by Iain Pears
'Least I could do. I was most distressed to hear of your mishap. Most upsetting for you. And for us, of course.'
'It's not your week, is it?'
Thanet opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and sat down instead. Argyll looked at him carefully. Clearly the man had come with good intentions, to cheer and console. But equally clearly it wasn't going to work out like that. Thanet had a captive audience - with his leg sticking up in the air there was nowhere for Argyll to run - and it looked as though he wanted to unburden himself.
'What's up?' Argyll asked, inviting the man to get on with it. 'You look worried.'
This was something of an understatement. In fact, Thanet looked dreadful. His normally anxious-looking face had developed vast bags under the eyes indicating he had had little sleep in the past few days. Everything about him, from the tired and creaky way he moved, to the almost random gestures of exhaustion, indicated a man on the edge. Hadn't lost weight, though.
'We're in an appalling situation. You wouldn't believe what's been going on.'
'Sounds bad,' Argyll said sympathetically, turning cautiously to rearrange his pillows and make himself comfortable. This could be a long haul.
Thanet sighed the sigh of the almost deranged. 'I fear the museum might close. And we were so near to clinching the most exciting project. It's terrible.'
It sounded a bit like exaggeration, and Argyll suggested Thanet might be overreacting. Whoever heard of museums closing, after all? They just got more expensive in his experience. By the time he died, he reckoned that the whole of Italy would have come under the aegis of the National Museum.
'This is America, and this is a private museum. Whatever the owner decides happens. The new owner of the Moresby Museum is, it seems, Anne Moresby. And you have witnessed for yourself how high we rank in her regard.'
'I thought that there was meant to be a trust fund or something set up to guarantee your future?'
'So there was. But Mr. Moresby hadn't signed the papers yet. He was going to announce it at the party and sign at a little ceremony the following morning. He never signed. Never signed.'
Clearly, this omission was weighing on Thanet a little.
'But the museum administrators have money anyway, don't they?'
Thanet shook his head. 'No.'
'None?'
'Not a cent. Not of our own. Everything was paid for by Moresby personally. It was awful - we never knew from one year to the next what our budget would be. We didn't even know whether we would have one at all. We had to ask him personally every time we wanted to buy something. It was his way of making sure we knew our place.'
He sighed heavily as he contemplated what might have been. 'Three billion dollars. That's what we would have got if he'd lived another twenty-four hours and signed those papers.'
'But he might have changed his mind anyway, mightn't he? His son said he was always doing that.'
The very thought of Jack Moresby made Thanet look pained, but he conceded that it was accurate. 'But not this time. That's the good thing about trusts. Once it was set up, it couldn't have been dismantled without the agreement of all the trustees. And I was going to be one of them.'
'So what's the situation now?'
'Disastrous. Anne Moresby inherits everything.'
'And what about his son?'
'I can't say I've thought about him much. There will be a monumental legal squabble, of course, but considering that he was legally and properly cut out of the will and has little money to pay lawyers, I doubt he'll get much. If anything. At least his position hasn't changed because of all this.'
'And what about you?'
Thanet looked heavenwards for support. 'What do you think?' he said bitterly. 'Mrs. Moresby has made it clear over the years that she thinks this museum is a complete waste of time. It's such a tragedy. After five years, I thought we could finally get on with building a great collection. And on top of that, the police in Italy are breathing down my neck about this bust. Do you realise, they've made a complaint about illegal export?'
'What I'd like to know is where it came from.'
Thanet shook his head. Minor detail, to his way of thinking. 'I don't know anything about it. You know that. You'll have to ask Langton. Of course, he's made himself scarce.'
Argyll looked at him incredulously. 'Do you really expect anyone to believe a director of a museum saying he doesn't even know where his pieces come from?'
Thanet gazed at him sadly with a slight tinge of despair. 'People don't, but it's true nonetheless. You must know the history of the museum?'
Argyll shook his head. Always willing to learn something new.
'Mr. Langton used to be in charge of Moresby's private collection, before the old man had the idea of founding a museum. When the museum project came up, he naturally expected to be made director. I can't say I blame him.
'That, of course, was not Moresby's way of doing things. He decided it was going to be a prestige project and so he wanted a prestigious person to head it.'
'You?' Argyll asked, trying hard to keep a tone of slight incredulity from seeping in at the edges.
Thanet nodded. 'That's right. Yale, Metropolitan, National Gallery. A glittering career. Langton had never worked in a major museum; so, in short, he was shunted aside. Naturally I wanted the job, but I thought it was unfair, the treatment he got. So I created a post for him in Europe.'
'Nicely out of the way,' Argyll commented. Thanet gave him a disappointed look.
'I could have got him a lot further out of the way, you know, had I put my mind to it. But despite that, I'm afraid he's never really forgiven me for occupying his chair.'
'Did Moresby like him?'
'Did Moresby like anyone? I don't know. But they went back a long time, the pair of them, and the old man realised that Langton was a useful person to have around. Langton stayed in the hope of easing me out one day, and he took great pleasure in organising acquisitions direct with Moresby, not telling me what was going on. Hence this bust turning up – and your Titian.'
'So was this thing paid for?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'What do you mean, why? Why do you think?'
'Well, it's just that you haven't paid for my Titian. And when I even raised the possibility, everybody was very sniffy at the idea.'
Thanet looked at him pityingly. 'And you gave way. What do you expect? The owner of this bust was evidently better at bargaining than you were.'
'You mean that song and dance about museum policy was just guff?'
'Obviously we prefer to delay payment as long as possible. But if we can't get a piece otherwise . . .'
'And what about Hector? Has his stuff been paid for?'
'Certainly not. Nor is it going to be. I had our sculpture people go over the contents of those cases. Utter garbage, the lot of it. Langton must have taken leave of his senses. This is why I get annoyed about him flouting acquisitions procedure . . .'
'Yes. Indeed. But what I'm trying to get at, is who was the legal owner of the bust when it was stolen?'
'Oh. We were. A guard met the case at the airport and signed for it and Barclay authorised transfer of the money. From that moment it became the property of the museum.'
'As I see it, then, Hector was persuaded - knowingly or not - into smuggling it out of Italy. And when you announced what it was, he saw a prosecution looming up before him. No wonder he was angry.'
Thanet continued to look discomforted.
Argyll closed his eyes and thought. 'He complained to Moresby, went back to the hotel, received a phone call and booked himself on a flight to Rome immediately. Why did he do that, I wonder? But someone got to him first. Did he see something, or was it important to make sure he didn't get back to Italy? How strange. Do you happen to know where Mr. Langton was between eleven and, say, one in the morning?'
Thanet looked startled, not so much at the question but at the implication behind it. He also seemed vaguely di
sappointed at the answer he felt morally obliged to give. Langton, he said, had not left the museum from the moment that the body of Moresby was discovered. He was certainly in the museum until three in the morning, and may well have been there until he left to catch a plane back to Italy. There was not the slightest possibility that he could have been responsible for either death. Had Samuel Thanet bowed his head in sorrow, he could not have made his feelings more plain. He would have been delighted to have had Langton locked in a cell.
Argyll digested this and looked at Thanet. 'What about this infernal Bernini, then? What did you think of it? Did it seem the real thing to you? None of this makes sense unless it all centres on the bust.'
Thanet shrugged again. 'I couldn't even begin to hazard a guess,' he said. Helpful today.
'Oh, go on. Educated amateur. If you had to put five dollars on it, which way would you bet? True or false?'
'Honestly, I don't know. After all, I never saw it.'
'What?'
'I never saw it. I was going to have a look, but it was an appallingly busy day preparing for Moresby's visit. If we ever get it back, I'll happily venture an opinion. Judging by the noise the Italian police are making, they clearly think it's genuine.'
'Odd way to run a museum.'
Thanet didn't even bother to reply; simply gave Argyll a look to indicate that he didn't know the half of it.
Chapter Eight
The next morning Flavia headed off for Gubbio at around ten. She was not entirely sure what purpose the visit to di Souza's sculptor-friend was supposed to serve; there was so far not a shred of evidence that the Bernini was a fake. Indeed, such small fragments as she had collected so far strongly indicated that it wasn't. On the other hand, the sculptor knew di Souza, evidently from way back, and all help was gratefully received. Whatever had been going on in 1951 was at least one starting point in this business.
It's a three hour drive from Rome to Gubbio, four and a half if you are the sort who insists on an early lunch before getting down to business. And there is also some of the most delightful scenery in the country. Not that Flavia spent too much time admiring the landscape. In about ten hours' time she'd be stuck on a plane heading for California. It was reasonable to send her, she thought. But she did rather suspect that Bottando was interfering in her private life again.
The man in charge at the local police station, where she presented herself for reasons of protocol, was agreeably welcoming, but most surprised to hear Flavia had come to interview Alceo Borunna, a veritable pillar of local society. A foreigner, of course; the commandant believed he hailed from somewhere around Florerce. But he had lived in the little town for years, and was presently working with an architect to restore the cathedral, which, believe him, needed restoration very badly. Shocking the way the government and the church neglected the national heritage.
Flavia nodded sagely and agreed. Borunna, it seemed, was a fervent churchgoer as well as restorer, was somewhere in his seventies, as hale and hearty as ever, had lived as a devoted husband for decades and had so many grandchildren only he could even begin to count them. He was also held in awe by the architect because of his enormous facility both with the stonework he was restoring and with the men in his charge. The only slight worry was either that he might retire or that the architect at Assisi might poach him. But it was well known he had already turned down one offer of a better-paid job, saying that he wasn't interested in money.
It all sounded too good to be true, but it was always possible. Saints do still walk the earth and one runs across them just often enough to restore faith in mankind. It would be sad if this trip showed that Borunna was not as perfect as his reputation.
Too late to worry about that, Flavia thought as she walked through the steep, narrow streets towards the cathedral and asked for the workyard. There was, she reckoned as she walked in, probably little difference between this sight and the workyard of the original masons and carvers who had decorated the place in the middle ages: large wooden tables set out in the open air, with a small group of large, untidy workmen gathered round them; blocks of marble, stone and wood stacked all over the place, and tools which had changed little in half a millenium. They did things properly here; no shortcuts using electric drills and sanders.
Borunna was standing on his own, chin resting in his hand, looking peaceably and with concentration at a large, half-finished madonna that was slowly emerging from a block of limestone. He came out of his reverie as Flavia introduced herself and greeted her gently with all the innocence of a child.
'That's very fine workmanship. I congratulate you,' she said, studying the madonna.
Borunna smiled and stretched himself. 'Thank you. It'll do, I suppose. It's going in one of the niches on the facade, so it doesn't have to be perfect. I must admit it's coming out better than I thought. We don't really have time to do a perfect job.'
'Nobody will be able to tell, though.'
'That's not the point, not the point at all. The old masters didn't care whether anyone could see their flaws or not. They wanted to do as well as they could, because their work was a gift to God, who deserved the best. That's all gone; now what's important is whether any German or English tourists will notice the difference, and how much it will all cost. It changes the spirit of the building for ever.'
He stopped, and shot her a half-whimsical, half-apologetic glance. 'My obsession. It makes me sound very old-fashioned. I do beg your pardon. You must be here for a more important reason than to listen to the meanderings of an old man. How can I help you?'
'Eh?' said Flavia, dragging her eyes away from the statue and back to the present. 'Oh, yes. Not so important, but I am a bit pressed for time. It's about some - ah - work you may have done.'
Borunna looked interested. 'Really? When was this?'
'Well, we're not sure,' she said, feeling a little embarrassed. 'Sometime in the last half century. For Hector di Souza.'
This made him think. 'Hector, eh? Is he still around? Goodness, that does take me back. I've not seen him for years. Let's see now . . .'
Without a doubt, the police chief was right; Borunna was not quite of this earth. His soft voice and kindly eyes were of the variety that made you feel entirely comfortable in his presence. Not one of the get-rich-quick mob who infest the world of art dealing. Saintly, indeed.
'You must come home,' the old man said firmly. 'It's nearly lunchtime, and while you eat I could find my papers. My wife would never forgive me if I went home this evening and told her I had received a beautiful visitor from Rome and didn't let her cook for her.'
As they walked, Borunna explained that he had known young Hector, as he called him, for years; ever since the Spaniard washed up in Rome in the aftermath of the war. Times were hard then. He himself, a married man in his thirties, had been working as a mason for the Vatican, going around repairing war damage. Often had to go away for days on end. Hector did his best buying up works of art and trying to sell them to the few people left in Europe who had any money. Swiss and Americans, mainly. But even so, it was difficult.
Borunna himself was relatively secure; at the Vatican he had a steady job and a regular income - and not many people in the capital could say that at the time. But everything was in short supply -food, clothing, heating, oil - whether you had money or not. He and di Souza had helped each other as much as possible. He lent money, and Hector reciprocated with gifts.
'What sort of gifts?' she asked.
Borunna looked a little embarrassed. 'Hector was a bit of an entrepreneur, if you see what I mean. He had contacts, and friends and business arrangements with lots of people.'
'You mean the black market?'
He nodded, I suppose. Nothing large scale, mind. Enough to live off and supply the necessities. You're too young to realise what antics we'd get up to then to get hold of half a litre of olive oil.'
'And you bought this stuff from him?'
He shook his head once more. 'Oh, no. Hector always gave wh
at he had freely. He was always a little naughty in business matters, but an enormously generous friend. What was his, was ours. I'd often come home and he and Maria would be there . . .'
'Maria?'
'My wife. She and Hector were like brother and sister. In fact, it was through her that I got to know him. We were all such good friends. And he'd have brought bottles of wine, and salami, and a ham, and sometimes even fresh fruit and he'd lay it all on the table and say, "Eat, my friends, eat." And believe me, young lady, we did. Sometimes in return I'd get him to accept a little money. And sometimes I'd do some work for him. I'm afraid desperation led both of us into temptation.'
'You faked stuff for him?'
Borunna looked very awkward at the statement. Even now, he clearly felt guilty about the whole period. Flavia could hardly see why; she'd heard enough stories from her own family to understand what conditions had been like in the post-war debacle. A little light forgery to get some bread or oil or meat seemed hardly a great sin to her.
'Improved. That's the term I prefer. Restored. Hector would occasionally acquire a haul of nineteenth-century sculpture; wood or marble, and I would - ah - add a couple of hundred years on to their age. You know, I'm sure. Turn parts of an 1860s fireplace into a cinquecento madonna, that sort of thing. Here we are. Welcome to my humble home.'
They'd been walking along the cobbled streets in the warm afternoon sun as they talked, turning from one narrow lane into others even narrower. Flavia was lapping up Borunna's reminiscences with enthusiasm. It was almost like a snapshot of a vanished and innocent age. The two young men and the woman, carousing over a black market salami, a little work here, a little faking there. And who could possibly blame them? Nowadays smuggling and forgery has largely lost its romantic and bohemian air. Like most other forms of crime it's become big business with millions of dollars involved. The rewards are no longer a treasured bottle of chianti, and the motives no longer simple hunger.
