Giotto's Hand

16

Flavia got back from talking to Manstead and the locals in a sombre and discontented mood. The essence of the discussion was that the Norfolk police were putting Forster on the backburner until such time as any actual evidence turned up. They had, so they said, quite enough thieves and murders on their hands already: there simply wasn’t time to deal with something like this.

“You see,” Manstead said with a slight tone of apology in his voice, “we can’t even prove Forster was murdered. Not convincingly, anyway. And as for his being a thief…”

“No evidence, either? The Dunkeld wedding?”

“That was our one real chance, I think. And nothing. We even got them to look at his photograph to see if that rang any bells, but nothing. I mean, I hardly expected it to after all these years, but you can’t say we haven’t tried.”

“I know,” Flavia said. “And I think I’d do the same, if I were you. I’m grateful for the effort.”

“As I say, if we had anything to go on at all…”

“Yes. Thank you. By the way, Veronica Beaumont was on the guest list, wasn’t she?”

Manstead referred the question to Inspector Wilson, who nodded. “That’s right. As was most of Burke’s Peerage, as far as I can see.”

“Ah. Did you, by any chance, reinterview George Barton?”

“Yes, we did, and thank you for that. But I’m afraid that his son-in-law was defending him quite unnecessarily. He did see Forster that evening, but it was long before Forster died. And then he went to see his daughter. Which, of course, Gordon would have known had he not been fooling around with Sally. Or if George had actually been on talking terms with him.”

“So that was a waste of time as well.”

“Yes. And Mrs. Forster has been scratched too.”

“Why?”

“We demonstrated that she wasn’t at the cinema that night.”

“Ah.”

“No. But her husband was having an affair, so she thought she’d do the same…”

“Jesus, not another one.”

“I know. Scratch the surface. But anyway, she’s off the list.”

“I see. Tell me, when she was interviewed first time round, did she know that her husband was being investigated for theft?”

Manstead handed over a few sheets of paper. “Look for yourself. It was a preliminary chat. Where were you, what were you doing? Nothing fancy like thefts at all. That came later. This morning, in fact. And she said the first she’d heard of it was from you. It may not be true, but can we prove differently? We cannot. And until we can…”

Then she came back and sat on a chair in the entrance hall to ring Bottando to report, which was where Argyll found her, listening with a pained expression on her face.

“The whole lot of them will be there,” Bottando told her after he’d monopolized the conversation by fulminating about Argan’s plan for a final showdown. “To listen to the fruits of my experience. Argan could hardly contain himself. I thought the little bastard was being unnaturally quiet. Now I know why. I’ve been going through his disks again. He’s already written another detailed memorandum on the whole thing. You can guess what’s in it.”

“Old fool, put him out to pasture?” Flavia said, a little tactlessly. There was a long silence from the Italian end.

“That’s about it.”

“You seem very calm about it.”

“No point in being anything else. I’m sure everything will be fine once I give my explanation. I’m sure I can drag a rabbit or two out of a hat for the occasion. How are you doing?”

Flavia paused to consider. “I hate to say this…”

“What?”

“Forster was a nasty bit of work. But I don’t think I’ll be able to prove he was Giotto. Certainly not by tomorrow afternoon. I’m doing my best, but the police here are shutting up shop.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because basically there’s nothing whatsoever to go on which is any more substantial than early morning mist.”

A long digestive pause from central Rome. “Ah, well. No matter. It’s not your fault. You can’t create criminals—or evidence—where none exist. If you can come back by tomorrow that would be helpful.”

She put the phone down, and sat quietly, lost in thought about the various options, all of them unsavoury, which presented themselves.

“Poor old Bottando,” Argyll commented.

“Hmm. I think he’s deluding himself about the support he’s going to get. Personally, I don’t think anyone will help him. I think he’s losing his grip on political realities, you know.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

She pursed her lips and thought. “My best, I suppose,” she said without much conviction that this was going to be good enough. “I’ll have to go back. I can’t say I relish watching the old fellow being gored to death, but at least I’ll be able to give what support I can. Come on. I think I need a chat with Mrs. Verney. And a stiff drink.”

It’s awkward to go asking pointed questions of your hostess, not least because she might take offence and render you suddenly homeless. On top of that, Flavia rather liked the woman. She was generous, lively, and very good company.

But the fact remained that the clock was ticking. Flavia still had no proof of anything, but she was fairly certain, on such knowledge as she possessed, that she knew what had been going on. The only problem was that being right was as bad as not knowing anything at all.

“Ah, you’re back,” Mary said cheerfully as they trooped into the kitchen. She gave the mixture in her pot a quick stir then replaced the lid. “I hope you’ve had a profitable day.”

She looked up at them, and scrutinized their faces carefully. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Graveyard looks. It’s serious talk time, is it?”

“If you don’t mind.”

She took off her apron, tossed it over the back of the chair, and got out a tray, some glasses and a bottle.

“These may be needed,” she observed. “Come on, then. Back to the sitting room. Let’s see what you want.”

Very much in control, she swept out of the kitchen, and up the stairs to the sitting room, with Flavia close behind and Argyll bringing up the rear with the tray. He was in full agreement that it was of central importance, and busied himself pouring and distributing while the other two settled themselves into position in the overstuffed armchairs and prepared for combat.

“All right then,” Flavia began. “I’ll give you an account of the day Forster died. Round about lunch-time, Jonathan and Edward Byrnes are eating together. At two-thirty, or thereabouts, he rings Forster and says he wants to talk to him about a picture. A stolen one. Immediately afterwards, it seems, Forster leaves the house and heads for Norwich, where he visits and empties his safe deposit box. Later that evening, he is visited by George Barton, and has an acrimonious fight about George’s forthcoming eviction. George leaves, and is seen by his son-in-law, Gordon. Around nine o’clock, Forster falls down the stairs, breaks his neck and dies.

“His body is discovered the next morning by Jonathan. Gordon, at the time of the death, is in bed with Sally, the barmaid; George was visiting his daughter and Mrs. Forster was with her lover.”

“With her what?” Mary said with astonishment.

“True, apparently.”

“Good God! My opinion of her rises all the time.”

“Yes. Anyway, the point is that nobody saw, heard, smelt, suspected, divined or guessed that anything was wrong. So much so that the police here, I gather, now agree. As far as they are concerned, the case of Forster’s death is closed until such time as there is some evidence to justify reopening it.”

“That’s a relief,” Mary said. “Everybody will be very pleased.”

“So what do we conclude? That Forster’s trip into Norwich had nothing to do with Jonathan. That his death was an accident. That his willingness to talk to him about a stolen Uccello was also unconnected to his death.”

Mary Verney looked placidly interested, but said nothing.

“Even so, there is evidence that Forster was connected in some way with the theft of pictures. Three statements from three people, none of whom know each other, all point to that. And, of course, there was the burning of Forster’s papers, for which deed we must pencil in Mrs. Forster. She returns to find her husband dead and also under investigation as a thief on a grand scale. Perhaps she knows it’s true. So to protect what little money she has, she decides to bring the police investigation into this angle of her husband’s life to an abrupt halt. End of story.”

Mary Verney continued to look calm, but companionably distressed at such an unsatisfactory conclusion.

“The trouble is, of course,” Flavia went on, “that however agreeable this is as an explanation, it is not true.”

“Oh. Are you sure?”

“Fairly certain, yes.” .

“Why?”

“Firstly, because the police say they went out of their way to make sure that Jessica Forster did not learn from them that her husband was suspected of any thefts. They say they asked her about matters surrounding his death. Nothing about anything else. She may have known he was a thief, but there was nothing to let her know that anyone else suspected and that she had to act. So, how did she know?”

There was a long silence as Mrs. Verney drained her glass, then spoke: “Simple. I told her.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? I don’t like her much, but living with Geoffrey was punishment enough for one lifetime. There was no need for her to suffer from him beyond the grave. I wanted to spare the poor thing the turmoil of having everything she owned—or he owned—taken away from her by vengeful victims. So when she came to visit that afternoon I told her that if she was going to do anything to defend herself, she’d have to move fast. Personally, I think it was good advice.”

“And she rushed out with the matches?”

“No. I rushed out with the matches. She was dithering too much to do anything herself. She asked my advice, and I gave it. She asked my help, and I gave that too.”

“That is a serious offence.”

Mrs. Verney seemed blithely unconcerned. “I can’t see how it changes anything, myself.”

Flavia gave her a look of profound disapproval. “Very humanitarian of you. It’s a pity it’s not true either.”

“I’m afraid it is. I nearly put my back out lifting all that paper.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean your motives. You did not put the idea into her head to get rid of evidence indicating Forster was a thief. Nor did you do it when she came to visit.”

“No?”

“No. You did it to disguise the fact that there wasn’t the slightest bit of evidence that he was a crook. And you went round to see to it after we got back from London and Jonathan said he’d be looking into his papers to see what he sold from here.”

“But it was raining.”

“It was stopping when we arrived.”

“And why would I do that? What was it to me?”

“Because the papers would have probably revealed that he was bleeding you and your family dry by threatening to reveal that for years your kleptomaniacal cousin had been touring the country houses of Europe lifting masterpieces.”

“Goodness! What a lovely idea. What leads you to that?”

“Enough, I think.”

“For example?”

“Forster, to start off with. What evidence is there that he stole paintings? Suggestions by three people, his comments to Jonathan, and his death. But he hardly lived like a vastly successful criminal; there were obvious signs of a shortage of money, and no indications at all that any is hidden away.

“He is meant to have spent ages touring round Europe stealing things, but his wife said he hated travelling and had hardly left Norfolk except for day trips to London since he moved here. He was, admittedly, in Florence when the Uccello disappeared. But so was your cousin Veronica, at della Quercia’s. Virtually next door and with access to the Palazzo Straga. And your cousin was on the guest list for the Dunkeld wedding in 1976 and he was not. Your cousin had a reputation for taking things; whereas until last week, Forster did not.

“None of that is enough to acquit Forster or condemn your cousin. But think of his relations with her. She didn’t like him in Florence, it seems, but brings him in to help look after the collection. Why? It hardly needed looking after. She pays him a salary, virtually gives him a house, and begins to transfer other property in a way which made it entirely his when she died. A lot of money for not very much. If he was a thief it doesn’t make sense. If he was blackmailing a thief, then it does.”

Mary Verney took a sip of her glass, and regarded Flavia with some affection. Flavia noted that she seemed neither indignant at listening to such a travesty, nor nervous about it either.

“I see. Interesting. But I wouldn’t try going to court on it. Even Dr. Johnson—indiscreet old buffer though he is—would have a hard time persuading a jury that someone as obviously scatty as my poor old cousin could manage the sort of planning your Giotto would have required for success. I mean, stealing things is only part of it, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. And I’m sure that her success was largely because she stole things at random, knew only faded and impecunious aristocrats like herself whose collections are precisely the sort which aren’t catalogued or insured too well. It took Bottando to turn lunacy into method, and see craziness as breathtaking skill. As for getting rid of them, she wouldn’t have to. Winterton would do that.”

Mary looked surprised at the name. “Winterton? Why him?”

“Come now,” Flavia said severely. “You can do better than that. You know perfectly well why him. He’s the man who went and talked to Sandano three months ago to find out what he knew about the Fra Angelico theft. Fifties or older with thick dark hair, so Sandano says. That matches Winterton, but Forster was grey and a bit thin on top. Nice touch to give Sandano one of Forster’s cards, though.”

“Old family friend helping out?”

Flavia frowned with disapproval at her lack of invention. “Who gives a second-rater like Forster a place in his very exclusive gallery? And who risks his career by going to Italy to pay money to thieves and implicates Forster in the theft of the Pollaiuolo? He wouldn’t touch something like that unless he had to. He’s not the sort to do people favours like that. Not good enough. Perhaps you should tell me why? Save time and effort on the guessing games.”

“Maybe that’s a good idea,” Mary replied, sipping the drink, then putting it down again and composing herself for the trial of being perfectly frank. At least, Flavia thought, they weren’t going to have to batter their way through any more lies and evasions. One thing about Mary Verney, she was eminently sensible. She knew when she was beaten.

“He based his entire career on poor Veronica’s little weaknesses,” she said with a sigh. “He took a vast percentage, I gather. So much that the silly woman never really benefited much from her habit. Enough to keep things ticking over, not much more. Which was typical of her, really. I mean, if you’re going to be a crook, you might as well make money out of it, don’t you think?”

“Was it always part of the plan to kill Forster?”

“Certainly not,” she said robustly. “If I’d wanted that, then I could have killed him and had done with it. No. I simply wanted him off my back. His dying made life appallingly complicated.”

“How did he get on your back in the first place?”

“Forster knew Veronica in Italy, and when she lifted that Uccello, he offered to help her out by getting rid of it. It was just a way of worming himself into her affections, although I suspect he also made quite a lot of money out of it. Then communications ceased for years, until he was called in to organize the collection of someone in Belgium. He did it quite well, and noticed that a picture by Pollaiuolo wasn’t all that it seemed. He worked quite hard, and found out what it really was, and absconded with all the sale documents concerning it.”

“Which were?”

“Which were, firstly a deed of sale countersigned by Veronica and by Winterton as the dealer who organized the deal, and secondly an export permission saying it came from the collection at Weller House.”

“Isn’t that a risky way of selling hot pictures?”

“Evidently, as we are sitting here talking about it,” she said drily. “But who am I to judge? If you think about it, I suppose you could say that the painting’s original ownership was undocumented; it had been hidden away for some time, there was nothing to prove that it hadn’t come from Weller House and the inventories here were vague. Forster got suspicious only because he knew Veronica and at some stage after Uncle Godfrey’s death had gone through the Weller collection inventory, so knew what was in it—and what certainly wasn’t. Very bad luck on their part.

“Anyway, Forster figured out what might have happened, and decided to follow up. He wrote Veronica a letter, came to see her and put his cards on the table: ‘Hi. Remember me? I knew you in Florence. When you were stealing a Uccello. Nice to see you’re still at it. Pollaiuolo now, eh? And I have documents to prove it. What’s it worth?’

“At this stage, you see, he didn’t even know the start of it, but once he was in the house, it didn’t take him long to figure it out. He began dropping little hints; asking for favours, then money, then a house.”

“So what was the problem with your cousin? Couldn’t she be stopped?”

“Again, you’re asking the wrong person. I would have stopped her, but no one asked me. When she came back from Italy, she told my uncle everything and he panicked. He asked Winterton’s advice. Personally, I think the obvious thing would have been to go to the police and help them recover the picture. ‘Sorry, Veronica had one of her little turns; you know how it is.’ Then followed it by locking her up or getting her good psychiatric treatment.

“But, of course, my family didn’t think like that. The first thing that worried them was the shame of it all. All their instincts were to cover it up, and Winterton encouraged them to think that it would be easy to do this. I honestly don’t think that it ever occurred to them that a real crime had been committed. That’s what oiks like Gordon Brown do; Beaumonts are merely indiscreet. And, of course, they kept Veronica’s cut from the sale.

“Besides, initially no one thought it would become a habit. And then it was too late: by the time Veronica had hung half a dozen little acquisitions on the wall and Winterton had got rid of them, they’d compromised themselves rather badly. Manufacturing fake provenances? Handling stolen goods? Benefiting from the sales? How could they explain that away? The only problem was Forster, but Winterton did a fine job of persuading him that he was just as guilty and more likely to go to jail if anyone said anything. Fine for as long as Forster thought it was an isolated incident.

“As I say, Winterton built a lucrative clandestine career on it, and recycled the money into legitimate picture dealing. Did very nicely too, once he’d worked out who were the richest clients with the smallest scruples. He’s a prig and a snob, but he’s no fool either.

“Unlike Forster who, once he’d started, didn’t know when to stop. He pushed too far, asking for this house and everything. He knew she was ill, and he had a vision of himself as Lord of Weller or something. Always a climber. Now, Veronica was crazy, but not that mad: and he attacked her in the one area where she would fight back—her family pride. She was determined to preserve Weller in the Beaumont family, even if that was me.

“So she dug in her heels, and told him to do his worst. Forster says he will do just that. Veronica realizes he means it and she reaches for the pills as the only way of stopping him. That’s one interpretation.”

“What’s another?”

“That Veronica decides to give herself up, confess all and denounce Forster as a blackmailer. And that Forster murders her.”

“Is that likely?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s all a bit too much like a Victorian melodrama, really.”

“Why, then, did you revive it all? I assume it was you who prompted Fancelli to call in the Italian police?”

“Absolutely not. That wasn’t the idea at all.”

“So what did happen?”

She sighed wearily, then nodded sadly. “I was always on the outside of the family; I knew Veronica was a bit loopy, but never exactly how much. She died, I inherited this place, and realized the finances were catastrophic. So I decided to cut back, and the biggest—and pleasantest—saving was to get rid of Geoffrey Forster. And I got a little visit. It was the first I’d heard of any of it. At first I just laughed and said I didn’t believe him. He suggested I go and ask Winterton. I did, and Winterton told me the whole story.

“It was a bit of a shock, as you can imagine. I inherit a stately home, and find that what I’ve really inherited is a rundown money sink kept afloat by thieving lunatics, up to its eyes in debt, pursued by the taxman and being blackmailed into the ground as well. I mean, Jesus. What a bloody mess.

“The trouble was knowing whether Forster really had enough proof. Winterton figured out who might have known something which would back him up, and the riskiest two characters—apart from himself—were Fancelli and Sandano. It wasn’t certain if they knew anything, but it was important to find out. So, he visited them and made sure that, if asked, they would deny anything about Veronica and say that they thought Forster was the thief; and I went through all the papers here and destroyed any embarrassing ones. And there were quite a lot, believe me.”

“But Forster still had the vital evidence in the safe deposit box,” Flavia said, fascinated by the story now.

“Yes. And we still didn’t know what it was. Which was why Winterton also got statements signed by Fancelli and Sandano saying more or less what they told you—that they knew Forster was a thief and had stolen these two pictures.

“He had statements indicating Veronica was a thief; we had statements saying he was. So I offered Forster a draw: his documents for my documents and a lump sum to show there were no hard feelings.”

“This was the deal he told his wife about?”

“I assume so. I’d scraped away and raised the money and got the documents ready and was just waiting for a final few thousand to be credited to my account. All we were waiting for was Forster’s agreement.”

“So what happened?”

“Then all hell broke loose, because of that stupid woman Fancelli. She was rather taken with the idea of saying Forster had stolen the Uccello, you see, once the subject was raised. And after thirty years, she saw a means of getting her revenge.”

“Hold it. Forster was the father of her child?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. That was all true. And behaved abominably, I gather. His child takes after him, as well.”

“He wasn’t paying for the nursing home?”

She shook her head. “I am. Or rather Winterton is. A fair exchange for her statement. Where was I?”

“Fancelli’s revenge.”

“Oh, yes. Anyway, the trouble was that she wanted to do it before she died—Winterton said she was in a bad way, and I imagine that is what triggered it. So she gave the police a prod to start things off, and in due course Jonathan telephones Forster.

“Difficult. Especially as Forster thought that we were double-crossing him. I managed to persuade him that the best thing was to do the deal and destroy everything as fast as possible. Make sure there was nothing to investigate. So that wild allegations from a daft old woman and a confessed thief remained just that.

“And, as the situation had arisen, I confess I used it. He didn’t have much time. He had to make up his mind. Did he accept or not? I put as much pressure on him as possible. I don’t mind saying, I was getting a little panicky myself by then. I like a quiet, tranquil life, and this isn’t.

“Anyway, eventually Forster saw my reasoning. I was due to go round to his house at ten with my evidence and a check. We’d do a swap.”

“And things went badly wrong?”

“Disastrously. I found Geoffrey on the foot of the stairs, stone dead. I was absolutely petrified. God only knows how long I stood there. But eventually I decided I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and stepped over him. I went up the stairs, took the packet of papers, and left the way I’d come.”

“And destroyed them?”

“Of course, yes. Immediately.”

“And that’s it?”

“Until Jonathan started going through his papers and found the inventory and started fussing through the pictures. There was always a chance something else might be in there as well. So I persuaded Jessica that it was in her interest to incinerate the rest of his papers, just to be on the safe side.”

“So who did kill Forster after all that?”

She shrugged. “Did anybody?”

“Yes,” said a disappointed Argyll. “You know that.”

There was a long silence here, as Argyll gave her the opportunity to speak. He wasn’t entirely certain whether he should intervene or not, but knew that sooner or later it would come out. So he might as well get it over as fast as possible. As Mary still wasn’t saying anything, he did.

“And so do I,” he went on. “I heard you. In the church.”

“What do you mean, Jonathan?”

“George Barton killed him. I heard him say so. In the vestry. He said he was pleased about it, didn’t feel bad about it at all and that Forster deserved it for the way he’d treated everybody.”

Mary Verney was giving him the sort of look you reserve for house guests who have been caught out slipping spoons into their pockets, feeding the dog too many chocolates and making it throw up on the Persian rug. Argyll gave her an apologetic smile.

“What could I say?” he asked plaintively.

She softened her gaze a little, then relaxed. “I know. Duty, right?”

“Before we get into the finer nuances of etiquette here, can I ask whether it is true or not?”

She reluctantly nodded. “I decided I’d have a little chat with him after what Sally told me. I thought it fitted, and feared the worst. Alas, I was right. He has a violent temper when he’s got a drink in him. It was all a complete accident. Sweet as pie when sober. You heard about Forster wanting him out of his cottage?”

“Yes. So?”

She sighed a little, then explained. Simple enough. George had gone to Forster’s asking him to be reasonable. Forster had virtually thrown him out. George went off and drank too much, worked himself into a fury and came back for a second go.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm, but apparently he just followed Forster up the stairs, pulled him by the arm, overdid it, and Forster went tumbling down and fell awkwardly.

“Of course, this is all speculation on my part. George has never actually said to me that he did it. His daughter will swear blind he was there all evening—as I gather she already has. And if asked, I would say I would find it quite a ridiculous idea. Not a word from me.”

“What about justice? Law and order?”

She shrugged. “Who am I to talk about that in current circumstances? To hell with all of it. I like George. What good would sticking him in prison do?”

“Isn’t that for a court to decide?”

“I think that I will very arrogantly take the decision myself, and save everybody a lot of time and trouble.”

“But…”

“No,” she said firmly. “No buts. My mind is made up. Do as you wish about me. But I will not give evidence against poor George. And I have a feeling that, without my help, there won’t be nearly enough evidence to do anything.”

“Poor George snapped someone’s neck. Then went off and left him,” Flavia said a little angrily. “And you’re not really concerned?”

“Not hugely.”

The room lapsed into silence after this pronouncement.

“So what happens to me now?”

“Obstruction of justice on innumerable occasions, at the very least, I imagine. Conspiracy as well.”

“Told you inheriting this place was a mistake,” Mary said sadly. “Life was so easy and simple before. Bloody family. I am sorry for having caused you so much trouble. All I was trying to do was get out of a hole dug by other people.” Both her visitors looked at her sympathetically.

“I imagine Winterton will no more admit having had anything to do with selling the pictures than George will admit to having been in Forster’s house,” Argyll said gloomily. “You only know the whereabouts of one picture taken by Giotto, and Forster stole all the evidence of where it came from. And Mary here has just destroyed it. You might find something eventually, but it would be looking for a needle in a haystack. You certainly won’t get anything useful in time for Bottando’s meeting tomorrow.”

Another silence as Flavia contemplated how very correct he was.

“Doesn’t look good, does it?” he went on remorselessly, vocalizing her own thoughts.

“What do you mean?”

“No pictures back out of thirty or more on the list. Nothing solid about Winterton except for the possibility that Sandano might agree to identify him, and who would believe Sandano, anyway? No murderer of Forster.

“And, worst of all, you have to announce that the sublime master thief Giotto was in reality nothing but a loony old lady. Once Argan puts it around that Bottando’s been chasing a total nutter down every false trail set for him he’ll be the laughing stock of policedom. He won’t stand a chance, poor old soul.”

“I know. But what do you expect me to do about it?”

“Does Winterton know where all these pictures went?”

“Must do,” Mary said. “That doesn’t mean he’ll tell you.”

“He must know that something will turn up sooner or later, if people keep looking hard enough. Whereas, if he was offered a cast-iron guarantee that the case would be closed forever…?”

“Jonathan,” Flavia said impatiently, “what is your point?”

“You’re the one who keeps on telling me that it’s often perfectly justifiable to cut corners a little bit. And Bottando always goes on about how you’re in business to recover pictures, first and foremost,” he said diffidently.

“He does say that, yes.”

“So maybe that’s what you should do?”

She knew perfectly well what he was getting at. He was thinking exactly the things she was trying to avoid considering. That was the trouble of living with someone. She could, with an effort, subdue her own efforts towards self-preservation. She couldn’t stop his as well.

So he explained himself, in a hesitant fashion to start off with, then more forcibly as he grew increasingly convinced that it was the only sensible way of proceeding. By the time he’d won his case, another hour or so had gone past. Then Mary Verney quickly drove Flavia to Norwich to get the last train to London. They left in such a rush that Flavia left behind most of her clothes. Argyll promised to bring them back with him.

At the station, she gave Argyll a quick kiss. “See you in a few days,” she said. “And thanks for the advice; I don’t think I could have done this without you. I take it back about your not being sufficiently ruthless. Between us, I think we’ve just cut enough corners to last a lifetime.”

The meeting took place in the conference room of the ministry, and a sombre affair it was. About fifteen people in all were there to witness the public goring of Bottando and his sacrifice on the altar of streamlined efficiency. Many attended with reluctance; several liked Bottando and thought well of him. Several more were merely glad it was him and not them. Far more disliked Argan and what he represented.

But none of these could do much, and on the whole were unwilling to try. Standing up for a colleague was one thing. But enough of Argan’s complaints had been circulated to make them think that this time Bottando was in trouble. If you want to fight back, you have to choose the best possible battlefield. And the old guard had collectively decided to conserve its strength for a more auspicious occasion.

The moment Bottando walked into the room, with a very nervous Flavia with him, he knew she was the only person on his side. And she wasn’t going to be much use. She was completely worn out, what with rushing down to London, and a long, hard bargaining session with Winterton which took three hours before he agreed to cooperate; then the flight back to Rome passing the time by anguishing about whether she was doing the right thing, and finally a rapid briefing of Bottando to give him some ammunition. She did all the talking; a remarkably calm Bottando did little but listen carefully, thank her, then bundle her into the car. The meeting, he explained, had been brought forward.

It was opened by the minister, a drab, if inoffensive man who was much too frail of spirit to go against the advice of his civil servants once they made up their minds. At least he kept things vague, a vocal washing of the hands which indicated that, whatever happened, he hoped no one was going to think he was in any way responsible for it. Next, routine business was gone through, and as a sort of warm-up session, an extraordinary argument broke out over a trivial matter of accounting procedure which did little except indicate how keyed up everybody was.

And then it was Argan’s turn, mild, quiet and all the more dangerous for it.

He started off slowly, on structural matters, gradually drawing the attention of the meeting to the way decisions were taken in the department and how Bottando was ultimately responsible for them. He then went through the statistics on the number of crimes and the number of recoveries and arrests. Even Bottando could hardly put his hand on his heart and say they were good.

“Numbing and meaningless figures,” Argan went on carelessly. “And I hope that I can make the problem clearer by referring to some particular incidents. In the past couple of weeks there have been several crimes of varying seriousness and not a single one has been cleared up or even investigated competently. General Bottando will no doubt tell you that they could not be cleared up in such a short time. That art crimes need to ripen before they are ready for harvest. For generations, if necessary.

“I do not believe that. I believe that a properly organized and focused approach would have a much higher success rate. Strike while the iron is hot. That should be the watchword.

“It is clearly not the motto of the department as it is currently run. When an Etruscan site of major importance is looted. General Bottando sends off one of his girls to talk to some old woman with a grudge about a thirty-year-old crime. When a gallery in the via Giulia is raided, is it investigated? No; the same girl hares off instead to talk to a convicted criminal about some cock and bull story. The crimes and the thefts mount up and off we go to England, where any nonsense is chased after.

“And why? Because the General has a pet theory. For years now, despite all the evidence of how organized crime is responsible for much of art theft, and despite the fact that routine technology is demonstrably superior. General Bottando has been obsessed with an outmoded, romantic notion. In brief, he believes in the master criminal, the shadowy figure who roams free and undetected. Nobody else even suspects the existence of this person, of course. Not a single policeman throughout Europe agrees with him. All common sense screams it is complete nonsense. But, by using entirely spurious reasoning, you can prove anything—and as a former art historian, believe me I know.”

A little jest, Bottando thought absently. He is confident. But then, of course, so he should be. He is using exactly the same techniques. He knows as well as I do that I never believed in Giotto. He knows that I hadn’t even thought about it for years. He knows that Flavia saw Sandano for only a few minutes. And he knows, above all, that it would never have gone any further if he hadn’t turned his attention on it and started manipulating. The slug.

And Argan was still talking, referring to the dangers of applying spurious theories to inadequate evidence, of wasting police effort as a result. Discipline, he was saying. Rigorous, coordinated control to keep attention focused where it was most needed. Times of economic stringency. No room in the modern world for the hunch, the flying-by-the-seat-of-the-pants approach. Need to conserve police—should he say the taxpayers?— resources. Value for money. Cost-effectiveness. Productivity. Authority. Goal-oriented. Accountability.

Not a single buzzword left unused, not a single soft spot unprodded. Argan finished by saying all the right things; the civil servants positively glowed as he trotted out all the watchwords of their trade. They were lost to Bottando’s cause anyway, probably. But even the policemen present looked uncomfortable. And they were the ones he was going to have to win back. Flavia, who deeply resented every word the man had said, especially the cracks about silly girls, glowered menacingly from her subordinate position at the end of the table, using up all her willpower to stop herself from going over and hitting him.

“General?” said the minister with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid you have had to listen to a fairly critical account of your department. I’m sure you would like to reply.”

“I suppose so,” Bottando said, leaning forward in his chair, taking out his reading glasses and perching them on the end of his nose so he could peer round the table in a more magisterial fashion. “And I must say I am rather sad that Dottore Argan, after spending so much time in the department, appears to have formed such a low opinion of the way we go about things.

“I have tried to tell him that the department was set up to defend the national heritage and recover it where possible. On several occasions where there has been a conflict between catching a criminal and recovering an important work, we have always been instructed to do the latter. The attention we give is directly related to this; in the case of the Etruscan site robbery, an assault was committed and the case was taken up by the Carabinieri: we offered assistance and were told it wasn’t necessary.”

“Petty bureaucratic demarcation dispute. Surely we are beyond that sort of thing by now?” Argan muttered darkly.

“Naturally,” Bottando went on, “we kept our ears open nonetheless, using the networks of information that have been built up over the years. The human element of detection which, if I may be so bold, no computer will ever supplant.”

Argan snorted. “And what did it produce?”

Bottando sighed as he thought about the comment. Then, not able to say anything which would answer the question adequately, he leant over and picked up a box stationed by his side. Slowly, piece by piece, he took out the contents and handed them around.

“Thirty-nine Etruscan figurines,” he said, watching carefully as they circulated around the table. “Picked up this morning from underneath the bed of a little old lady in Viterbo.”

There was a pause at this small piece of theatre before Argan recovered himself.

“I hope they will be returned to their rightful owners quickly,” Argan said. “We all know about your tendency to decorate your office with stolen goods.”

Bottando beamed at him. “They will be, when all the paperwork is done. But I would like to put it on record now that I do rather resent the waste of time this little case involved. I mean, had Dottore Argan’s brother-in-law paid the looters who stole the antiquities from the site for him in the first place, they would not have felt morally justified in raiding his gallery to get them back. Honour among thieves, you know.”

Bottando stole a quick glance around the room. A hit, he thought to himself, as he noticed the disapproving stares in Argan’s direction. Argan was not smiling.

“Told you,” he said in a whisper to Flavia. “Never attack an old lion till you’re sure his teeth are gone.

“Now, the more important matter of the case called Giotto,” he went on more loudly, brushing aside Flavia as she tapped him on the arm and whispered urgently that she needed a little word with him outside. Not now, Flavia, he thought. I’m enjoying myself.

“As Dottore Argan has remarked, this was for a long time only a string of vague suppositions on my part. I — my department—followed routine procedure. Unsolved crimes are reviewed at periodic intervals to see if they can be matched with new and apparently unrelated evidence. This process is where, if I may say so, experience comes in once more. To spot the possibility and to interrogate it. To see the shape of a crime. May I point out that, although Dottore Argan had full access to the original file and I understand studied it carefully, he failed to see any possibilities to be exploited.

“My experience,” he said loftily, “and the practical skill of Signorina di Stefano here, did see those possibilities.”

For some reason Signorina di Stefano was looking more distraught than proud at this tribute. She did so much wish she could get him to shut up. He’d won. Did he really need to go for total victory?

He did.

“What Dottore Argan sneered at, we looked into. What he dismissed immediately as a tissue of nonsense, we followed up and pursued. And what Dottore Argan would have consigned to the wastepaper basket, we brought to a conclusion which, I do not mind saying, I am happy to count as the most considerable of my career. If my running of the department is to be judged, then I am more than content that it should be on this case.”

This bold statement produced a nice effect; it is, after all, quite rare in the world of bureaucracy that people go so far out on a limb with such unconditional claims. Flavia, still nervous, examined the top of the table, and fiddled with her pen.

“As for the man I labelled Giotto and of whose existence Dottore Argan is sceptical, I am now in a position to add substance to my original theory. His name was Geoffrey Arnold Forster, and we can prove it. His identity was discovered because we listened to crooks and senile old women, and because we have the skill and experience to know when they are telling the truth and when they are lying.”

Proof? He went on as the questions erupted. Of course. Even if you disapproved of Sandano, there was the testimony of Signora Fancelli; Flavia had forgotten to tell him about the circumstances of its production. The statement of Arthur Winterton who, Bottando said, was renowned throughout the international art world as a dealer of the highest integrity. The testimony of Mary Verney that Forster had claimed to be selling pictures through Weller. Confirmation by Jonathan Argyll that he had not done so. His possible murder of Veronica Beaumont when she discovered how he was using the family name to trade in illegal paintings and had questioned him. The fact that his wife had burnt his papers in order to destroy evidence of his dealings. Finally, the possibility that he was himself murdered on the orders of a discontented client—although this was unlikely ever to be proven, due to the fact that it was in the hands of the English police who lacked a long-established Art Squad to investigate with skill.

Bottando paused for dramatic effect and to see how this was going down. They were all shifting uncertainly in their seats, unprepared for his vigorous self-defence. Argan, however, was looking a little relaxed once more, as he knew that so far Bottando had not produced the proof he had claimed. He was preparing to counterattack. Bottando waited until the man was licking his lips with anticipation, then smiled sweetly at him, and took out a piece of paper.

“And, above all, there is this,” he went on, putting the sheet on the table and glancing at it reverentially. He let it lie there for at least half a second, the room in silence, so that all present, even the dimmest, knew that the moment of climax was coming.

“Found in his files, again by one of my people. And what is it?” he asked rhetorically, peering around the room as though he expected hands to be raised. He shook his head as though ‘twas a mere bagatelle. All in a day’s routine.

“Just a list of his clients,” he said airily. “The paintings they bought. And the places they were stolen from. That’s all. Not complete, probably, but in my opinion one of the single greatest finds in the history of art theft. Nineteen works, twelve stolen from Italy alone, and painted by Uccello, Martini, Pollaiuolo, Masaccio, Bellini and many others. All on my list of deeds done by Giotto’s hand, in whose existence Dottore Argan refused to believe. In themselves a major collection of which any museum would be very proud. We know where they are, and we can probably get many of them back. Their identification is,” he said firmly, glancing around and daring anyone to contradict him, “a triumph for my entire department.”

Perhaps he went on a little remorselessly towards the end, but he was determined to leave nothing in doubt. He handed round the list which Flavia had bargained out of Winterton the evening before, so that all could look and admire. And as they examined, Bottando developed his variations on a theme of expertise and experience, on the dangers of thinking real life could be reduced to a flowchart of administrative responsibilities: on the need for long-term continuity, not constant change to keep up with the latest fad and fashion. On how police work is hard and time-consuming and could not be had on the cheap. On the need to be dispassionate, and not to end up defending crooks because you are related to them.

And above all, on the need for absolute and total dedication and integrity and honesty. This last with a glance in Argan’s direction.

All delivered in a gentle, regretful, calm tone, and sheer music to the ears of the police members of the committee, who were regarding him almost with veneration by the time he’d finished. The mood of the meeting was entirely reversed. Now it was Argan’s natural allies who found themselves unable to look steadily in his direction. They would be back, advocating reform, in due course. But they were not going to be shot to pieces defending a man who had so rashly led them into an ambush.

Bottando’s vote of confidence was unanimous. Oddly, only Flavia still seemed unhappy. It must be the strain of it all, Bottando thought. It would take her a few days to recover, and for it to sink in what an extraordinary job she’d done.

Even Argan congratulated him on a fine piece of work. Bottando almost felt sorry for him.

Well, not really.