by Iain Pears
Argyll was equally busy all morning, invigorated by the prospect of recovering his pictures. He had rung up Byrnes in London to ask him to sniff around for Titians on the market in the last few years. How many were sold with shiny new certificates of attribution? he wanted to know, adding news of his own little venture into the same line of business. Byrnes, somewhat mollified by the prospect of Argyll at last earning his salary, agreed to make discreet enquiries and ring back.
Since then, he had left policework to the police, and dedicated himself to tracking down the author of the Marchesa’s painting. It might, after all, have a bearing on Masterson’s murder and besides, Bottando seemed confident he could lay his hands on it. As Argyll could well own it soon, he thought it might be interesting to know what he was buying.
Knowing what you are looking for, however, is not the same as finding it, and in this department he made little progress. He had, variously, purloined notes off Masterson, had picked up her photocopies from the library and temporarily confiscated her books from the shelves. Taken together, he hoped that something appropriately convincing would emerge, but was forced to admit that there was, as yet, not even the hint of an answer in sight. Giorgione, Titian, and the none too appealing Pietro Luzzi. Clearly the little trio fitted together somehow, and equally obviously Masterson knew how. He was coming to the conclusion that she was a good deal cleverer than he was.
‘So what do you know?’ Flavia asked when she joined him for the lunch Bottando was being forced to miss.
He sniffed moodily. ‘Well, not much, really. I know that the portrait is of a painter in his thirties and that Titian painted him into his series in Padua and that sketch in Milan. That’s about it.’
‘OK, then,’ Flavia said, trying to help. ‘Find out who all Titian’s mates are and you’re there. After all, painting friends into religious pictures was common enough. You mentioned that Titian stuck in his dead mistress, so why not others as well?’
Argyll looked at her. ‘Say that again,’ he said.
Flavia complied. ‘I said, you told me…’
‘I was speaking purely rhetorically,’ he said briskly, standing up and brushing the crumbs off his clothes. ‘Although it is good to hear it again. Oh, stupid, stupid, stupid.’
‘I hope you’re referring to yourself?’
‘Of course. It’s obvious. Mistress, ha! I am, perhaps, the most dimwitted person you have ever known.’
Flavia was often inclined to agree, but pretended on this occasion that she hadn’t heard. ‘What are you talking about?’
He was leaping up and down and positively bubbling with enthusiasm. ‘Picture of Violante di Modena being murdered by her lover because she was unfaithful. Who else was her lover, apart, perhaps, from Titian? And who, therefore, painted that portrait of the Marchesa’s? And why was Masterson so keen on it?’
‘Oh, my God,’ she said, realisation dawning. ‘Come back here. I want to talk about this.’
‘No time,’ he burbled happily. ‘Work to be done.’ He bent over and kissed her on the forehead and then, in case that was a bit familiar in public, patted her head to make up for it.
‘To work. You are a wonderful person, and perfectly wasted in the police. My thanks. See you later.’
Having provided inspiration for Argyll, Flavia finished her lunch and forced herself out into the ever-deteriorating weather and off in the direction of Lorenzo. The problem, as she saw it, was a fairly simple one. They knew what had happened. The difficult bit now was tying the whole process together to make sense of it. One murder after another, presumably following a logical pattern, once you understood it. It was, after all, a serious business, killing people. Not to be undertaken without a very good reason.
‘Oh, yes, I knew my aunt was going to sell some pictures,’ Lorenzo replied after she’d arrived at his apartment, had been let in, had dried herself off and sat down. ‘But I wasn’t too sure which ones. My only concern was that she didn’t sell a couple of Watteau drawings I have always been most fond of. She said these were not the ones, and so I took very little extra interest in it and gave my permission.’
‘And they’re not valuable, you’re sure of that?’
‘Oh, no. Very minor stuff. No danger of a Michelangelo slipping unnoticed out of the country, rest assured of that.’
He looked perfectly at ease and she decided not to make him dissatisfied about his decision. ‘How do you get on with your aunt?’
‘Not very well. We tolerate each other, as aunt and nephew have to do. I rather like the old bat, I must admit. She, alas, doesn’t like me much.’
‘Why not?’
‘I really don’t know. She doesn’t like having to consult me over financial matters, of course. It dents her self-image as head of the family and she was furious when she found out how my uncle had set up his will in my favour. I think I’m absolutely charming, and I always try hard to please, but she seems to think I’m too frivolous. A playboy. She’s fond of out-dated slang. Lord only knows what she thinks I get up to. I’m fairly certain my life is not half as scandalous as hers was.’
If there was any great animosity, he did it well and appeared to be affectionately tolerant of the old lady, rather than resenting her. ‘And how about Signora Pianta?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Echt. The dragon lady. I’ve known her ever since she moved in on my aunt some quarter century ago. She came to stay for a week, and is still there. But she’s a poor thing, literally and figuratively, and I’m always as civil as I can be to her.’
‘And where were you on the night that Roberts died and your aunt’s pictures were stolen?’ Worth a chance; he might always contradict himself.
He smiled happily. ‘Not going to get me there,’ he said. ‘I was at a meeting at the Accademia. At the time in question I was delivering a short, but if I may say so, tolerably amusing, speech to about a hundred and fifty people.’ He added, ‘I’ll give you the museum’s number. When they open up tomorrow morning they can give you the names of several dozen people able to confirm where I was until midnight.’
He said it with such confidence that Flavia knew his alibi would be unshakeable. Evidently, he had not rubbed out Roberts. Just time to heist the Marchesa’s goodies, though, if he was quick about it, or got someone else to do it for him. What else? One last question. ‘The party at your aunt’s last year. What was it for?’
He shrugged with an expression of some surprise at the question, whose point he evidently missed. ‘It was partly a welcome for Louise as the new member of the committee, and partly a joyous celebration of the opening of the state’s coffers. The happy taxpayer was paying. And, of course, partly to establish myself in the eyes of my colleagues as the head of the committee.’
‘Which, if I understand things correctly, did not go down at all well with Professor Roberts.’
Lorenzo smiled amiably once more. ‘Dreadful thing to talk ill of the dead,’ he said, ‘but you’re right, of course. I don’t mind saying that poor old Roberts was losing his touch. As for the party, it was a great success. So much so, I was going to give another last Saturday, complete with flowers from the Giardinetti greenhouses. Louise chose them. Particularly wanted lilies, I don’t know why. She said it had something to do with her work.’
‘Why do you think she was so convinced Kollmar was wrong about that Milan picture?’ she went on, vaguely conscious of a series of half-forged connections waiting for a missing link.
‘Still plugging away at that, are you? I don’t know. What did she think it was?’
‘A sketch for the third, abandoned panel of the St Anthony series in Padua,’ Flavia said.
‘Ah. Most interesting. I confess I haven’t looked all that carefully. I skipped the meeting; I had to be in Rome that day, and missing a report by Kollmar is never a great loss. A thorough and dedicated man, but not what you might call one of the most lively of scholars. As for Masterson, I assume she must have found evidence in the picture indicating the presence of St
Anthony, something in the story-line, whatever it was, to pin it down to an episode in the saint’s life –’
‘It could be,’ she said, telling him about the relevant miracle.
‘Not good enough,’ he said. ‘Saving people from poisoning or murder crops up time and again in the lives of the saints. What else was in the picture?’
Flavia thought hard, and wished she had a photograph on her to refresh her memory. Argyll always had better visual recall than she did. But she did her best. ‘Man eating at a table, surrounded by people. Angels buzzing about. Cross on the wall. Flowers on the table.’
‘Lilies?’
Flavia glanced up and stared. A penny was on the brink of dropping. Clearly her unconscious was better at her job than she was. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Symbol of St Anthony,’ he replied simply. ‘Lilies and a crucifix. Bodily purity and love of God. Generally accompanied by the inscription, “homo igit consutu atque nudat queso ubi est”. Job. “A man dies and he disappears, man comes to his end and where is he?”’ He paused. ‘You seem surprised. But I’m sure I’m right. I can check, if you like.’
‘No,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘No, that’s quite all right. You are right. Thank you. That is most helpful.’
13
Bad news, or at least discomfiting tidings, awaited her when she got back to the Danieli at four. It took the form of a discontented Bottando who was eating a late plate of pasta with an air of profound melancholy. He waved at her to sit down and said nothing until he had finished it.
‘Trouble,’ he said moodily before she could speak. ‘That man Bovolo is beginning to get on my nerves.’
He explained that his meeting with the Venetian had not been much fun. Bovolo had launched into a denunciation of interfering Romans and announced he had taken strong measures – that was the term the silly man had used, so Bottando assured his assistant – to stop his position being undermined.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means, my dear, that he doesn’t like you. Or me, for that matter. He thinks we have stuck our noses too much into his murder investigation instead of confining ourselves to tracking down the Marchesa’s pictures. That we are consorting with the main suspect – meaning Argyll – and that our – he means your – judgement is highly compromised. That we have shown singular incompetence in wrapping up a simple theft when he has solved a complicated murder in a matter of days. And he has written strong letters to just about everybody damning us mightily. With the result that I have been fiercely criticised by the polizia in Rome for my tactlessness, with the Defence and Interior Ministries putting their pennyworth in as well. We are not popular, and you know what that means.’
‘Oh, dear. What triggered this?’
‘He’s a worried man, that’s why. He has cut far too many corners and got the local investigating magistrate to commit himself to saying Roberts was not murdered. And we are trying to prove he was. If we succeed it will make him look like a fool. The Marchesa is pressuring him to take the guard out of her house. He wants this whole thing shut down fast so he can take what credit is going before everything turns sour on him and his promotion chances evaporate. And quite a lot of local dignitaries are beginning to see his point of view.’
‘So what do we do?’
Bottando rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Difficult, isn’t it? We find a murderer and we’re in trouble. If we don’t find one, we’re still in trouble. The problem is not Bovolo; I can take care of him. It’s the local magistrate, who’s well-connected and influential. That’s the trouble spot. Split them apart, and we’re OK. But if we suggest the magistrate’s office has connived in covering up Robert’s murder, then there’ll be an unholy fight.
We might win, but not in time to save the department.
‘Whatever happens, we’ve got to finish this stupid investigation fast. Otherwise we might all be out of a job. So, reassure me. Tell me it’s all solved.’
‘Sorry,’ she said sadly. ‘Can’t do that. Nearly there, but there’s a piece or two missing.’ She explained what Lorenzo had said about the lilies.
Bottando grunted. ‘But…?’
‘I know. Awkward, isn’t it?’
Bottando grunted once more. ‘Well, that’s another piece in place, anyway. The mystery of Roberts’ dunking in the canal solved, at least.’
‘Indeed. Doesn’t explain anything else, though.’
Bottando sighed, and Flavia decided it would be a good idea to change the subject. ‘Have you seen Jonathan?’
Bottando checked his watch. ‘He should be here by now. He phoned to say he’d be over. But he’s never been on time for anything before, so I see no reason why he should start now. Another similarity between you and him. How are you two getting on these days, hmm?’
She was spared having to make a tart comment about people minding their own business by the arrival of the subject of their discussion, in an unusually good humour.
‘Hello, hello,’ he said brightly, as he sat down at their table. ‘What’s wrong? Bad day?’
They told him, but news of their internal problems did little to lower his spirits. ‘It’ll blow over,’ he said, dismissing their predicament airily. ‘Do you want to hear what I’ve found out?’
‘As long as you’re not going to tell us Roberts killed Masterson, yes.’
This did dampen his mood. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because he didn’t.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Well, quite apart from efficiently doing my own work, I also spent a long afternoon on the phone for your benefit. You can thank me later. To Byrnes initially. There have been five Titians for sale in the last decade. And two authenticated by the committee after they were sold. Both in the last four years.’
‘So?’
‘Want to guess where the owners lived?’
‘No. Why don’t you just tell us? It’ll be quicker.’
‘One lives in St Gall and the other in Padua. How about that?’
He had their interest now, no doubt about that.
‘My phone bill is enormous,’ he continued. ‘I hope you are going to pay for it. I talked to both of them. Neither met Masterson, but the Swiss man confirms he talked to Bralle about the deal over the authentication. Bralle disapproved mightily. In Padua Masterson delivered a letter from Bralle, again enquiring about the sale. He’s sending it on.
‘Now, the point is,’ he went on enthusiastically, ‘who wrote the reports on these pictures? And who issued a personal authentication for them, in exchange for a cut of the selling price which netted, in all, a total of around two hundred and eighty thousand dollars?’
He handed over his notebook, in which he had made a careful table of the committee’s working methods and distribution of workload alongside pictures examined and authenticated.
Flavia’s brain clanked over as piece after piece fell into place, leading to conclusion after conclusion. Some were annoying, because they were so obvious. Others were distressing. Eventually she turned towards Bottando. ‘General, I think we need to have a talk about this.’
‘I think Mr Argyll has something else to tell us,’ Bottando said quietly.
‘I do. Very important. About the Marchesa’s picture.’
‘No time for that now. We can celebrate later. Unless it tells us more about the murderer. Does it?’
‘Well, no. Not in this case.’
‘Then it’ll have to wait. Jonathan, you go and ring this list of people,’ she scribbled on the back of a menu and handed him the list, ‘and tell them it is important they come to a meeting on the Isola San Giorgio. Say, nine o’clock.’
‘Is that a good idea? The water is awfully high. It’s beginning to flood in some places already.’
‘No choice. We’re running out of time,’ she replied briskly. Bottando studied her thoughtfully as she took control and started issuing orders. That was his role, he generally thought, b
ut there was no denying she did it rather well. It was simply that he had a horrible idea he knew what was going through her mind. And she said he was a politician…
Argyll disappeared in the direction of the telephones with the list clutched tightly in his hand, and Flavia turned to her boss with a glint in her eye which convinced him he was correct.
‘General,’ she began in her most persuasive of voices. ‘How do you feel about bending a rule or two? Not many, you realise. And just a little, to save the department?’
14
Rain and wind had now firmly combined into a storm which, with the incoming tide, made the level of the water in the lagoon rise. With thick black clouds also hanging low in the sky over the city, Venice seemed very far from being a paradise for tourists; even the seagulls had vanished, evidently having gone elsewhere to sit it out and wait for calmer weather. On Saturday, the sea level had been higher than usual; on Sunday morning it was lapping near the top of the bank of the Piazza San Marco with particularly sharp gusts of wind blowing spray across the paving stones. By lunchtime the worst had happened and, despite the best attempts of the local authorities to deploy their limited stock of sandbags, the enemy was within. The optimists were fairly certain that Venice was not about to experience another trauma like 1966, when the entire place went several feet under, but damage was being done, of that there was no doubt.
Not only that, of course, but communications around the increasingly waterlogged city were becoming ever more difficult. The floating vaporetto stops, anchored to the sides of the canal by thick ropes, were rising with the water level. The boats were still running, although how much longer this would continue was uncertain. It was reaching the stops that was the trouble; improvised walkways were being laid on bricks and stones above the water, but the job was far from complete. Venice has a lot of streets and many of them were now below water level.
Getting round and staying moderately dry – comfort was out of the question – required thick shoes. Flavia had some, of course; she delved into her apparently bottomless suitcase and found a pair of stout, waterproof long boots that not only fitted, kept her dry but also looked good. Argyll had to make do with the heavy hand-stitched brogues that he seemed to have worn every day, in the deepest winter and the hottest summer, since Flavia had met him. They did the job better than expected, but the task would probably be their last before they had to be consigned to the rubbish pile.
