The Last Judgement

by Iain Pears

  ‘What happened to his mother?’

  She held up her hand to stop her. ‘I’ll come to that.’ She paused to gather her thoughts, then restarted. ‘He had no family of any real sort who wanted him, and so my parents adopted him legally. Gave him their name, and tried to erase everything that had happened. Pretend it never had happened.

  ‘Psychologists now say it’s the worst thing you can do. That was not what they thought then. My parents were good people; they consulted everybody about what to do for the best. But children should know who they are and where they come from. They can deal better with unpleasant truths they know than with phantasms. In Arthur’s case he constructed an entire fantasy world to fill out the gaps in his knowledge. His father was a great man. A hero, killed in battle defending France. He had maps showing where his father had fought, where he’d fallen surrounded by mourning comrades. Where he’d died in the arms of his devoted and loving wife. He discovered the truth when he was ten. An impressionable age. Perhaps the worst possible moment.’

  ‘And that truth was …?’

  ‘That truth was that his father was a traitor, a Nazi sympathizer and a murderer, who had spied on and betrayed members of the Resistance to the occupation forces in 1943. His wife, Arthur’s own mother, was one of the people whom he betrayed. She was arrested and apparently executed without his doing a thing to save her. When he was exposed he fled the country, then came back after the Liberation. But he was recognized and arrested, and hanged himself as the case against him was being prepared. He didn’t even have the courage to face his trial.

  ‘How Arthur discovered this I don’t know. And I can’t even begin to guess how some of his fellow pupils at the local school found out. But they did, as kids do, and tormented him. Children are often cruel, and this was 1950, when the memory of the war was still strong. Arthur’s life was sheer hell and there was not much we could do. It was uncertain whom he hated more: his father for what he did, his fellow pupils for persecuting him, or us for concealing it. But from about then all he wanted to do was leave. Get out of the small town where we lived, get out of Canada, and go away.

  ‘He managed it when he was eighteen. He went to university, then got a job in America. He never lived in Canada again, and never really had much contact with any of us afterwards, except for the occasional letter and phone call. As he grew older I think he accepted more that my parents had done their best; but family life, of any sort, he could never take. He never married; never even had any serious relationship with anyone, as far as I know. He wasn’t strong enough or confident enough. Instead he got on with living and making a success of himself. In work at least, he succeeded.’

  ‘And then your mother died?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s right. Two years ago, and we had to clear out her house. A sad job; all those years of papers and documents and photographs, all to be got rid of. And there was the will, of course. There wasn’t much; my parents had never been rich, but they still treated Arthur as though he was their son, as they always had, even though he’d gone his own way. I think he was grateful for that; he appreciated the effort, even though he couldn’t respond. He came back for the funeral, then stayed to help me clear out the house. We’d always got on well. I think that I was as close to him as anyone ever was.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Flavia was uncertain whether this detail was necessary; but by now she was caught up in the story. She had no idea what it must have been like to have been Arthur Muller. But she felt for the pain and the sheer loneliness he must have experienced. He was one of the hidden casualties of the war; never appearing on any balance sheet, but still suffering the consequences half a century after the last shot was fired.

  ‘We found some letters, as I say,’ she said simply. ‘One from his mother, and one from his father. He’d never been allowed to see them. He thought that was the greatest betrayal. I tried to say that they thought it best, but he wouldn’t accept it. Maybe he was right; they had kept them, after all, rather than throwing them away. Anyway, he left the same afternoon. From then on, the few times I phoned him all he would talk about was his hunt to find out about his father.’

  ‘And the letters?’

  ‘His mother’s letter he’d brought with him; apparently when he arrived at our house for the first time, he was clutching it in his hand; he’d refused to let it go right the way across Europe and across the Atlantic.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Not a great deal, really. It was a letter of introduction, in effect; written to the friends in Argentina he was sent to first. Thanking them for looking after her son, and saying she would send for him when the world became safer. It said he was a good child, if a little wilful, and took very much after his father, who was a strong, courageous and heroic man. She hoped that he would grow up to be as upright and as honest as he was.’

  She paused and smiled faintly. ‘I imagine that was why he got the idea that Hartung was a hero. And why my parents hid it away eventually. It was too bitter, the way she was deluded as well.’

  Flavia nodded. ‘And the second letter?’

  ‘That was from his father. It was written in French as well. I can still remember sitting on the floor-boards in the attic, with him kneeling down, concentrating on the paper, getting more and more excited and angry as he read.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was written in late 1945, just before he hanged himself. I didn’t find it enormously illuminating, as an outsider. But Arthur was predisposed to interpret anything in a positive light. He twisted the narrative until it meant what he wanted it to mean.

  ‘I found it a cold, horrible letter. Hartung just referred to Arthur as “the boy.” Said he didn’t feel any responsibility for him, but would look after him when this little problem was resolved. This he was confident of doing, if he could get his hands on certain resources he’d hidden away before he’d left France. I suppose he thought he could buy his way out of trouble. It was a whining letter, describing the person who’d identified him back in France as having betrayed him. Considering what he’d done that was a bit much, I thought. And he said that, if nothing else, the last judgement would exonerate him. I must say, the optimism didn’t carry conviction.’

  ‘You remember it well.’

  ‘Every word is engraved on my memory. It was an awful moment. I thought Arthur was going to flip entirely. Then it got worse, as he read and reread.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I said he’d lived in a fantasy world as a kid. He still did, in a way, only when he grew up he’d learned to subordinate it and keep it under control. It’s not surprising, as I say. Hartung was Jewish. Can you imagine what it must be like to deal with the fact – and I’m afraid it is a fact – that he betrayed friends to the Nazis, of all people? Arthur would do anything not to believe it, to construct an alternative truth. For years he coped by blocking it all out. Then these letters provided him with the opportunity to go back to fantasy.

  ‘The first thing he latched on to was the reference to judgement. Jews don’t believe in that sort of thing, he said – not that I knew that – so why the reference? Hartung may have got religon in his last days, but not that sort of religion. Therefore the reference must mean something else. Then he switched to this hidden treasure Hartung thought would buy him out of trouble. He never got hold of it; it was hidden where no one would find it. Obviously, QED, the reference to treasure and the reference to judgement were linked. Madness, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

  ‘Then Arthur left again, and all I got was the occasional progress report from around the world. All his spare moments he devoted to hunting down his father. He wrote to archives and ministries in France to ask for records. He contacted historians and people who might have known his father, to ask them. And he tried to crack the puzzle of his father’s treasure. He got more and more obsessed with that. He said he was building up an enormous file of –’

  ‘What?’ said Flavia sudden
ly. It wasn’t that her attention was wandering, although it would have been excusable if it had. But suddenly she was much more engaged. ‘A file?’

  ‘That’s right. That and the two letters were his two most treasured possessions. Why?’

  She thought hard. ‘There was no file that we saw. No letters either. I’ll get them to check again to make sure.’ Somehow she thought it wasn’t going to turn up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she went on. ‘I interrupted. Please continue.’

  ‘I don’t have much else to say,’ she said. ‘My contacts with Arthur were few and far between. I think I’ve told you all I can. Does any of it help?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. In fact, almost certainly. Although I think you’ve given us as many new problems as you’ve solved.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It may be – and this is only a guess, which may be wrong – that this is where the picture comes in. You said he became convinced that this reference to the last judgement was a clue.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘OK. This picture was part of a series of paintings. Of four paintings on legal themes. Of judgements, in fact. This was the last one to be painted.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So it may well be that your stepbrother believed that the painting contained what he was looking for. Only –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Only it didn’t. Either he was wrong and you are right about him constructing fantasies or, just perhaps, somebody had already found whatever it was. Either way, Jona—the dealer who delivered it said that Mr Muller was very excited when the picture first arrived, then became disappointed and decided he didn’t want it. That only makes sense if he was after not the picture itself, but something in or on the picture. Which wasn’t there.

  ‘Then he was murdered, and we have not noticed this file among his possessions. There is evidently something about this painting we’re missing.’

  She was musing again, and beginning to fantasize herself now, the sleepiness returning and taking her mind off formal matters. With a bit of an effort, she concentrated on the interview. She would be grateful, she said, if Mrs Mackenzie could come back in the afternoon to read over the statement and sign it. Muller’s company was seeing to all the practical matters of dealing with his effects and arranging the funeral. Was there anything she needed?

  Mrs Mackenzie said there wasn’t, and thanked her. Flavia escorted her to the door, then went up to discuss matters with Bottando.

  ‘So what is this, a treasure hunt?’ Bottando said. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Just an idea,’ she said. ‘It does fit.’

  ‘If your interpretation of the reference to the Last Judgement is correct, and if Muller thought the same. Which may be doubted. On the other hand, he did want that picture.’

  Bottando thought a moment. ‘Can I see Mr Argyll’s statement?’ he continued. ‘Do you have it on you?’

  Flavia rummaged in her file and handed it over, then sat while Bottando read. ‘It says here that when he delivered the painting, he unwrapped it, then went into the kitchen to pour himself a coffee. Beforehand, Muller was excited. When Argyll came back Muller said he didn’t want it.’

  ‘So he did.’

  ‘So we have three possibilities, don’t we? One that whatever he was after was not there; he discovered this, realized he’d been wrong and got rid of the thing. The second is that he was right, and removed whatever it was while Mr Argyll was in the kitchen.’

  ‘But in that case,’ Flavia said reasonably, ‘he wouldn’t have seemed so downcast. Unless he was a good actor.’

  ‘And the final possibility, of course, is that this whole story is merest moonshine and there is a better, simpler and more correct explanation.’

  ‘Perhaps he missed something,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we did as well. I think we should have another look at it.’

  ‘A bit late for that. Your friend Argyll picked it up this morning and took it back to Paris.’

  ‘Damnation. I forgot about that. I was so tired I didn’t think. He’s going to give it to Janet, is he?’

  Bottando nodded. ‘I assume so. At least, I do very much hope he’s not going to stick his nose in where it isn’t needed.’

  ‘Do you think I ought to take another look at this thing? Go on to Paris after Basle? You could ask Janet to look up some stuff for me to pick up when I get there.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Anything on this man Hartung, in essence. It would also be nice to know where this picture came from. We need more background on Ellman as well. Perhaps you could ask the Swiss …?’

  Bottando sighed. ‘Oh, very well. Is there anything else?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, not really. Except that you could forward a copy of the interview to Fabriano when it’s been typed out. I want to go home, shower and pack a bag. There’s a flight at four to Basle, and I don’t want to miss it.’

  ‘Whatever you say, my dear. Oh, and by the way …’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Don’t get too carefree. Muller died in a very nasty fashion, Ellman in a neat one. I don’t want you – or even Mr Argyll – to suffer either fate. Watch yourself. I intend to say the same thing to him when he gets back.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said reassuringly. ‘This is perfectly safe.’

  8

  Despite his love of trains, dislike of aircraft and acute shortage of money, Argyll had decided to fly to Paris. It showed how seriously he was taking this business, that he was willing to foist on to his Visa card a debt that he had little immediate ability to pay off. But that was what the horrid things were there for, and if the credit-card company was prepared to trust him, who was he to doubt their judgement?

  However awful they were, aircraft were at least a little bit faster than trains; he was in Paris as expected by ten. From then, the disadvantages became clear, and what he had fondly hoped would be a quick day trip became rapidly bogged down in hitches. With a train, you turn up with your ticket and hop aboard. Sometimes you may have to stand, or camp out in the guard’s van, but generally you get on. Not so with planes. Considering that they increasingly resemble aerial cattle-trucks, the fuss made about tickets is extraordinary. In brief, every flight that evening for Rome was booked solid. Not a seat available. Sorry. Tomorrow lunch-time, fine.

  Cursing airports, airlines and modern life, Argyll booked a seat, then tried to phone Flavia to tell her he would be delayed getting back. Not at home and, when he used up even more money to call the department, the obnoxious character who answered the phone informed him a little coolly that she was conducting an important interview and couldn’t be disturbed. Then he phoned the headquarters of the Paris Art Squad to announce his imminent arrival with the picture. But they didn’t know anything about it and, it being a weekend, there was no one around to ask. Nor were they prepared to find someone to ask. And no, he couldn’t deposit his picture. It was a police station, not a left-luggage depository. Come in on Monday, they said.

  So back to the airline desk to change his reservation, and into Paris to find a hotel. At least here he had some luck in that the usual place he stayed at grudgingly admitted to having a spare room, and even more reluctantly allowed him to have it. He tucked the painting under the bed – not an inspired hiding-place, but it wasn’t the sort of hotel that had strong-rooms – then sat and wondered how to fill in the time. He tried Flavia again, but by this time she’d left. Wherever it was, she hadn’t gone home. It was one of those days.

  Shortly after, he hit another hitch, when he went down to Jacques Delorme’s gallery to ask a few direct questions about the painting and its origins. He was less than happy with his colleague who, after all, had landed him in a not inconsiderable amount of trouble. Several choice phrases, carefully translated into French, had been lined up on the plane and Argyll was keen to go and deliver them before he forgot them. Nothing worse than moral indignation in the wrong gender. He didn’t want to deliver a fiery speech of outrage an
d have Delorme giggle because he’d fluffed a subjunctive. The French are fussy about that sort of thing, unlike the Italians who are much more easy-going about the beginner’s tendency to use the scatter-gun approach.

  ‘I have a bone to pick with you,’ Argyll said stonily as he walked in through the door, and Delorme greeted him cheerfully. First mistake. Something wrong with the dictionary of idiom. He’d have to write and complain. Evidently Delorme thought he was inviting him out for dinner.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That picture.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because it may have been stolen, it may have been involved in a couple of murders and you certainly got me to smuggle it out of the country.’

  ‘Me?’ he said indignantly. ‘I didn’t get you to do anything of the sort. You offered. It was your idea.’

  Well, true. Argyll reckoned he’d better gloss over that one. ‘Whatever,’ he said, ‘I’ve had to bring it back to give to the police. So I want to know where it came from. Just in case they ask me.’

  ‘Sorry. Can’t say. Frankly, I can’t remember.’

  There is something about the word frankly, Argyll thought in passing. It’s a sort of verbal grunt which is an effective shorthand for ‘I’m about to tell a lie.’ A prefix signifying that the sentence that follows should be understood in the negative of its spoken meaning. Politicians use it a lot. ‘Frankly, the economy has never been in better shape,’ which means, ‘If there even is an economy this time next year I, for one, will be very surprised.’ Thus it was with Delorme. Frankly (to use the term in its proper sense), he could remember perfectly well, and Argyll hinted subtly that he knew this.

  ‘You liar,’ he said. ‘You have a picture in your gallery and you don’t know where it comes from? Of course you do.’

  ‘Don’t get upset,’ Delorme said in an irritatingly patronizing fashion. ‘It’s true. I don’t know. Now, I know it’s because I didn’t want to know –’