Giotto's Hand

10

Flavia began her researches into the life and times of Geoffrey Forster after an amiable lunch the next day with Argyll and Edward Byrnes at the dining club. Inspector Manstead, who never passed up an opportunity of either a free lunch or meeting a possibly important contact, came as well, and then decided to accompany her on her travels just to add a gloss of officialdom, as he put it, to her efforts.

Fortunately, London still retains its old local character for some of its trades. Many other occupations, which used to cluster together for protection, have long since been scattered to the winds: not many tailors still sew around Savile Row, journalists are too dispersed to fill the pubs of Fleet Street and complain about how they are unappreciated, and publishers have been cast to the winds, no longer making Covent Garden an interesting place to visit. Doctors do still dominate Harley Street, but are much too fine a bunch of people actually to talk to each other.

But enough art dealers do hang out in the area around Bond Street and St. James’s to give the place a particular character and, even though they might not like each other much, mutual interest and propinquity ensures that at least some show of professional solidarity remains. Thus, when Edward Byrnes made a face and telephoned Arthur Winterton for her, Winterton reluctantly made time to see Flavia.

One might think that the fact that both men were of advancing years, both had enjoyed as much success as they could reasonably desire, and both were quite unfairly wealthy, would have had a mellowing effect on them, blunting the competitive edge and allowing them to survey the art scene with the detachment that comes of total security. Not a bit of it. Both men had been profoundly jealous of each other for decades, and neither was going to give up now. Without the desire of Winterton to beat Byrnes, and without the fervent wish of Byrnes to trounce Winterton, both men might well have remained modest dealers of only limited prominence, rather than the two contesting giants of Bond Street.

For Argyll, who wanted little out of life except to be left in moderately affluent peace, watching how easily the veneer of urbanity was stripped off Byrnes by the mention of the word Winterton was a never-ending source of instruction. He had always assumed a couple of million in the bank would bring peace and contentment. It was a shock to realize that it did nothing of the sort. Winterton’s superior contacts on the American museum circuit could still make Byrnes incandescent with a jealousy of a very primitive variety. Byrnes’s knighthood, on the other hand, was quite capable of keeping Winterton awake until dawn if he should chance to think about it late at night.

He had, on occasion, mentioned his former employer’s Achilles heel to Flavia in the past and so she, as she walked into Winterton’s rival gallery three hundred yards up the street, was keenly looking for reasons to explain how such rivalry could be generated.

Certainly, style was important, she decided as they waited for the great man to appear. Whereas Byrnes’s gallery self-consciously cultivated the slightly old-fashioned, scholarly air, the high-quality faded look, Winterton had gone very much for the modern style in which everything was restored and interior designed to within an inch of its life. The difference was reflected in the men themselves, she realized as Winterton emerged; Byrnes had gone grey at least ten years previously and much of his hair had vanished, while Winterton had a full head of suspiciously black stuff despite his nearly sixty years. Byrnes, in a word, was expensively shabby in appearance, Winterton was expensively elegant. She had learnt—or rather Argyll had explained to her—that such things can indeed trigger conflict in a country like England which, despite its reputation, is more concerned with appearance than any other. The English may not dress well by continental standards, but the way they dress badly is of enormous importance.

Flavia and Inspector Manstead (himself a member of the cheap and dowdy tendency in couture) were whisked off into Winterton’s office and plied with tea and coffee.

Winterton sat himself behind his desk and placed the tips of his fingers together to indicate that he was taking the proceedings seriously and would, of course, do his best to help the police with their enquiries.

“Inspector Manstead and I are attempting to get some details about paintings which passed through the hands of the late Geoffrey Forster,” Flavia began. Winterton nodded to indicate that he was paying attention.

“To be frank, there is a question mark over the provenance of some of them.”

“You mean some were stolen?”

“Just so.”

Winterton nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes. I see. Might I ask what these paintings were? I do very much hope you are not going to ask me whether I knew about this?”

Flavia shook her head at the very idea. “No. But obviously we do need to know about Forster. Friends, associates, that sort of thing. We need some sort of idea how this might have happened. Did you know him well?”

Winterton shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said with clear relief. “Fortunately, our association was only very loose.”

“And your impressions?”

Winterton thought carefully. “He was a man utterly devoid of anything that might be termed the finer feelings. To him, the value of everything was in how much cash you could get for it. To use the old cliché, he knew the price of everything, the value of nothing. I know it is old-fashioned, I can think of no better way of describing him than to say he was a scoundrel and a fake. Geoffrey Forster was just the sort of person who would expect to buy stolen works of art.”

“But Mr. Winterton, you have a high reputation, I believe. Why would you go into business with someone of whom you had such a low opinion? Surely that could only have harmed your standing in the art world?”

Winterton frowned with annoyance at the question, probably because it was quite a good one. He waved his hand vaguely to indicate the passage of time and the vagueness of the art dealing business.

“A sign of the times,” he said with a sigh. “We must all try to make the best use of our assets, until the economy picks up. In my case, I had this large building which was rather under-used, so I rented out a couple of rooms at the top to people who want an impressive business address but can’t afford their own gallery. Forster is one of three; he very rarely used the place: that was one of the conditions of letting him have it in the first instance, to be frank.

“And once he did me a favour, which saved me some potential embarrassment. I must say, I didn’t like the man, but I owed him in return. You know how it is.”

“Aha. I see. Could you tell me what this favour was?”

“I don’t think that is at all relevant.”

Flavia smiled sweetly, and Manstead scowled threateningly. Between them, they managed to convey how pleased the police would be with an answer, and how much trouble they might cause if he kept quiet.

“Very well, then. It was about three years ago. I had undertaken to dispose of a painting for the executors of the estate of a Belgian collector who had recently died. A very distinguished man. Whose name I will not provide. Forster heard about it as I was arranging for it to go to Christie’s. He alerted me to the possibility that it was not all it seemed.”

“What did it seem?”

“It seemed to be a fine, but undocumented Florentine school painting of the mid-fifteenth century. Quite valuable, in its way, although, without any proof of identity, not in the first league. Which is why I was not proposing to try and find a private purchaser.”

“And what was it?”

“I could never prove it, of course.”

“But…”

“But it did appear to bear a superficial resemblance to a painting of St. Mary the Egyptian by Antonio Pollaiuolo which was stolen in 1976 from the Earl of Dunkeld’s Scottish house.”

“And so you instantly reported this to the police?”

Winterton smiled grimly. “Certainly not”

“Why not?”

“Because there was absolutely no proof one way or the other. I could not in good conscience undertake to sell the painting myself, of course. But to drag the name of a famous collector through the mire—for that is what would have happened—by calling in the police over a painting which might very well have been bought quite legitimately, seemed irresponsible. I did check, and there was no indication of how the painting had arrived in the collection.”

“So you walked away?” Manstead interrupted indignantly.

Winterton grimaced with slight pain at the vulgar way this was put.

“Where is the picture now?” the English policeman went on.

“I do not know.”

“I see. So, let’s get this straight. You were selling a hot picture, Forster takes one look at it and tells you it was stolen. You pull out in case someone notices it. And you didn’t for a moment consider you might have been doing anything wrong?”

Winterton raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Of course not. I knew the Pollaiuolo painting had been reported stolen, of course. On the other hand, I didn’t know it actually had been stolen.”

Manstead positively fulminated at this comment. “That seems like splitting hairs to me.”

“I don’t care one way or the other what it seems to you. But I suspect Miss di Stefano here knows exactly what I mean. A painting is stolen; the owner registers the loss and collects on the insurance. Has it really been stolen? Or has the owner sold it through a dealer and faked the theft so he can be paid twice? Does the new owner think he is buying a stolen work, or does he think he is buying a legitimate painting which is being sold discreetly for fear of having to hand over too much to the taxman? What some previous owner has done fifteen years ago and in another country is not my concern: making a living at art dealing is hard enough without going out of your way to find trouble. In my case, I decided the best thing to do would be not to get involved.”

“And give Forster office space upstairs as a little thank you for heading you away from trouble?”

Winterton nodded. “I would prefer to say that my opinion of him lifted a little after that. But not that much.”

Manstead felt decidedly ruffled at this, but noticed that Flavia remained perfectly calm, dealing with Winterton’s explanation as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Indeed, he got the distinct impression she even approved of his decision. Certainly, she didn’t bother to follow it up.

“Now,” she said, taking control of the questioning once more, ”how did Forster know it was stolen? That’s the important thing, isn’t it? If he had no finer feelings, spotting something as obscure as a Pollaiuolo would hardly come easily to him. So how did he know? Not a famous theft, or a famous collection.”

Winterton shrugged.

“He didn’t say, ‘I know it’s stolen because I stole it myself?’ ” she suggested.

Winterton looked ruffled, a state which Flavia found a great improvement. “Of course not,” he said eventually. “Firstly, I doubt he had it in him. And if he did, he would hardly tell me, would he? A bit stupid, even for him?”

“Not necessarily,” Flavia said thoughtfully. “After all, I assume you would have sold it on the London market, wouldn’t you? And it might have been awkward had it reappeared. After all, I assume you are good at your job—you must be to have achieved your current position—so you would have done a proper check on the painting’s provenance, and perhaps discovered one or two inconsistencies. Was the painting sold?”

“I believe not,” Winterton said.

“And you told the family that it was a bit doubtful.”

He nodded.

“There you are then. One quiet word, and Forster stops a sale which might have caused him considerable problems. Perhaps he was not as stupid as you think. Now, how about Forster’s clients? Do you know any names?”

“Not many,” he said, replying now with great reluctance and scarcely concealed irritation. “He did business at one stage helping families sell off their possessions, I know. When the market turned down he went into that line of business more or less full time. He virtually became an estate manager for the house near where he lived.”

“We know that.”

“That is the only name I know, I’m afraid, and I can’t help you with any details, never having acted for the family myself. And I gather his work ended when a new owner took over. But as I say, I had little to do with him.

“Now, then,” he said, standing up in an end-of-interview way, “please don’t hesitate to contact me if you think I may be of further assistance to you…”

“Of course,” Flavia murmured. Indeed, she was surprised that they’d been there for so long, and that they’d got so much out of him.

“What did you think?” she asked Manstead as they emerged once more on to the street.

“Outrageous!” he replied.

“You are new at this game, aren’t you?” she said with a faint smile.

“You mean that’s common?”

“Refusing a decent commission merely because of a little matter like a painting being stolen? Very uncommon. He’s more honest than I’d anticipated. Assuming he’s telling the truth. He might have gone ahead and sold it anyway, using someone else as a cover. Could you check?”

“What is this picture? Another one on Bottando’s list of Giotto’s greatest hits?”

“Yes, it is. That’s three connections. Uccello, Fra Angelico and Pollaiuolo. In fact, they’re beginning to pop up so fast I’m amazed Forster stayed out of jail long enough to die at home. Can you look into this Belgian collection?”

“I don’t know many people in Belgium.”

Flavia took out her notebook and scribbled a name and number on it. “Try him. Tell him I sent you. He’ll do his best.”

Manstead took the number and stuffed it in his pocket.

Flavia beamed at him. “I bet you’re getting sick of me.”

Manstead sighed. “Not at all,” he said gallantly.

Argyll’s own metropolitan labours—apart from picking up some clean clothes—took the form of a social call on an old friend of his called Lucy Carton. Old friend was, perhaps, pushing it a bit. considering that they had only vaguely known each other some years back, but it is amazing how fondly you begin to think of even virtual strangers when you need a favour of them.

Argyll’s logic was simple. Although he had not talked to her for years now, idle gossip with mutual acquaintances had kept him approximately in touch with her movements since she had left university and hurled herself into the mêlée of the London art world, sliding elegantly up the greasy pole from being an assistant (read, secretary) to being an exhibition organizer, and on to the slightly more lofty heights as an expert valuer at one of the smaller auction houses which attempted to chip away at the duopoly of Christie’s and Sotheby’s.

More to the point, it was the same auction house at which Forster had bought and sold paintings, and Argyll, eager to find out more about the man’s activities, thought that it would be a good idea to see exactly what he had been doing. His problem was Forster’s position as effective curator of the Weller House paintings, a collection which had done quite nicely for the past century or so without being looked after at all. If Forster was spending his time running around Europe stealing paintings, why go to all the bother of seeking out Veronica Beaumont (as he had apparently done) and take on a job which provided an income that was little more than chickenfeed in comparison to what Fra Angelicos and the like must have brought in. Answer: because it must have served a useful purpose. To Argyll’s way of thinking that seemed obvious. Unfortunately, it wasn’t at all obvious what that useful purpose was.

Besides which, he thought he might be able to render a small service to Mrs. Verney, which he was keen on doing merely for its own sake, and not simply because it might make her think of using his services should she decide that selling off some paintings might be a way to restore herself to solvency.

Such was the aim, although as he was shown into Lucy’s office (must be doing quite well if she had an office) he was not sufficiently naive as to think that achieving it was going to be so easy. What were your connections with this suspected criminal? Not many auction houses like such questions, and he remembered that Lucy was more than bright enough to work out what his questions meant, however carefully he might phrase them. No harm in trying, though.

Fortunately, she seemed perfectly pleased to see him, even though the surprise at his sudden materialization was evident. She had quite a sweet face, although Argyll remembered that behind the soft, almost chubby features lurked a mind that was surprisingly steely. The contrast between appearance and reality quite possibly accounted in some measure for her possession of an office. Argyll confessed that he had not come merely for the pleasure of seeing her.

“I sort of guessed that. You don’t want a job, do you?”

“Oh, no,” he said, a little startled.

“That’s good. We don’t have any.”

“No. I’ve come to ask you a question or two about a client.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow in a that’s confidential, you know that, we never disclose anything about clients, fashion.

“An ex-client, in fact. A man called Geoffrey Forster. Who is now safely dead.”

“Dead?”

“Fell down the stairs.”

She shrugged. “That’s all right, then. I vaguely remember the name.”

“He did buy and sell through you?”

“Think so. I can’t remember any details. Why?”

“It’s his pictures, you see,” Argyll said, nervously getting to the difficult bit. “There’s a certain amount of confusion about them which needs to be sorted out.”

She looked patiently at him.

“Where they came from. Where they went.”

“Who needs to sort it out?”

Argyll coughed. “Well, the police, really. You see, they might not have been his.”

She was looking sufficiently alarmed by now for Argyll to realize he might as well jettison the subtle approach and tell her everything. Unless she had changed a good deal, she was a common-sensical sort of person who would probably be amenable to a dose of honesty. It seemed to work; or at least, the more detail he went into about Forster’s possible career as a thief, the more she seemed to relax, and even to enjoy the account.

“But these were Italian pictures mainly, is that right? Is that what you’re saying?”

“For the most part, yes. Fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.”

She shook her head. “I do Dutch and English, you see. I’m not allowed to touch Italian. Alex does Italian.”

“Who’s Alex?”

“My boss. He reckons he’s the great expert. He doesn’t like me. Tried to stop me getting a job here. Italian’s the one thing I really know about, and he always makes a fuss if I so much as look at one of the pictures he sees as his. He is determined that no one but him will do them. His empire. He’s worried about people finding out he’s an idiot.”

“So if Forster slipped some stolen Italian paintings through here…”

“Alex would have assessed them. How very interesting,” she said and thought this over for a while. “And if they turn out to be dodgy, and if there’s any trouble about why we didn’t notice… Hmm.”

There was another long pause, as Lucy thought some more and Argyll reflected about the adverse impact of office politics on character. “Now. Tell me,” she went on, coming out of her reverie, “what exactly do you want?”

“That depends on how much you’re prepared to help.”

“We have a policy of the utmost cooperation with the police to assist them in trying to make the art market a more honest and reputable place.”

“Really?”

“No. But in this particular case I think we should make a start. What do you want?”

“Two things, then. Firstly, a list of everything Forster sold through you. And bought, I suppose. Secondly, I’d like to know whether your firm did the inventory on Weller House.”

“Post-mortem?”

He nodded. “Somebody did; it would have been official valuers and Forster was in charge then. It struck me he might well have chosen you. Your firm does that sort of thing, doesn’t it?”

She grunted. “Oh, yes. If the owners decide to sell it gives us a head start. That at least I can help you with. On the other hand, his trading might be a bit more difficult. All the details will be in Alex’s office and I don’t want to disturb him, if you see what I mean.”

“Of course.”

“Hold on.”

And she disappeared into the next office, carefully making sure that there was no one in it. Argyll heard the sound of file drawers being slid in and out, then a pause, then the whirring and clunking of a photocopying machine. Eventually, she returned, bearing a few sheets of paper.

“I’ve got the inventory at least. We did it at the end of January,” she said. “I only copied the paintings for you; I’d have been there all day if I’d done the furniture as well.”

“That’s fine.”

She handed the sheets over. “Pretty motley collection,” she said. “We’re not the greatest auction house in the world, but even we get to deal with higher quality stuff. Ninety-nine in all.”

“Paintings?”

“Er, hold on.” She counted quickly. “Seventy-two paintings. The rest are drawings. What’s the matter? You look disappointed.”

“There’s more than I was expecting.”

“Oh. Anyway, there’s scarcely anything worth bothering about in the whole lot. Nearly all pretty ordinary family portraits. One supposed Kneller, but that apparently is a bit dubious. There’s a note from the person who did it saying if that’s a Kneller, he’s a cucumber. The rest are even worse.”

He nodded. “Now, I’ve taken more of your time than I should. I should leave you.”

“Not before you promise to keep me fully informed of everything that you find that concerns us.”

Argyll agreed.

“And put me up for a week when I come to Rome in September.”

Argyll agreed.

“And sell pictures through us if you ever use a London auction house.”

He agreed to that.

“And take me out for dinner before you leave.”

And that. As he left he wondered whether he could give the bill to Bottando.