Giotto's Hand

12

He was woken up by a loud bashing on the door and a head sticking itself inside.

“Oh, Jonathan. Sorry to wake you,” said Mary. “The police have just arrived and could you get up as quickly as possible?”

Instead of a coherent response, he stuck his head out from underneath the blanket, into the dank, cold air and said “Wha?” or something like that, as he tried to orientate himself.

“Coffee’s in the kitchen,” she added brightly before disappearing.

Still fuddled, but doing as he was told, Argyll levered himself out of bed and reached for his clothes. He then wasted several precious minutes while he wondered where his left sock was, discovered it under the bed, along with generations of other debris, then dressed and went downstairs.

Inspector Wilson, with the sour look on his face of a man who has drunk too much coffee and not had enough breakfast, greeted him with a gruff sound that did little except communicate discontent.

Argyll peered at him cautiously. “What’s up?” he asked. “You do not have the air of a man at peace with the world.”

“That’s a way of putting it, Mr. Argyll. I am not. I have a question to ask you.”

“Ask away.”

“Where were you yesterday afternoon?”

Argyll looked puzzled. “I was in London,” he said cautiously. “Why?”

“Can I take it, then, that you have no idea who went into Geoffrey Forster’s house yesterday, broke through the seals, unlocked the door, and took all his papers?”

“This time Argyll was surprised. “Not a clue,” he said. “But it wasn’t me. Who’d want them, anyway?”

“Indeed.”

“When was this?”

“We’re not sure. For once, the villagers were caught unawares. Nobody saw anyone go in or out. Except for police officers.”

“Must have been one of them, then,” he suggested. “Are you sure no one took them away in a fit of diligence?”

Wilson didn’t even answer. Instead, he turned his attention to the door, as a still-yawning Flavia came in. Mary Verney performed the introductions.

“Delighted,” Inspector Wilson said.

“Do I understand that a lot of papers have gone missing?” she asked mildly.

Wilson, slightly shamefaced now that he was confronted with a colleague, even though an unlikely-looking colleague, admitted that this was the case. And, to get it over and done with, also admitted that it did look bad, a load of evidence disappearing just like that from the house of someone who was possibly a victim of murder.

“I was hoping that Mr. Argyll was going to tell me he’d taken all the papers so that he could study them at leisure here,” he said. “Unfortunately, that’s not the case.”

“Have you asked Forster’s wife?” Mary chipped in. “I suppose that she inherits whatever he may have had. So she would have an interest in them. Maybe she took them off to an accountant, or something.”

Wilson agreed that this was a possibility, but they had managed to think of this already and Jessica Forster had denied doing anything of the sort.

“Would you mind if I walked down and had a look around?” Flavia asked as he prepared to go. “I’m sure I won’t be able to contribute anything useful. But it would come in useful for my report.”

Wilson said that would be fine by him. But he’d be grateful if she didn’t touch anything without his permission.

After a brief breakfast, therefore, the three of them wrapped themselves up in the warm clothing necessary for coping with an English summer morning, and set off on the short walk to Forster’s house.

“This place used to belong to you, is that right?” Flavia asked as she and Mary walked in step and Argyll was distracted by the dog. “Why did your cousin sell those cottages to him?”

“A good question. I thought of trying to get it overturned on grounds of undue influence, but the lawyers all told me I was wasting my time. Who knows, I might manage something now. I hope you don’t decide I killed him just to get my property back.”

“I’ll try not to. Was the Weller estate big once?”

“Oh, yes. It dwindled slowly. On the few occasions that I came here as a child, there were still half a dozen farms working like crazy to keep us in the style to which we were accustomed. But Uncle Godfrey was hopeless at business, and Veronica was too potty to care. Very big on family position, but not much use at providing the wherewithal to underpin it. Or so I found out when she died. She used to live very well and I never understood how. After she died I discovered it was basically by selling off the family silver. But, if it’s good enough for the government, why not for Veronica, eh?”

“And more death duties when she died?”

She nodded. “Not many. She transferred the place to my name some time ago. She had a turn, thought she was going to die and got frightened the taxman would get it. That was when I was asked to visit. We managed to avoid quite a lot of taxes, but there are still enough to keep me worried. The revenue men are beginning to nip at my heels a little. This is the house, by the way.”

She opened the door and then said that she’d leave Flavia to wander around at will. She’d walk around the grounds and see if anything needed doing.

“Perils of owning things,” she said. “You’re constantly eyeing up holes in fences and worrying about how much they’ll cost to repair.”

“Shall I come with you?” Argyll asked.

“By all means.”

So she and Argyll set off down the small garden, leaving Flavia to examine Forster’s house professionally. Argyll would have hung around, but she was quite capable of finding out everything she needed on her own and, at times like that when she was concentrating, he knew that she was better left in peace.

“I like Flavia,” Mary said eventually in a definite tone of voice. “Hang on to her.”

“I’m going to. Where are we going, by the way?” he asked as they crossed through what seemed to be an old hedge.

“We’re back in the grounds of Weller. That path over there leads back round to the front of the house. It gets a bit boggy at times. This path goes through that little copse. There’s not much in it. Someone once had an idea about breeding pheasants, but got bored with it. You can still see some wandering around at times. They have a nice life. Nobody’s bothered them for years. It’s quite pretty.”

“Let’s go down there, then. Tell me, why don’t you just sell Weller and be shot of it? There must be something left over, mustn’t there? Even after taxes?”

“After taxes, yes. But after taxes and paying off debts, no. Basically, we’re chugging along courtesy of the bank manager. Uncle Godfrey refused to accept reality and kept on raising loans secured on what he persuaded bankers were his expectations.”

“What expectations?”

“That he would win his fight for compensation for the airbase, which was commandeered during the war. A complete waste of time, in my opinion. Or at least it was. Now they’re going, there’s a possibility I might get it back.”

“But not for several years, surely?”

“No. Frankly, I doubt if it will ever happen, although don’t say I said so. The important thing is to persuade the banks, so I can borrow money on it.”

“Like Uncle Godfrey?”

“A bit. I suppose you think it’s grossly irresponsible, borrowing money I know I will never pay back. But what the hell? What are banks for?”

They were crossing a small clearing, only a dozen or so yards wide, and made a detour to avoid a volcano-shaped pile of garden rubbish that had been stacked up for burning. It still smelt slightly, the charred aroma of burnt material that has been wettened overnight when the rain started coming down again. On the other side, the source of the smell came into view, and Argyll stopped dead in his tracks. Then he went and peered closely at the large pile. An old manila file was only half-burnt, and it was labelled ‘correspondence 1982.’ Another bit of half-consumed paper had a letterhead from Bond Street. A third was the remains of some bill or other.

The pair of them looked at it for a while, then Jonathan said: “Seems to solve the problem of the empty filing cabinet, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said eventually, sticking her hands in her pockets. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Now Argyll bent down, stuck his face close to the debris and sniffed. “A whiff of petrol. Or paraffin,” he observed. “What was the weather like here yesterday?”

“Rained in the morning, stopped in the afternoon, started again in the evening and kept going.”

He shrugged. “Anyway, somebody must have worked very hard on this. Carrying all those files out of the house, bringing them all the way over here, setting light to them, watching them burn, then doing their best to scatter the debris. They must have been busy for quite a time. I wonder why?”

“Is that a rhetorical question, or do you think you know?”

“It destroys a lot of possible evidence about Forster, doesn’t it? Come on. We’ll have to walk back and find Inspector Wilson.”

Flavia, meanwhile, was having a cup of coffee and a little chat with Jessica Forster, whom she’d encountered just as she was beginning her cursory look around the site where the murdered man had been found. She was standing, hands in pocket, lost in thought, at the foot of the stairs, squinting up to get an idea of the man’s descent, when there came a cough, half apologetic, half indignant, from behind her.

She turned round to greet the cougher, and apologize for coming in without knocking: in fact, she had entirely forgotten that Forster’s widow was there. It was something, she decided later, that people did with Jessica Forster. The adjective mousy arose, quite unbidden, in her mind and despite all efforts to achieve a more balanced, subtle character analysis, it stayed there throughout, squeaking at her insistently.

Mrs. Forster was over ten years younger than her husband, she guessed, and exuded none of the self-confidence and arrogance that the photographs of the dead man possessed. She had the pressed lips and tight jaw of suffering righteousness, of a martyr to the cause of doing things properly. She was also extremely nervous and manifestly in considerable distress, although this was, she decided charitably, more than reasonable in the circumstances. Either way, Flavia found her a difficult person to talk to, and discovered that the nervousness and twitchiness was mildly contagious.

Her opening remarks, along the lines of offering condolences on her husband’s death, did not make much of an impact. “It was a shock,” she said. “I still can’t believe it has happened.”

“I was wondering whether I could ask you…”

“You want to interview me as well? I’ve already told the police everything I know.”

Flavia hastened to reassure her and explained that she, was interested in different things.

“So who are you then?”

She explained that as well, after a fashion. “How much have the police told you?”

She shook her head. “They haven’t told me anything. Just asked me. It’s been horrible. Almost as though it was none of my business.”

With some misgiving, Flavia told her what she knew, ending up with her quest for the Pollaiuolo. As long as she wasn’t dissimulating, then she hadn’t been told much. She appeared insignificant, so she was treated like that. It was hard to take her into consideration, but that was no reason for ignoring her. She seemed almost pathetically grateful for Flavia’s efforts, and the Italian felt herself becoming more sympathetic.

When the explanation was finished, Mrs. Forster shook her head. “I didn’t know anything about this at all,” she said.

“Would you expect to?”

“Maybe not. Of course, I didn’t know anything about his business. Except that it hasn’t been so easy recently. Because of Mrs. Verney.”

With a bit of fire in her for the first time, Jessica Forster indicated that Mrs. Verney and her husband had not got on at all well. “I can’t say who was at fault. She said she couldn’t afford him any more. But Geoffrey was furious with her, far more so than I would have imagined. I’m afraid they just disliked each other. But I must say she has always been nice to me. She even offered to let me stay in Weller House if I couldn’t face being here. That was kind, don’t you think? You often find out the best of people in times of trouble.”

Flavia agreed it was frequently the case.

“I understood his reaction, of course,” she went on. “Geoffrey had put in so much work for Miss Beaumont, and gave up his business in London to come here and work for her. Then Mrs. Verney just ended it. He was deeply hurt. And I don’t mind telling you, it hurt us financially as well.”

“And it was just because Mrs. Verney couldn’t afford it?”

Jessica Forster frowned. Flavia decided she was either very stupid or very simple. Or perhaps neither. “What other reason could there be?”

“And you’ve been having a hard time? Financially, I mean?”

She nodded. “But it was getting very much better. Geoffrey was re-establishing his business, and told me he expected to pull off a big deal very soon.”

“And what was that?”

“I’ve no idea. He never used to bother me with the details. I earn it, you spend it. That’s what he used to say. He was a good man. I know what you’ve been told about him. But there was more to him than that. Much more.”

Flavia was left to guess what more she might have meant, and decided it was too complicated to pursue at the moment. “This deal,” she said. “What was it? A painting?”

“I suppose so. Unless he meant selling off the cottages. But I don’t think it was that.”

“If he had valuable paintings, would he normally keep them here?”

“I’ve no idea. Maybe not. If they were really valuable. This isn’t the most secure place, and so many people have keys, what with the cleaning ladies and such. And you do hear tales about burglars.”

“So if your husband wished to show a painting to a client, for example, it’s possible that he would only bring it here at the last moment?”

She nodded. “It’s possible. He did have a safe deposit box at a bank in Norwich. I told all this to the police, you know.”

“He didn’t mention the names of any clients?”

She shook her head.

“Did he have any contacts in Italy?”

Another shake.

“I see. Did your husband travel a great deal?”

“Of course. He was an art dealer. He was constantly on the move, seeing pictures and clients. Not that he enjoyed it much. He preferred to stay at home.”

“Did he go abroad?”

“Yes, sometimes. Not often, though. Why do you ask?”

“Just interest,” she said vaguely. “Do you happen to know if he was in Scotland in July 1976?”

Another shake. “I don’t know.”

“In Padua in May 1991?”

Another.

“Milan in February 1992?”

“I don’t think so. He went away often, but not for long and I wasn’t always sure where he was.”

“Would anybody know?”

“Probably not. Geoffrey worked alone. You might ask that man Winterton. He might know something.”

“I see. Thank you. Can you tell me, how did he come to work for Veronica Beaumont?”

“She asked him, I think. Several years back, I believe they’d known each other. Socially. Geoffrey made a point of cultivating such people. Can’t say I would have given most of them the time of day, myself. He said he’d given her informal advice for some time. But he really started working here properly about three years ago. That was when we took the decision to move here.”

“They’d known each other for years, I understand. Since their twenties.”

She looked puzzled at this. “Perhaps. I don’t know. He never mentioned it. I must say I wasn’t happy to come here. I know business was bad, but we would have managed I was ready to go and get a job and help. And I wasn’t sure that tying ourselves to the whim of one woman— who was a bit strange—was a good idea. But Geoff never listened to me. And it was no consolation when I was proven right. We should never have left London and buried ourselves here.”

“An unfortunate choice of phrase, Flavia thought And come to think of it, it was a pity he hadn’t listened to her. She might behave like a frightened rabbit but if what she was saying was true, she had more sense—or better judgement — than her husband had. “You don’t know what happened to his papers?” she asked.

She looked nervous suddenly, and Flavia knew that she was not telling the truth when she shook her head and explained that she’d been out all day.

“I got back here last night and spent all morning talking to the police. Then I went to Norwich to see the solicitors. After that I spent the evening with friends. I didn’t know anything about it when the police came round this morning, asked to see them and then started shouting when they discovered all the papers had gone.”

Flavia nodded thoughtfully. Such a rush of alibis, with all the tension vanishing as she spoke, almost as though she was reassuring herself as it came out She was on the whole far too nervous. in Flavia’s admittedly uncharitable view.

She sipped a glass of beer and pondered thoughtfully. No, she finally decided she would go hungry. Safer that way. She had never seen food that looked quite like that before and didn’t really care to experiment with what effect it might have on her stomach. Argyll did his best with a sausage roll and, to make up for their lack of appetite, Inspector Manstead, newly arrived from London to view proceedings, tucked enthusiastically into a second Scotch egg, then made the repast even more tasty by adding a large pickled onion to the mixture in his mouth. Flavia shuddered, and tried to concentrate.

“So what do they reckon? Your colleagues, I mean?” she asked.

Manstead chewed meditatively a while longer, then disposed of egg, sausage meat and pickled onion in one mighty swallow. “I don’t think they reckon anything yet. They want to think that our Gordon was responsible; nice and simple, no problems. But they don’t, really. They’re hanging on to him for want of anything better.”

“They’ve talked to Mrs. Forster, I understand?”

“Yup.”

“She mentioned Forster’s safe deposit box?”

Manstead smiled. “Yes, she did. And it’s been checked out.”

“And what’s in it?”

“Nothing. It seems that Forster arrived that afternoon, just before closing time, and took everything out of it.”

“What? What did he take?”

“They don’t know. Of course they don’t.”

“Wouldn’t do to go snooping around in clients’ boxes. It’s not Switzerland, you know.”

Flavia frowned. “So, if I understand this right, Jonathan telephones—when was it?”

“About two-thirty,” Argyll put in. “A bit later, maybe.”

“And Forster immediately leaps into his car, rushes into Norwich and collects his package,” Manstead continued for her. “It takes about forty-five minutes to get in. That evening he is dead, and when we look, there is nothing which appears out of place, as though it was collected from a safe deposit the previous day. But, of course, we don’t know what we are looking for, do we?”

Flavia sniffed and scratched her nose. “Jonathan?” Flavia asked, turning her attention on to him more completely. “What exactly did you say when you rang him up?”

Argyll looked flustered, and tried to remember. “That I was making enquiries about a picture I had heard about through an old friend of his.”

“And?”

“And that I’d heard he might know something about it.”

“And?”

“And that it might have been stolen. And that I wanted to talk to him about it. And that I didn’t want to talk over the phone. He said I should come to see him here.”

“So it’s possible that he thought you wanted to buy it?”

Argyll conceded this was possible.

“And also possible that he rushed off to get it so you could view the goods before making an offer?”

Another nod. “I suppose. Except, of course, that I specifically mentioned the Palazzo Straga.”

“Ah.”

“And it still hardly explains why he’s dead, does it? Or why his papers got burned up. Can’t blame me, this time.”

Manstead, who’d been listening to this with some pleasure, downed a good third of his pint then smacked his lips. “Ah, country life,” he said with satisfaction. ”Good beer, good food, fresh air. What am I doing living in London, eh? Perhaps,” he went on, “pictures have got nothing to do with it.”

Flavia gave him a doubtful look. “My friends in the force say there are lots of other more interesting lines of enquiry, and Gordon’s refusal to say where he was is only one of them.”

“For example?”

“For example, the fact that Forster was carrying on with the cleaning girl, and Mrs. Forster didn’t like it one bit. She may look like a long-suffering simpleton, but even she must have got a bit annoyed by that. Can’t say I blame her, either. And there is the problem of the London trip, of course,”

“Which problem is that?”

“Mrs. Forster is in London, staying with her sister. But on the evening of Forster’s death, she goes on her own to the cinema. She leaves the house at five, and comes back way after midnight. I know some films need some editing, but nine hours is a bit long, even for one of these avant-garde things. Acts a bit oddly, so the sister says, when asked why she was out so late.”

“And what does she say to you?”

“She says she was out, went for a walk, ate, saw a film, then, as it was a nice evening, walked home. Maybe she did.

“But now there’s the affair of the burning papers,” he went on. “And who could have burnt them but her? Safeguarding her position by destroying evidence of what he was up to? Not wanting her husband’s estate confiscated by outraged victims?”

“Have you had any response from the Belgians about that picture Winterton mentioned?”

Manstead nodded. “I have. A nice man, that, by the way. Kind of you to put me in contact. As for the picture, they sent this. It’s still in the collection.”

He slipped out a slightly murky photograph from his file and, with a little smile of expectation, handed it to Flavia. It was very far from being a clear image. Flavia peered at it, and grunted.

“We’ve also shown it to the Earl of Dunkeld, who swears blind it’s his. Pollaiuolo. St. Mary the Egyptian.”

Flavia nodded, and sipped her beer. “How was it stolen?”

“Simplicity itself. Big family wedding on”—here he paused and looked at his notes—“the Saturday. 10th July 1976. Blushing bride marches down the aisle, organ plays, confetti thrown, party held in the ballroom—such useful things to have about the house, ballrooms, don’t you think? Anyway, the whole thing is a huge success. Flawless. Everything right and proper and wonderful. Except that in the morning the library had this picture hanging up in it. Late at night a tired but proud father goes in for a quiet and relaxing sit down…”

“Blank spot on the wall?”

Manstead nodded. “Exactly. By which time everybody had gone home. Could have been anyone of seven hundred miscellaneous guests, relatives, caterers, musicians or vicars.”

“Has anyone cast an eye over the guest list?”

“I’m sure they did. But I assume nothing came of it.”

“Could they do it again?”

“I’ll ask. Of course, if Forster was as good as your boss reckons, he would hardly have been there under his own name. Might not even have been on the guest list at all. Long time ago, as well. You can look at the file yourself, if you want.”

“Please. So. How did it get to Belgium?”

“That’s the problem, of course,” Manstead said with a smile. “The man who bought it is dead. And, naturally, his records don’t say. Wouldn’t, would they?”

“Any note about Forster selling them anything?”

“No.”

“Oh,” said a disappointed Flavia.

“Sorry about that.”

“But he did know about it. That’s important. It means there are now hazy links between Forster and the disappearance of one Uccello, a Pollaiuolo, and a Fra Angelico. Three stolen paintings, dating between 1963 and 1991, and all on my boss’s list of thefts by Giotto’s hand. His own distinctive style, as you might say.”

“Impressive, and very hopeful. But there is nothing absolutely solid for any of them. Hazy, as you say. Now, Where’s that beer of mine?” he wondered.

In fact, Manstead’s beer had been ambushed, or at least Argyll had. He had scarcely given the order to the barman when George, who might well have been lying in wait for hours, docked alongside him.

“Hello again, young man,” he said to open proceedings. “What’s been going on, then?”

“Not a lot,” Argyll said airily, as he watched the barman’s wife, whose name, he gathered, was Sally, pull the pints. “You probably know as much as I do.”

“In that case, they’re not going to find anyone, are they? ’Cause I know nothing at all. Except that someone burnt all of Forster’s papers, his wife’s back, and that they’re going to have to let Gordon Brown go sooner or later.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because he didn’t do it. He’s got an alibi.”

“First I heard,” said Argyll, noticing that George was speaking in a remarkably loud voice.

“I know,” he said. “But someone’ll tell you soon enough. No doubt about that. Bound to. Even I know he didn’t do it.” And, giving everybody in hearing distance what was unmistakably a significant look, George nodded sagely to himself, picked up the remains of his pint, and walked off to his corner seat. Argyll got the strong feeling that the man had delivered his message. He was just uncertain who the message had been delivered to. It certainly wasn’t him.

He found out at about ten that evening, as the trio were clearing away the table in the morning room and beginning the task of carrying everything down to the kitchen. A good meal, except for a bumpy start: Flavia had been asked to cook some pasta and, despite her protestations that cooking really wasn’t her area of expertise, she had given in eventually. Mary Verney had this certainty that all Italians are born cookers of pasta. Her opinion changed somewhat after the first course.

And then the doorbell went.

“Unexpected late night calls seem to be popular all of a sudden,” Mary said as she got up and prepared to go on the long voyage across the saloon, through the entrance hallway to the door. It was a trip that took several minutes, and she returned only to poke her head through the door and summon them to the little sitting room which was the only properly comfortable part of the house.

“It’s Sally,” she explained as she led them through the darkened hallway. “The barman’s wife. Don’t know what she wants. But I’m feudally obliged to listen, and as it seems to be about Geoffrey, I thought you might want to hear as well.”

Sally, the barman’s wife, was standing in her coat looking mightily uncomfortable, until Mary sat her down by the fire, beamed maternally and made appropriately reassuring noises.

“I said I had a headache and left Harry to close up,” she said. “I’m so sorry to bother you but… oh!”

Her face fell as she turned round and saw Flavia and Argyll.

“What’s the matter?”

“I think I’ve made a mistake. Perhaps I ought to go.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mary said firmly. “If you need to talk to me on your own, then those two can go for a walk.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, now panicking and wavering in her resolve. “I’m sorry I came at all. But I thought you might tell me what to do…”

“Just so,” said a curiously unsurprised Mary. “I think, if I can give you a little piece of advice, you would be well advised to tell Miss di Stefano your story as well. You can rely on her.”

“But what about him?” Sally said, pointing at Argyll. “He gossips with George. All the time.”

Mary went into the hallway and let out a piercing whistle, putting both fingers into her mouth to produce the right effect. It echoed through the great rooms like an air-raid siren, and in response there was a muffled barking and a patter of eager canine feet. She picked Argyll’s coat off the hook and tossed it at him.

“Please, Jonathan. A little favour. In the interests of village serenity. Take Frederick for his evening constitutional. Walkies! Walkies!” she said, switching her attention to the beast that came running expectantly through the door.

“Women’s business,” she went on, noting that Argyll seemed markedly less enthusiastic than Frederick at the prospect. “Come back in half an hour.”

By the time he got halfway to the gate, Flavia was regarding the unhappy woman with what she hoped was an air of encouraging sympathy. Sally was in her late thirties, heavy in the face and pale from too much bad food and too many hours confined behind the bar of the pub. A pretty face though. With a little bit of care, she thought to herself… But, as Argyll constantly told her, that was not the way things were done here.

Whatever Sally had come for, she was not over eager to tell them about it. She sat in a sullen silence, staring down at the carpet, unable to begin.

“Perhaps if I helped,” Mary prompted. “You’ve come about Gordon, is that right?”

“Oh, Mrs. Verney, yes,” she said in a rush. It was as though the older woman had pulled the bung out of a barrel. The words suddenly started gushing out. “He didn’t do anything wrong. I suppose everybody knows he steals things and he can get rough. But not like that.”

“The police seem to like the idea,” Mary said.

“But they’re wrong. I know they are.”

“And why is that?”

Sally lapsed into silence again.

“Because he was with you? Is that it?”

She nodded, and looked up with alarm.

“Tell us what happened,” Flavia suggested.

“Perhaps I should explain first of all,” Mary said. “Gordon is married to Louise. Formerly Louise Barton. George’s daughter. That’s why Sally didn’t want Jonathan to overhear this.”

Then Sally began her tale. It was simple enough. Both she and her husband worked behind the bar only at busy periods. At weekends they got in help, but ordinarily they managed on their own. Most lunch-times and evenings either one or the other worked the bar. On the day Forster died, it was Harry, and his wife had the evening off. The bar of the pub was downstairs, and the living quarters upstairs at the back. At eight o’clock, just as it was getting busy and she knew her husband would be occupied until closing time, Gordon had left the bar, gone round the back and climbed up the drainpipe and into her room. He’d stayed there until he’d heard the bell for closing time, then disappeared the way he’d come.

“I see,” Flavia said, deciding to keep to facts, rather than go into motives. “So he was with you from when, about eight to nearly eleven?”

“That’s right.”

“Which covers him for all the period in which Forster might have been killed.”

“Yes,” she said. “You see? That’s what I mean.”

“By far the easiest thing would be for you to tell this to the police. Get it over and done with.”

“And you think they’ll keep quiet about it? They arrested Gordon and they’ll have to let him go. They’ll say why and it’ll be all over the village by the end of the week.”

“But Sally,” Mary said sadly, “the only two people in Norfolk who don’t know about you and Gordon are your husband and Gordon’s wife. Surely you realize that?”

Sally’s hand went up to her mouth in an expression of shock. “No,” she said.

“Well, I know about it. And I’m not the nosiest person around here.”

“Excuse me,” Flavia said, breaking into this confessional. “Can you tell me why Gordon didn’t tell the police this? It’s not as if he had a great deal to lose.”

“Because…” she began reluctantly.

“Because what?” Mary said sternly, picking up something that entirely passed Flavia by.

“Because Gordon saw George coming out of Forster’s house.”

“Ah,” said Mary with concern. Flavia sat back in her seat. There was no point in her interfering or saying anything at all. Mary Verney was a much better interrogator than she was.

Gradually, Mary got Sally to say that Gordon had walked from his cottage past Forster’s house and seen George coming out of the door. He’d hurried off with his head down, but seemed shaken and upset about something.

She shook her head. “He didn’t pay any attention at the time. But the next morning, when Gordon heard what had happened, he got worried that maybe George had done something drastic. You know about the cottage.”

“And rather than incriminate him, he kept quiet, even when he was arrested. Good for him,” Mary concluded unexpectedly.

Flavia sighed. She was having a hard time understanding the thick East Anglian accent, and was a little bemused by the way in which the façade of English village life was turning out to be just a little thin. On the other hand, she cast her mind back to some little towns she knew in Italy. Incest, wife-swapping and mass family murder seemed to be the local pastimes everywhere.

She leant forward in her chair. “But this was before eight, wasn’t it? It must have been.”

Sally nodded. “Yes. On his way to the pub. About seven.”

“So what’s he worried about? One thing the police seem sure of is that Forster didn’t die until after nine. Maybe later. His evidence doesn’t incriminate George at all, really. Especially as there is no motive.”

“There is a bit of a motive, though,” Mrs. Verney explained. “Or at least something that could be made into one. Did Jonathan not tell you about Forster threatening to evict him?”

“Ah.”

“George has lived there all his life, and wasn’t at all happy. In fact, he hated Forster, and said some regrettable things about him on occasion.”

“Like ‘I’ll kill the bastard’?”

“That’s the general line.”

“I see. He said this to a lot of people?”

Mary Verney nodded.

Flavia considered this. “In that case, it’s only a matter of time before the police find out,” she said eventually. “Gordon has to talk to them. If they find out on their own he’ll be prosecuted for obstruction, or whatever they call it here. As for you, Sally, I suggest you tell Gordon that. There’s no reason for you to get any more involved. The police have more pressing things to concern themselves with.”

Sally nodded reluctantly and stood up. “I’d better get back,” she said. “Otherwise Harry’ll wonder where I got to.”

“Do you want me to have a word with George?” Mary asked. “I’m sure there’s nothing to it. But it might be better if he had his explanation ready. I could talk it over with him.”

“Oh, would you?” Sally said. ‘That would make me feel better.”

“I’d be delighted. Then Gordon can say what he knows without having to bring you into it at all.”

Flavia smiled encouragingly, and Mary ushered a relieved woman out of the house again.

“Non-stop action in this place, isn’t it?” she said once Mary had returned to the sitting room and placed herself in front of the fire to warm up.

Her hostess nodded. “So it seems.”

“Were you surprised?” Flavia asked.

“That Gordon was innocent? Not at all.”

“About George.”

“Very much so. So surprised that frankly I don’t believe it for a moment. I prefer to take a benevolent view of human nature, as Jonathan may have told you. Besides, what about the burning papers? I can’t see George doing that.”

“Forster is dead.”

“Dead, yes. But perhaps not murdered. Besides, I thought you wanted it to have something to do with pictures. Or has poor Jessica become the front runner now?”

“We’re doing our best, you know. Everybody is.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But I’m beginning to lose patience over this a little. You don’t know Geoffrey was murdered and you don’t know he was a thief. So why bash away at it? The village has been turned upside down by all this, you know. You can’t have everybody under suspicion, one after the other.”

“Forster’s death would have been investigated even without us. And if it’s any consolation, the police seem to be losing heart. So am I, frankly.”

“Good.”