Giotto's hand

by Iain Pears

  Jessica Forster frowned. Flavia decided she was either very stupid or very simple. Or perhaps neither. “What other reason could there be?”

  “And you’ve been having a hard time? Financially, I mean?”

  She nodded. “But it was getting very much better. Geoffrey was re-establishing his business, and told me he expected to pull off a big deal very soon.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I’ve no idea. He never used to bother me with the details. I earn it, you spend it. That’s what he used to say. He was a good man. I know what you’ve been told about him. But there was more to him than that. Much more.”

  Flavia was left to guess what more she might have meant, and decided it was too complicated to pursue at the moment. “This deal,” she said. “What was it? A painting?”

  “I suppose so. Unless he meant selling off the cottages. But I don’t think it was that.”

  “If he had valuable paintings, would he normally keep them here?”

  “I’ve no idea. Maybe not. If they were really valuable. This isn’t the most secure place, and so many people have keys, what with the cleaning ladies and such. And you do hear tales about burglars.”

  “So if your husband wished to show a painting to a client, for example, it’s possible that he would only bring it here at the last moment?”

  She nodded. “It’s possible. He did have a safe deposit box at a bank in Norwich. I told all this to the police, you know.”

  “He didn’t mention the names of any clients?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did he have any contacts in Italy?”

  Another shake.

  “I see. Did your husband travel a great deal?”

  “Of course. He was an art dealer. He was constantly on the move, seeing pictures and clients. Not that he enjoyed it much. He preferred to stay at home.”

  “Did he go abroad?”

  “Yes, sometimes. Not often, though. Why do you ask?”

  “Just interest,” she said vaguely. “Do you happen to know if he was in Scotland in July 1976?”

  Another shake. “I don’t know.”

  “In Padua in May 1991?”

  Another.

  “Milan in February 1992?”

  “I don’t think so. He went away often, but not for long and I wasn’t always sure where he was.”

  “Would anybody know?”

  “Probably not. Geoffrey worked alone. You might ask that man Winterton. He might know something.”

  “I see. Thank you. Can you tell me, how did he come to work for Veronica Beaumont?”

  “She asked him, I think. Several years back, I believe they’d known each other. Socially. Geoffrey made a point of cultivating such people. Can’t say I would have given most of them the time of day, myself. He said he’d given her informal advice for some time. But he really started working here properly about three years ago. That was when we took the decision to move here.”

  “They’d known each other for years, I understand. Since their twenties.”

  She looked puzzled at this. “Perhaps. I don’t know. He never mentioned it. I must say I wasn’t happy to come here. I know business was bad, but we would have managed I was ready to go and get a job and help. And I wasn’t sure that tying ourselves to the whim of one woman— who was a bit strange—was a good idea. Bui Geoff never listened to me. And it was no consolation when I was proven right. We should never have left London and buried ourselves here.”

  “An unfortunate choice of phrase, Flavia thought And come to think of it, it was a pity he hadn’t listened to her. She might behave like a frightened rabbit but if what she was saying was true, she had more sense—or better judgement —than her husband had. “You dont know what happened to his papers?” she asked.

  She looked nervous suddenly, and Flavia knew that she was not telling the truth when she shook her head and explained that she’d been out all day.

  “I got back here last night and spent all morning talking to the police. Then I went to Norwich to see the solicitors. After that I spent the evening with friends. I didn’t know anything about it when the police came round this morning, asked to see them and then started shouting when they discovered all the papers had gone.”

  Flavia nodded thoughtfully. Such a rush of alibis, with all the tension vanishing as she spoke, almost as though she was reassuring herself as it came out She was on the whole far too nervous. in Flavia’s admittedly uncharitable view.

  She sipped a glass of beer and pondered thoughtfully. No, she finally decided she would go hungry. Safer that way. She had never seen food that looked quite like that before and didn’t really care to experiment with what effect it might have on her stomach. Argyll did his best with a sausage roll and, to make up for their lack of appetite, Inspector Manstead, newly arrived from London to view proceedings, tucked enthusiastically into a second Scotch egg, then made the repast even more tasty by adding a large pickled onion to the mixture in his mouth. Flavia shuddered, and tried to concentrate.

  “So what do they reckon? Your colleagues, I mean?” she asked.

  Manstead chewed meditatively a while longer, then disposed of egg, sausage meat and pickled onion in one mighty swallow. “I don’t think they reckon anything yet. They want to think that our Gordon was responsible; nice and simple, no problems. But they don’t, really. They’re hanging on to him for want of anything better.”

  “They’ve talked to Mrs. Forster, I understand?”

  “Yup.”

  “She mentioned Forster’s safe deposit box?”

  Manstead smiled. “Yes, she did. And it’s been checked out.”

  “And what’s in it?”

  “Nothing. It seems that Forster arrived that afternoon, just before closing time, and took everything out of it.”

  “What? What did he take?”

  “They don’t know. Of course they don’t.”

  “Wouldn’t do to go snooping around in clients’ boxes. It’s not Switzerland, you know.”

  Flavia frowned. “So, if I understand this right, Jonathan telephones—when was it?”

  “About two-thirty,” Argyll put in. “A bit later, maybe.”

  “And Forster immediately leaps into his car, rushes into Norwich and collects his package,” Manstead continued for her. “It takes about forty-five minutes to get in. That evening he is dead, and when we look, there is nothing which appears out of place, as though it was collected from a safe deposit the previous day. But, of course, we don’t know what we are looking for, do we?”

  Flavia sniffed and scratched her nose. “Jonathan?” Flavia asked, turning her attention on to him more completely. “What exactly did you say when you rang him up?”

  Argyll looked flustered, and tried to remember. “That I was making enquiries about a picture I had heard about through an old friend of his.”

  “And?”

  “And that I’d heard he might know something about it.”

  “And?”

  “And that it might have been stolen. And that I wanted to talk to him about it. And that I didn’t want to talk over the phone. He said I should come to see him here.”

  “So it’s possible that he thought you wanted to buy it?”

  Argyll conceded this was possible.

  “And also possible that he rushed off to get it so you could view the goods before making an offer?”

  Another nod. “I suppose. Except, of course, that I specifically mentioned the Palazzo Straga.”

  “Ah.”

  “And it still hardly explains why he’s dead, does it? Or why his papers got burned up. Can’t blame me, this time.”

  Manstead, who’d been listening to this with some pleasure, downed a good third of his pint then smacked his lips. “Ah, country life,” he said with satisfaction. ”Good beer, good food, fresh air. What am I doing living in London, eh? Perhaps,” he went on, “pictures have got nothing to do with it.”

  Flavia gave him a doubtful look. “My friend
s in the force say there are lots of other more interesting lines of enquiry, and Gordon’s refusal to say where he was is only one of them.”

  “For example?”

  “For example, the fact that Forster was carrying on with the cleaning girl, and Mrs. Forster didn’t like it one bit. She may look like a long-suffering simpleton, but even she must have got a bit annoyed by that. Can’t say I blame her, either. And there is the problem of the London trip, of course,”

  “Which problem is that?”

  “Mrs. Forster is in London, staying with her sister. But on the evening of Forster’s death, she goes on her own to the cinema. She leaves the house at five, and comes back way after midnight. I know some films need some editing, but nine hours is a bit long, even for one of these avant-garde things. Acts a bit oddly, so the sister says, when asked why she was out so late.”

  “And what does she say to you?”

  “She says she was out, went for a walk, ate, saw a film, then, as it was a nice evening, walked home. Maybe she did.

  “But now there’s the affair of the burning papers,” he went on. “And who could have burnt them but her? Safeguarding her position by destroying evidence of what he was up to? Not wanting her husband’s estate confiscated by outraged victims?”

  “Have you had any response from the Belgians about that picture Winterton mentioned?”

  Manstead nodded. “I have. A nice man, that, by the way. Kind of you to put me in contact. As for the picture, they sent this. It’s still in the collection.”

  He slipped out a slightly murky photograph from his file and, with a little smile of expectation, handed it to Flavia. It was very far from being a clear image. Flavia peered at it, and grunted.

  “We’ve also shown it to the Earl of Dunkeld, who swears blind it’s his. Pollaiuolo. St. Mary the Egyptian.”

  Flavia nodded, and sipped her beer. “How was it stolen?”

  “Simplicity itself. Big family wedding on”—here he paused and looked at his notes—“the Saturday. 10th July 1976. Blushing bride marches down the aisle, organ plays, confetti thrown, party held in the ballroom—such useful things to have about the house, ballrooms, don’t you think? Anyway, the whole thing is a huge success. Flawless. Everything right and proper and wonderful. Except that in the morning the library had this picture hanging up in it. Late at night a tired but proud father goes in for a quiet and relaxing sit down…”

  “Blank spot on the wall?”

  Manstead nodded. “Exactly. By which time everybody had gone home. Could have been anyone of seven hundred miscellaneous guests, relatives, caterers, musicians or vicars.”

  “Has anyone cast an eye over the guest list?”

  “I’m sure they did. But I assume nothing came of it.”

  “Could they do it again?”

  “I’ll ask. Of course, if Forster was as good as your boss reckons, he would hardly have been there under his own name. Might not even have been on the guest list at all. Long time ago, as well. You can look at the file yourself, if you want.”

  “Please. So. How did it get to Belgium?”

  “That’s the problem, of course,” Manstead said with a smile. “The man who bought it is dead. And, naturally, his records don’t say. Wouldn’t, would they?”

  “Any note about Forster selling them anything?”

  “No.”

  “Oh,” said a disappointed Flavia.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “But he did know about it. That’s important. It means there are now hazy links between Forster and the disappearance of one Uccello, a Pollaiuolo, and a Fra Angelico. Three stolen paintings, dating between 1963 and 1991, and all on my boss’s list of thefts by Giotto’s hand. His own distinctive style, as you might say.”

  “Impressive, and very hopeful. But there is nothing absolutely solid for any of them. Hazy, as you say. Now, Where’s that beer of mine?” he wondered.

  In fact, Manstead’s beer had been ambushed, or at least Argyll had. He had scarcely given the order to the barman when George, who might well have been lying in wait for hours, docked alongside him.

  “Hello again, young man,” he said to open proceedings. “What’s been going on, then?”

  “Not a lot,” Argyll said airily, as he watched the barman’s wife, whose name, he gathered, was Sally, pull the pints. “You probably know as much as I do.”

  “In that case, they’re not going to find anyone, are they? ’Cause I know nothing at all. Except that someone burnt all of Forster’s papers, his wife’s back, and that they’re going to have to let Gordon Brown go sooner or later.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Because he didn’t do it. He’s got an alibi.”

  “First I heard,” said Argyll, noticing that George was speaking in a remarkably loud voice.

  “I know,” he said. “But someone’ll tell you soon enough. No doubt about that. Bound to. Even I know he didn’t do it.” And, giving everybody in hearing distance what was unmistakably a significant look, George nodded sagely to himself, picked up the remains of his pint, and walked off to his comer seat. Argyll got the strong feeling that the man had delivered his message. He was just uncertain who the message had been delivered to. It certainly wasn’t him.

  He found out at about ten that evening, as the trio were clearing away the table in the morning room and beginning the task of carrying everything down to the kitchen. A good meal, except for a bumpy start: Flavia had been asked to cook some pasta and, despite her protestations that cooking really wasn’t her area of expertise, she had given in eventually. Mary Verney had this certainty that all Italians are born cookers of pasta. Her opinion changed somewhat after the first course.

  And then the doorbell went.

  “Unexpected late night calls seem to be popular all of a sudden,” Mary said as she got up and prepared to go on the long voyage across the saloon, through the entrance hallway to the door. It was a trip that took several minutes, and she returned only to poke her head through the door and summon them to the little sitting room which was the only properly comfortable part of the house.

  “It’s Sally,” she explained as she led them through the darkened hallway. “The barman’s wife. Don’t know what she wants. But I’m feudally obliged to listen, and as it seems to be about Geoffrey, I thought you might want to hear as well.”

  Sally, the barman’s wife, was standing in her coat looking mightily uncomfortable, until Mary sat her down by the fire, beamed maternally and made appropriately reassuring noises.

  “I said I had a headache and left Harry to close up,” she said. “I’m so sorry to bother you but… oh!”

  Her face fell as she turned round and saw Flavia and Argyll.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I think I’ve made a mistake. Perhaps I ought to go.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mary said firmly. “If you need to talk to me on your own, then those two can go for a walk.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, now panicking and wavering in her resolve. “I’m sorry I came at all. But I thought you might tell me what to do…”

  “Just so,” said a curiously unsurprised Mary. “I think, if I can give you a little piece of advice, you would be well advised to tell Miss di Stefano your story as well. You can rely on her.”

  “But what about him?” Sally said, pointing at Argyll. “He gossips with George. All the time.”

  Mary went into the hallway and let out a piercing whistle, putting both fingers into her mouth to produce the right effect. It echoed through the great rooms like an air-raid siren, and in response there was a muffled barking and a patter of eager canine feet. She picked Argyll’s coat off the hook and tossed it at him.

  “Please, Jonathan. A little favour. In the interests of village serenity. Take Frederick for his evening constitutional. Walkies! Walkies!” she said, switching her attention to the beast that came running expectantly through the door.

  “Women’s business,
” she went on, noting that Argyll seemed markedly less enthusiastic than Frederick at the prospect. “Come back in half an hour.”

  By the time he got halfway to the gate, Flavia was regarding the unhappy woman with what she hoped was an air of encouraging sympathy. Sally was in her late thirties, heavy in the face and pale from too much bad food and too many hours confined behind the bar of the pub. A pretty face though. With a little bit of care, she thought to herself… But, as Argyll constantly told her, that was not the way things were done here.

  Whatever Sally had come for, she was not over eager to tell them about it. She sat in a sullen silence, staring down at the carpet, unable to begin.

  “Perhaps if I helped,” Mary prompted. “You’ve come about Gordon, is that right?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Verney, yes,” she said in a rush. It was as though the older woman had pulled the bung out of a barrel. The words suddenly started gushing out. “He didn’t do anything wrong. I suppose everybody knows he steals things and he can get rough. But not like that.”

  “The police seem to like the idea,” Mary said.

  “But they’re wrong. I know they are.”

  “And why is that?”

  Sally lapsed into silence again.

  “Because he was with you? Is that it?”

  She nodded, and looked up with alarm.

  “Tell us what happened,” Flavia suggested.

  “Perhaps I should explain first of all,” Mary said. “Gordon is married to Louise. Formerly Louise Barton. George’s daughter. That’s why Sally didn’t want Jonathan to overhear this.”

  Then Sally began her tale. It was simple enough. Both she and her husband worked behind the bar only at busy periods. At weekends they got in help, but ordinarily they managed on their own. Most lunch-times and evenings either one or the other worked the bar. On the day Forster died, it was Harry, and his wife had the evening off. The bar of the pub was downstairs, and the living quarters upstairs at the back. At eight o’clock, just as it was getting busy and she knew her husband would be occupied until closing time, Gordon had left the bar, gone round the back and climbed up the drainpipe and into her room. He’d stayed there until he’d heard the bell for closing time, then disappeared the way he’d come.