a child, there were still half a dozen farms working like crazy to keep us in the style to which we were accustomed. But Uncle Godfrey was hopeless at business, and Veronica was too potty to care. Very big on family position, but not much use at providing the wherewithal to underpin it. Or so I found out when she died. She used to live very well and I never understood how. After she died I discovered it was basically by selling off the family silver. But, if it’s good enough for the government, why not for Veronica, eh?”
“And more death duties when she died?”
She nodded. “Not many. She transferred the place to my name some time ago. She had a turn, thought she was going to die and got frightened the taxman would get it. That was when I was asked to visit. We managed to avoid quite a lot of taxes, but there are still enough to keep me worried. The revenue men are beginning to nip at my heels a little. This is the house, by the way.”
She opened the door and then said that she’d leave Flavia to wander around at will. She’d walk around the grounds and see if anything needed doing.
“Perils of owning things,” she said. “You’re constantly eyeing up holes in fences and worrying about how much they’ll cost to repair.”
“Shall I come with you?” Argyll asked.
“By all means.”
So she and Argyll set off down the small garden, leaving Flavia to examine Forster’s house professionally. Argyll would have hung around, but she was quite capable of finding out everything she needed on her own and, at times like that when she was concentrating, he knew that she was better left in peace.
“I like Flavia,” Mary said eventually in a definite tone of voice. “Hang on to her.”
“I’m going to. Where are we going, by the way?” he asked as they crossed through what seemed to be an old hedge.
“We’re back in the grounds of Weller. That path over there leads back round to the front of the house. It gets a bit boggy at times. This path goes through that little copse. There’s not much in it. Someone once had an idea about breeding pheasants, but got bored with it. You can still see some wandering around at times. They have a nice life. Nobody’s bothered them for years. It’s quite pretty.”
“Let’s go down there, then. Tell me, why don’t you just sell Weller and be shot of it? There must be something left over, mustn’t there? Even after taxes?”
“After taxes, yes. But after taxes and paying off debts, no. Basically, we’re chugging along courtesy of the bank manager. Uncle Godfrey refused to accept reality and kept on raising loans secured on what he persuaded bankers were his expectations.”
“What expectations?”
“That he would win his fight for compensation for the airbase, which was commandeered during the war. A complete waste of time, in my opinion. Or at least it was. Now they’re going, there’s a possibility I might get it back.”
“But not for several years, surely?”
“No. Frankly, I doubt if it will ever happen, although don’t say I said so. The important thing is to persuade the banks, so I can borrow money on it.”
“Like Uncle Godfrey?”
“A bit. I suppose you think it’s grossly irresponsible, borrowing money I know I will never pay back. But what the hell? What are banks for?”
They were crossing a small clearing, only a dozen or so yards wide, and made a detour to avoid a volcano-shaped pile of garden rubbish that had been stacked up for burning. It still smelt slightly, the charred aroma of burnt material that has been wettened overnight when the rain started coming down again. On the other side, the source of the smell came into view, and Argyll stopped dead in his tracks. Then he went and peered closely at the large pile. An old manila file was only half-burnt, and it was labelled ‘correspondence 1982.’ Another bit of half-consumed paper had a letterhead from Bond Street. A third was the remains of some bill or other.
The pair of them looked at it for a while, then Jonathan said: “Seems to solve the problem of the empty filing cabinet, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said eventually, sticking her hands in her pockets. “It does, doesn’t it?”
Now Argyll bent down, stuck his face close to the debris and sniffed. “A whiff of petrol. Or paraffin,” he observed. “What was the weather like here yesterday?”
“Rained in the morning, stopped in the afternoon, started again in the evening and kept going.”
He shrugged. “Anyway, somebody must have worked very hard on this. Carrying all those files out of the house, bringing them all the way over here, setting light to them, watching them burn, then doing their best to scatter the debris. They must have been busy for quite a time. I wonder why?”
“Is that a rhetorical question, or do you think you know?”
“It destroys a lot of possible evidence about Forster, doesn’t it? Come on. We’ll have to walk back and find Inspector Wilson.”
Flavia, meanwhile, was having a cup of coffee and a little chat with Jessica Forster, whom she’d encountered just as she was beginning her cursory look around the site where the murdered man had been found. She was standing, hands in pocket, lost in thought, at the foot of the stairs, squinting up to get an idea of the man’s descent, when there came a cough, half apologetic, half indignant, from behind her.
She turned round to greet the cougher, and apologize for coming in without knocking: in fact, she had entirely forgotten that Forster’s widow was there. It was something, she decided later, that people did with Jessica Forster. The adjective mousy arose, quite unbidden, in her mind and despite all efforts to achieve a more balanced, subtle character analysis, it stayed there throughout, squeaking at her insistently.
Mrs. Forster was over ten years younger than her husband, she guessed, and exuded none of the self-confidence and arrogance that the photographs of the dead man possessed. She had the pressed lips and tight jaw of suffering righteousness, of a martyr to the cause of doing things properly. She was also extremely nervous and manifestly in considerable distress, although this was, she decided charitably, more than reasonable in the circumstances. Either way, Flavia found her a difficult person to talk to, and discovered that the nervousness and twitchiness was mildly contagious.
Her opening remarks, along the lines of offering condolences on her husband’s death, did not make much of an impact. “It was a shock,” she said. “I still can’t believe it has happened.”
“I was
wondering whether I could ask you…”
“You want to interview me as well? I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
Flavia hastened to reassure her and explained that she, was interested in different things.
“So who are you then?”
She explained that as well, after a fashion. “How much have the police told you?”
She shook her head. “They haven’t told me anything. Just asked me. It’s been horrible. Almost as though it was none of my business.”
With some misgiving, Flavia told her what she knew, ending up with her quest for the Pollaiuolo. As long as she wasn’t dissimulating, then she hadn’t been told much. She appeared insignificant, so she was treated like that. It was hard to take her into consideration, but that was no reason for ignoring her. She seemed almost pathetically grateful for Flavia’s efforts, and the Italian felt herself becoming more sympathetic.
When the explanation was finished, Mrs. Forster shook her head. “I didn’t know anything about this at all,” she said.
“Would you expect to?”
“Maybe not. Of course, I didn’t know anything about his business. Except that it hasn’t been so easy recently. Because of Mrs. Verney.”
With a bit of fire in her for the first time, Jessica Forster indicated that Mrs. Verney and her husband had not got on at all well. “I can’t say who was at fault. She said she couldn’t afford him any more. But Geoffrey was furious with her, far more so than I would have imagined. I’m afraid they just disliked each other. But I must say she has always been nice to me. She even offered to let me stay in Weller House if I couldn’t face being here. That was kind, don’t you think? You often find out the best of people in times of trouble.”
Flavia agreed it was frequently the case.
“I understood his reaction, of course,” she went on. “Geoffrey had put in so much work for Miss Beaumont, and gave up his business in London to come here and work for her. Then Mrs. Verney just ended it. He was deeply hurt. And I don’t mind telling you, it hurt us financially as well.”
“And it was just because Mrs. Verney couldn’t afford it?”
