Giotto's hand

by Iain Pears

  Argyll sighed. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “So?”

  “In different circumstances, I would have happily sought your advice. I had a high opinion of your good sense.”

  “Thank you. I can lay out the options, if you like. I’ll be biased, of course, but you can tell how accurate I am.”

  “Go on.”

  “The upright good citizen approach,” she said briskly. “You go straight off to Manstead. Please sir. Mrs. Verney is a thief. With the Vélasquez and the leads you provide he would certainly get enough to convict me and Winterton. I doubt I would be even charged with the murder of either Forster or Veronica, though. Absolutely no evidence. Zilch; George would never say anything.

  “Still, justice gets done: I atone for a misspent life. Splendid. But, for the satisfaction of locking me up for a few years and getting one extra picture, there will be costs. Mainly borne by Flavia who will have to give a very good account for having deceived her own boss, told lies to the English police and, in effect, conspired to pervert the course of justice in a major way. All of which she did on your recommendation, if I remember. She is, I gather, already unhappy about it. You wait till she hears this one.”

  Argyll rubbed his eyes and groaned quietly.

  “From what you tell me, her boss won’t come out of it too well either, as he’s just told a pack of lies to his superiors,” she went on. “Saying he didn’t know what was going on won’t exactly impress them, and I imagine the man he has just humiliated will be more than ready to take his revenge.”

  Argyll looked at her stonily. “Go on.”

  “The other option is to take the advice you are so willing to give others. Forget all about me and Forster and Veronica and Winterton and Vélasquez. You have made a mess. You now have the choice of making it worse, or…”

  “Or?”

  “Or not. Don’t do anything. Forget it.”

  He slumped back in the armchair and stared at the ceiling as he thought about this.

  “Here,” she said. “Maybe it’s not appropriate any more. But I was going to give you this as a parting present.”

  She handed him a box. He unwrapped it, and pulled off the cardboard lid. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, lay a drawing of a hand.

  A Leonardo da Vinci. Just what he’d always wanted.

  “I suppose we can take the profuse thanks as read on this occasion,” Mary said drily. “But you seemed to like it and it means nothing to me. A token of affection. Not a precious one, I’m afraid, but I hoped it would indicate my pleasure in your company over the last few days. Which was real enough, although I can’t expect you to believe that any more. I’m very sorry it’s gone sour, but I hope you’ll take it anyway. As an apology.”

  Argyll looked at her and it sadly. Oh, sod. Of all the times for someone to give him a bloody Leonardo, this was about the worst. This is a nightmare, he thought.

  In the old days, this morning, he would instantly have told Mary Verney exactly what it was. They would have celebrated his cleverness and her good fortune, and sealed a friendship on it. He would never have taken it and kept quiet, even if it was what a real art dealer, a Winterton, would do. But now? Honesty on his part seemed hardly appropriate, given the circumstances.

  He looked at it again, in its dusty frame with the cracked glass. Selling it would set him up as a dealer with enough finance to succeed. Good God, he wouldn’t have to succeed any more. He could retire. That’s how you get ahead in this business, he thought. Spotting the opportunity and grabbing it with both hands. Look at Winterton. That’s how he began.

  “And if I prefer to go to the police?”

  “Then you preserve your purity and self-esteem but would have to live with the knowledge that the costs of your particular brand of principled indecision are being borne by everyone else. Particularly your fiancée.

  “Do that if you want: no one can stop you. Not even me any more. But if you do, I’d advise you to start looking for another girlfriend; she’ll find it difficult to forgive you. I know I would. You told her it was her duty to recast the truth for Bottando, and she listened and did just that. Are you not prepared to do the same for her?

  “But,” she said firmly, giving him a long, hard look, “whatever you do, make up your mind more quickly this time: indecisiveness and irrelevant feelings of guilt really are your biggest faults. But whatever you do, take that drawing.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  She picked it up and took out a cigarette lighter, which she held underneath it. “Nor do I. Either you have it or nobody does.”

  “I’ll take it. I’ll take it,” he said hurriedly.

  “Good. I don’t know why it’s important to me. But it is.”

  She shrugged, slightly bemused by herself, then picked up the glasses and bottle and loaded them on the tray, leaving Argyll moodily staring at the fireplace. For the last ten days, it seemed, everybody he’d met had been telling him to make up his mind. He’d never really thought of himself as being so feeble, but majority opinion seemed against him. A bit much for a murderer to give him lectures, but certainly no one could say she was overburdened by doubt and uncertainty.

  And she was quite right in one thing. This time he had to make a choice quickly. He looked at the drawing. So very beautiful, and certainly more than he’d ever dreamt of. The Moresby Museum would be happy to give him a fortune for it. But, however lovely it was, it now represented all the silly mistakes he’d made in the past day or so. He stared glumly at the drawing; odd how he was thinking about that, not about Forster. Think, he told himself. Was she right? He envisioned the scene. Flavia would believe him. The police would come back. There would be no Vélasquez. Nobody in the village would say a peep. There wasn’t much chance of making much progress.

  And the disadvantages? They’d have to call in the English police, who would be bound to make a formal protest. Flavia would certainly not come out of it well. And as for Bottando… No. She was right there, too.

  And the Leonardo. Was he really prepared to see something so pretty destroyed simply because he was upset at being beaten? Wouldn’t that make things worse?

  Yes. But, if he took it, he’d be compromised. That was the point of the gift, of course.

  “Well?” she said. “What’s it to be?”

  “Tell me one thing. You say you stole thirty-one pictures?”

  “Thirty-two including the Fra Angelico. I don’t count that.”

  “And the nineteen that Winterton told Flavia about?”

  “Were the ones whose new owners could not identify us. The others will have to stay in hiding in case someone speaks out of turn. I’m sure Flavia realized that when she was talking to him.”

  Put like that, there wasn’t a great deal to be said about it. She was right. There was nothing he could do anyway. So, feigning a certainty he was far from feeling, Argyll stood and picked up the drawing. The move was his answer to all the questions, and Mary saw that instantly.

  “Good,” she said seriously. “I hope you don’t take it amiss if I say you are taking the right decision. And having leapt that hurdle, why don’t you follow up by marrying her as well?”

  Argyll smiled sadly and walked silently to the door.

  “Jonathan.”

  He turned round and looked at her.

  “I really am sorry, you know.”

  He nodded, and left.

  A few minutes later, Weller House was disappearing in his rear view mirror and he was driving along the road which led to the motorway, London and the airport. He pulled out into the middle of the road to avoid George Barton walking home to his cottage. He at least came out of this well. He waved, then came up to the patch of road he had pranced up and down on a few days previously to attract the attention of PC Hanson. He was deeply miserable, and could not get out of his head what had happened. Every time he tried, all that happened was that he thought of the beautiful, hateful drawing on the passenger seat. His greatest triumph, and look wh
at had to happen before he could achieve it.

  Without even suspecting himself of what he was going to do, he slowed down and turned the car down the narrow driveway, stopped and got out. OK, he thought. Flavia can lie for Bottando, then I can do the same for her. Serves me right. But I am damned if I’m going to turn into Arthur Winterton. Sod that.

  There was a light on in the house, and Jessica Forster opened up when he knocked at the door. He thought he’d say hello. He sort of identified with her. Used, manipulated, exploited. The only difference was that she didn’t appear to feel sorry for herself on quite the grand scale that Argyll did.

  “I’m just going,” Argyll explained. “I thought I’d see how you were doing. My name’s Argyll, by the way.”

  Mrs. Forster smiled with sad pleasure and insisted he get out of the rain. “Come in, please, Mr. Argyll. It was kind of you to call. You’re the friend of that Italian woman, aren’t you?”

  Argyll said he was. She had gone back to Italy in a bit of a rush, he explained, which was why she hadn’t said goodbye personally. So she’d asked him to do it instead.

  Jessica Forster nodded. “Thank her for the thought. She’s a kind woman. Do you know, the only people who have shown any kindness to me since all this happened are Miss di Stefano—who I don’t know—and Mrs. Verney, whom I’d never really liked. Everyone else has been avoiding me as though I had a contagious disease. I suppose they thought that I was about to be arrested for Geoff’s murder.”

  “How are you feeling now?”

  She shrugged. “I’m recovering, I suppose. Trying to get my life together again. That’s what I have to concentrate on, now. At least I don’t have to worry about anything. The police tell me it was definitely just an accident. Do you know, I’m glad? Geoff had his faults, I knew that better than anyone; but it would have been a horrid way to die.”

  “Yes. Well, I imagine it will take some time. Do you know what you’ll do?”

  “I’ve scarcely thought. I shall probably go and live in London. See if I can find someone to give me a job, although God only knows what I’ll do. It’s not as if I’m qualified or anything. But I always hated country life, and now I have no one to look after but myself, I can get away from it. I hate cows and local gossip and village fêtes. I suppose I’ll have to stay for a while, to sort out Geoff’s things. Although there isn’t a great deal to sort out. There doesn’t seem to be anything but debts. I can still hardly believe what’s happened.”

  Argyll sympathized, and said he could hardly believe it either. He thought Mrs. Verney had been a bit hard on Jessica Forster. No dynamo, certainly, but resilient, and, in her way, courageous. She deserved better treatment than she had received. “He really left a mess, did he?”

  “I’m afraid so,” she said, smiling bravely. “I’m on my own, now. There’s no savings, no insurance, and a lot of debts and mortgages. Even his pictures aren’t worth much, I’m told.”

  “Oh dear. In fact,” he went on, “I didn’t just come to ask how you were. I’ve got something for you.”

  He produced the little packet. “It belonged to your husband. It’s something he left you.”

  She grimaced. “I suppose I shall have to find its rightful owner, then.”

  “No. It really did belong to him. No hanky-panky at all. He bought it; quite above board. I thought you’d like it.”

  She opened it up and looked inside sceptically. “I don’t know that I do. Small, isn’t it?”

  “It is small, yes. But if I were you I’d sell it. It might help your finances quite a lot. There’s a place called the Moresby Museum in Los Angeles which is always on the look-out. I’ll contact the director and send the details of what it is, if you want. I have all the information he’ll require.”

  “Is it worth a little money? Can’t be, surely. It’s not even finished.”

  “Let me take care of the money angle,” Argyll reassured her. “I’ll tell him what price you’ll accept and make sure you get it.”

  Mrs. Forster shrugged again, perplexed at the strangeness of the world, then tucked the drawing away and put it on a shelf above the television.

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said. “I appreciate the thought. I will of course pay you for your trouble…”

  “No,” he said sharply, and saw her recoil a little from his vehemence. “No,” he repeated more gently. “That’s quite all right. My pleasure.”

  “Well, thank you,” she said simply.

  “Think nothing of it. Just don’t tell anyone about this until you contact the Moresby, OK?”

  “Why?”

  “Funny business, the art world. You wouldn’t want Gordon to pay you an unexpected call before you leave. Besides, if the taxmen decide it’s part of your husband’s estate, you might not be allowed to sell it for months.”

  Mrs. Forster nodded.

  “Listen,” Argyll went on, shaking her hand, “I’ve got to go and catch a plane. Good luck. And please don’t lose that drawing.”

  And Jonathan Argyll, former art dealer, left Weller and all it contained.

  As he drove, he found himself breathing more easily, and he began to compose a letter in his mind to the international university accepting their kind offer of a position. He even began to wonder how on earth he was going to teach a load of ignorant, spotty-faced adolescents to appreciate the subtlety, grace and profundity of baroque art.

  But he hadn’t a clue; so he forgot all about it, and hummed to himself instead.

  FIN

  Also by Iain Pears

  An Instance of the Fingerpost (1997)

  The Dream of Scipio (2002)

  The Portrait (2005)

  Stone’s Fall (2009)

  Arcadia (2015)

  JONATHAN ARGYLL NOVELS

  The Raphael Affair (1991)

  The Titian Committee (1992)

  The Bernini Bust (1993)

  The Last Judgement (1994)

  Giotto’s Hand (1995)

  Death and Restoration (1996)

  The Immaculate Deception (2000)