Giotto's hand

by Iain Pears

  “As for the man I labelled Giotto and of whose existence Dottore Argan is sceptical, I am now in a position to add substance to my original theory. His name was Geoffrey Arnold Forster, and we can prove it. His identity was discovered because we listened to crooks and senile old women, and because we have the skill and experience to know when they are telling the truth and when they are lying.”

  Proof? He went on as the questions erupted. Of course. Even if you disapproved of Sandano, there was the testimony of Signora Fancelli; Flavia had forgotten to tell him about the circumstances of its production. The statement of Arthur Winterton who, Bottando said, was renowned throughout the international art world as a dealer of the highest integrity. The testimony of Mary Verney that Forster had claimed to be selling pictures through Weller. Confirmation by Jonathan Argyll that he had not done so. His possible murder of Veronica Beaumont when she discovered how he was using the family name to trade in illegal paintings and had questioned him. The fact that his wife had burnt his papers in order to destroy evidence of his dealings. Finally, the possibility that he was himself murdered on the orders of a discontented client—although this was unlikely ever to be proven, due to the fact that it was in the hands of the English police who lacked a long-established Art Squad to investigate with skill.

  Bottando paused for dramatic effect and to see how this was going down. They were all shifting uncertainly in their seats, unprepared for his vigorous self-defence. Argan, however, was looking a little relaxed once more, as he knew that so far Bottando had not produced the proof he had claimed. He was preparing to counterattack. Bottando waited until the man was licking his lips with anticipation, then smiled sweetly at him, and took out a piece of paper.

  “And, above all, there is this,” he went on, putting the sheet on the table and glancing at it reverentially. He let it lie there for at least half a second, the room in silence, so that all present, even the dimmest, knew that the moment of climax was coming.

  “Found in his files, again by one of my people. And what is it?” he asked rhetorically, peering around the room as though he expected hands to be raised. He shook his head as though ‘twas a mere bagatelle. All in a day’s routine.

  “Just a list of his clients,” he said airily. “The paintings they bought. And the places they were stolen from. That’s all. Not complete, probably, but in my opinion one of the single greatest finds in the history of art theft. Nineteen works, twelve stolen from Italy alone, and painted by Uccello, Martini, Pollaiuolo, Masaccio, Bellini and many others. All on my list of deeds done by Giotto’s hand, in whose existence Dottore Argan refused to believe. In themselves a major collection of which any museum would be very proud. We know where they are, and we can probably get many of them back. Their identification is,” he said firmly, glancing around and daring anyone to contradict him, “a triumph for my entire department.”

  Perhaps he went on a little remorselessly towards the end, but he was determined to leave nothing in doubt. He handed round the list which Flavia had bargained out of Winterton the evening before, so that all could look and admire. And as they examined, Bottando developed his variations on a theme of expertise and experience, on the dangers of thinking real life could be reduced to a flowchart of administrative responsibilities: on the need for long-term continuity, not constant change to keep up with the latest fad and fashion. On how police work is hard and time-consuming and could not be had on the cheap. On the need to be dispassionate, and not to end up defending crooks because you are related to them.

  And above all, on the need for absolute and total dedication and integrity and honesty. This last with a glance in Argan’s direction.

  All delivered in a gentle, regretful, calm tone, and sheer music to the ears of the police members of the committee, who were regarding him almost with veneration by the time he’d finished. The mood of the meeting was entirely reversed. Now it was Argan’s natural allies who found themselves unable to look steadily in his direction. They would be back, advocating reform, in due course. But they were not going to be shot to pieces defending a man who had so rashly led them into an ambush.

  Bottando’s vote of confidence was unanimous. Oddly, only Flavia still seemed unhappy. It must be the strain of it all, Bottando thought. It would take her a few days to recover, and for it to sink in what an extraordinary job she’d done.

  Even Argan congratulated him on a fine piece of work. Bottando almost felt sorry for him.

  Well, not really.

  17

  Bottando’s triumph was Jonathan Argyll’s nightmare. When Flavia left him at Norwich railway station, he’d been feeling quite content. He had, in his opinion, given good, if unorthodox, advice, the result of thinking through a process in a fashion that would end up to everyone’s advantage. He had been quick, ruthless and decisive as recommended by all and sundry. He felt a little uncomfortable with this new and thrusting persona, but had no doubts that he would get used to it. Now all that remained was to transfer it to his job as a dealer and everything would be delightful. Soon he would have to talk to Mary Verney about the Leonardo. The mood lasted all the way back to Weller House, accompanied him to bed and sent him off to an exceptionally good sleep.

  It did not, however, last very long in the morning; survived until he was halfway through his morning egg, in fact, at which point Mary Verney stuck her head through the door and summoned him to the telephone.

  “Inspector Manstead,” she said. “Wants to say hello.”

  Manstead, being a courteous man, had rung solely for the purpose of thanking Argyll for his assistance, and to tell him how enormously impressed he was, by Flavia’s deductive skills.

  “I never really believed Forster was a thief, you know,” he confessed. “Just goes to show how wrong you can be. I doubt we’ll ever figure out how he died,” he said. “But that list of pictures you found is dynamite. A pity you didn’t notice it the first time you looked through his desk. But at least you had the gumption to look again.”

  “Ah, yes,” Argyll said. “I left my pen behind. In the desk. I was just getting it back.”

  “Amazing piece of luck it wasn’t burnt with all the rest of the papers. That damned wife of his. If it wasn’t for Flavia’s plea for clemency I’d nail Jessica Forster to the wall, the time she wasted.”

  “Mercy is a fine thing,” Argyll said. “She suffered enough living with him, I think.”

  “True. And she’s all but penniless, I gather. God only knows where Forster’s money went. He must have netted a packet from all the things he nicked.”

  “Someone said something about gambling,” Argyll offered.

  “Did they?” Manstead said in surprise. “I’d not heard that. I suppose that’s art dealers’ gossip, is it?”

  “That sort of thing.”

  “It’s not really important. If we recover the Pollaiuolo, that will be more than sufficient reward. I mean, we knew where it was, but now we have more indication that it was knowingly bought as a stolen painting it’ll be easier to get it back.”

  “Was that on the list?” Argyll said with a sudden lurching feeling in his stomach as a penny dropped and clattered around somewhere at the bottom of his stomach.

  “Of course. Why?”

  “Nothing. Just that I didn’t notice. Too excited, I suppose. Tell me, was the Uccello on it as well?”

  “Of course. The first one. Didn’t you read it at all? You must have been in a real daze.”

  “Yes. A daze. That’s about it.”

  His good mood dissipating fast as little details swept through his mind, laughing at him, he went back more sombrely to his half-cold egg. What had gone wrong? It was quite possible that he could make a mistake, but he didn’t believe that Flavia would have done. After all, she was good at this sort of thing. But of course, she was relying unusually heavily on information he had gathered. Left to her own devices, she would have made the connections. But as Argyll hadn’t detailed his burrowing in the Weller House archive
s, or his trips around graveyards, how could she possibly put the pieces together?

  Still, maybe it was just a figment of his imagination, he told himself as he stared moodily at the toast. And maybe not, he added a few moments later when he opened and read a letter that the postman had delivered while he was on the phone. It delivered the coup de grâce.

  It was from Lucy Garton, reporting that Italy Alex had finally taken a long lunch after an unprecedented period of devotion to duty, and she had grasped the opportunity to rummage through his files. It was not a happy letter. Peeved, in fact, as she reported that, despite Argyll’s firm belief, Geoffrey Forster had not sold any Italian paintings through her auction house.

  Argyll more or less knew this by now, of course, so it came as no great shock. What did surprise him a little was the indignant announcement that in fact Forster had sold four pictures in the last couple of years and they had all been English. More to the point, one was attributed as being from the Weller House collection and it had been assessed by Lucy herself. She would stake her reputation on the assertion that it was, indeed, what he had said it was, and enclosed the auction catalogue to prove it. What, exactly was all this about, she went on? How was she supposed to win much-deserved promotion if Argyll didn’t deliver the goods? Did he realize how much that meal was going to cost him now?

  Argyll looked at the indicated spot of the catalogue, and cursed the day he’d ever thought of going to see the damned woman. She had ringed lot forty-seven. A portrait, school of Kneller of Margaret Dunstan-Beaumont, sold for £1,250, provenance Weller House. A photocopied receipt for the sale was signed by Veronica Beaumont.

  He shook his head in virtual disbelief. How could he have missed it? That bloody drawing had confused him, that was the reason, he thought. And it was just a question of simple arithmetic, really. Margaret Dunstan-Beaumont had died in 1680 at the age of sixty. Kneller had begun work in England in the mid-1670s. Therefore a Kneller portrait of Margaret Dunstan-Beaumont would have to show a woman of at least fifty-five.

  His mind reeling with alarm as the implications came sweeping in on him, he walked down to the dining room and looked at the painting said to be of her with far more attention. It was filthy and still dark. Nonetheless, try as he might, there was no way he could persuade himself that it was the portrait of a fifty-year-old woman. The sitter was no more than twenty-five at best. So he looked closer, and even wetted his finger and rubbed it on the canvas.

  Oh, you idiot, he thought miserably as the dirt thinned a little. It is a young woman. You don’t even need to clean it to see that. You even know what it is. You saw it on the wall of Bottando’s office a couple of years ago. Never again, he thought bitterly, will I think that good visual recall is a blessing.

  He knew he should ring Flavia immediately, but also knew that, if he did turn out to be wrong, then his constant changing his mind would make Bottando seem like a complete fool. And his confidence about his ability to be right on anything was dwindling fast. On the other hand, if he was finally right, then this whole risky subterfuge that he’d recommended was unnecessary, if not worse. What should he do? Suddenly he felt his old self again, and the thrusting and dynamic alter ego withered and vanished. Damn good thing, considering how much trouble its brief appearance had caused.

  To postpone the decision as long as possible, he walked to the bedroom and examined his beloved drawing once more, no longer the neglected orphan but now revealed as a prince in disguise. Now he knew the author, he was disappointed in himself for not having recognized the style the moment he first clapped eyes on it. The broad, confident and assured strokes of the pencil, the subtle way in which light and shade were merely suggested by a stroke here and there, the completeness of the whole thing. But it wasn’t the same: he had loved it; now he also knew that it was Leonardo, and had a watertight provenance traceable back to the artist’s pencil, he was merely awed by it.

  He decided to give himself another half hour. Then he would make up his mind.

  Forty-five minutes later, he concluded, reluctantly, that he had no choice. Flavia would have to know the full and complete truth. He could not, in good conscience, do anything other. It would be very difficult, but not disastrous as long as she got to Bottando before he started talking to the committee.

  “Jonathan, it was awful,” she burbled down the phone before he could even finish saying hello.

  “He’s already done it? I thought it was at four?”

  “Brought forward.”

  “Oh, my God! He told them the whole thing? About Forster being Giotto? He didn’t have any qualms about it?”

  “Why should he have any qualms?”

  There was a long pause as Argyll digested this.

  “You mean you didn’t tell him?” he asked, rocking in anguished astonishment. “He went in to deliver this story about Forster not knowing it was entirely fictitious?”

  “I didn’t have time,” she said a little defensively.

  “As I say, it was brought forward. And I knew he would have balked at the idea anyway. The damnable thing is that it wasn’t necessary. Bottando had already nobbled Argan. He proved that his brother-in-law was handling stolen goods and raiding archaeological sites. He didn’t need all that stuff on Forster we concocted. So I should never have listened to you in the first place.”

  “Well,” said Argyll defensively. “You didn’t have to.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. And there’s no harm done, I suppose.”

  “You do get some pictures back. I thought that was the most important thing.”

  “In theory. And I suppose it was worth it. Veronica is dead, and we couldn’t get Winterton anyway, so it’s not as if we were letting anyone off the hook.”

  There was a long pause as Argyll tried to stop his head spinning. “Oh. Well. Just as well then. But what if the, um, truth ever seeps out?”

  “I don’t see why it should. I’m going to be in charge of writing the reports and the current owners aren’t going to go out of their way to advertise what happened. Nor will Mary or Winterton, if they have any sense.”

  “What about the other pictures?”

  “Which other pictures?”

  “The ones Bottando had on his list that Winterton didn’t own up to? What about them? The Vélasquez, for example?”

  “Pouf! I suppose he was wrong. I can’t see that she did that one. I mean, Bottando isn’t infallible. He was only guessing, a lot of the time.”

  “Ah. That’s all right, then.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “I’m leaving for London in a few hours. I just have one or two details to clear up.”

  “Well, hurry home. Bottando wants to take us both out for a celebration.”

  By the time he’d cleaned up his room and packed his bag and made ready to go, he decided that the only person who could offer any form of useful advice was Mary Verney. If anyone was going to know what he should do, she was the one.

  He found her in the sitting room, the only comfortable room in the bloody place, as she called it, curled up on a vast Victorian armchair, reading a book.

  “Jonathan, dear,” she said, looking up with a smile and taking her reading glasses off. “Are you about to leave me?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “What’s the matter, darling? You look dreadfully anxious.”

  “A problem. I was wondering…”

  “You want to ask me? How flattering. Of course. Go ahead. What is it? I can’t guarantee to be much use. though. I’m still quite flustered from yesterday. Too much excitement.”

  Sweet as ever, but this time Argyll didn’t react so warmly. He was too preoccupied. “There are little anomalies, you see.” he said. “Holes in the evidence.”

  “Dear me. Can you let me in on the secret! Tell me what they are?”

  Despite himself. Argyll smiled at last. She was a very easy woman to like. That was part of the trouble. “Oh. yes. I think maybe you’re just the person to tel
l. Maybe even the only one.”

  “I am fascinated.” she said. “But I’m also thirsty. Whatever it is, I’m sure it will sound better with a gin in hand. I do hope your problems are not so serious that they’ve turned you into a teetotaller.”

  Argyll nodded his assent, and she poured a brace of her habitually vast drinks, then he waited while she went down to the kitchen and got some ice and lemon.

  “So,” she said as she finally sat down again and turned her full attention on to him. “Your anomalies. Why do they make you so furrowed of brow?”

  He took a gulp at his gin. “Because they mean you have not been entirely truthful,” he said more apologetically than was strictly warranted.

  There was a long pause and she studied him with perplexed concern. “But you know that,” she said after a while.

  “I mean, we end up feeling sorry for you and work out a way of retrieving the situation so you don’t have to suffer because of your relations,” he went on, following his own thoughts.

  “Which was appreciated,” she replied. “And it was to Flavia’s own advantage as much as mine.”

  “So I thought. But then I find out you’re lying again.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

  He shook his head almost angrily. “No, I haven’t. You’ve never been lost. And the fact that it’s all my fault just makes it worse.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I liked you. So I wasn’t paying attention. And Flavia was in a hurry and allowed me to push her against her instincts and better judgement. So it’s all my fault, you see.”

  She looked at him oddly, and suggested he got to the point.

  “If your story is true, then cousin Veronica must have stolen all the pictures in the list Winterton handed over. Otherwise, how would he have known where they were now?”

  “True. Have an olive?”

  “No, thank you. Now. If there were pictures on the list which she didn’t steal, couldn’t possibly have stolen, then your explanation yesterday becomes inadequate.”