Giotto's Hand

17

Bottando’s triumph was Jonathan Argyll’s nightmare. When Flavia left him at Norwich railway station, he’d been feeling quite content. He had, in his opinion, given good, if unorthodox, advice, the result of thinking through a process in a fashion that would end up to everyone’s advantage. He had been quick, ruthless and decisive as recommended by all and sundry. He felt a little uncomfortable with this new and thrusting persona, but had no doubts that he would get used to it. Now all that remained was to transfer it to his job as a dealer and everything would be delightful. Soon he would have to talk to Mary Verney about the Leonardo. The mood lasted all the way back to Weller House, accompanied him to bed and sent him off to an exceptionally good sleep.

It did not, however, last very long in the morning; survived until he was halfway through his morning egg, in fact, at which point Mary Verney stuck her head through the door and summoned him to the telephone.

“Inspector Manstead,” she said. “Wants to say hello.”

Manstead, being a courteous man, had rung solely for the purpose of thanking Argyll for his assistance, and to tell him how enormously impressed he was, by Flavia’s deductive skills.

“I never really believed Forster was a thief, you know,” he confessed. “Just goes to show how wrong you can be. I doubt we’ll ever figure out how he died,” he said. “But that list of pictures you found is dynamite. A pity you didn’t notice it the first time you looked through his desk. But at least you had the gumption to look again.”

“Ah, yes,” Argyll said. “I left my pen behind. In the desk. I was just getting it back.”

“Amazing piece of luck it wasn’t burnt with all the rest of the papers. That damned wife of his. If it wasn’t for Flavia’s plea for clemency I’d nail Jessica Forster to the wall, the time she wasted.”

“Mercy is a fine thing,” Argyll said. “She suffered enough living with him, I think.”

“True. And she’s all but penniless, I gather. God only knows where Forster’s money went. He must have netted a packet from all the things he nicked.”

“Someone said something about gambling,” Argyll offered.

“Did they?” Manstead said in surprise. “I’d not heard that. I suppose that’s art dealers’ gossip, is it?”

“That sort of thing.”

“It’s not really important. If we recover the Pollaiuolo, that will be more than sufficient reward. I mean, we knew where it was, but now we have more indication that it was knowingly bought as a stolen painting it’ll be easier to get it back.”

“Was that on the list?” Argyll said with a sudden lurching feeling in his stomach as a penny dropped and clattered around somewhere at the bottom of his stomach.

“Of course. Why?”

“Nothing. Just that I didn’t notice. Too excited, I suppose. Tell me, was the Uccello on it as well?”

“Of course. The first one. Didn’t you read it at all? You must have been in a real daze.”

“Yes. A daze. That’s about it.”

His good mood dissipating fast as little details swept through his mind, laughing at him, he went back more sombrely to his half-cold egg. What had gone wrong? It was quite possible that he could make a mistake, but he didn’t believe that Flavia would have done. After all, she was good at this sort of thing. But of course, she was relying unusually heavily on information he had gathered. Left to her own devices, she would have made the connections. But as Argyll hadn’t detailed his burrowing in the Weller House archives, or his trips around graveyards, how could she possibly put the pieces together?

Still, maybe it was just a figment of his imagination, he told himself as he stared moodily at the toast. And maybe not, he added a few moments later when he opened and read a letter that the postman had delivered while he was on the phone. It delivered the coup de grâce.

It was from Lucy Garton, reporting that Italy Alex had finally taken a long lunch after an unprecedented period of devotion to duty, and she had grasped the opportunity to rummage through his files. It was not a happy letter. Peeved, in fact, as she reported that, despite Argyll’s firm belief, Geoffrey Forster had not sold any Italian paintings through her auction house.

Argyll more or less knew this by now, of course, so it came as no great shock. What did surprise him a little was the indignant announcement that in fact Forster had sold four pictures in the last couple of years and they had all been English. More to the point, one was attributed as being from the Weller House collection and it had been assessed by Lucy herself. She would stake her reputation on the assertion that it was, indeed, what he had said it was, and enclosed the auction catalogue to prove it. What, exactly was all this about, she went on? How was she supposed to win much-deserved promotion if Argyll didn’t deliver the goods? Did he realize how much that meal was going to cost him now?

Argyll looked at the indicated spot of the catalogue, and cursed the day he’d ever thought of going to see the damned woman. She had ringed lot forty-seven. A portrait, school of Kneller of Margaret Dunstan-Beaumont, sold for £1,250, provenance Weller House. A photocopied receipt for the sale was signed by Veronica Beaumont.

He shook his head in virtual disbelief. How could he have missed it? That bloody drawing had confused him, that was the reason, he thought. And it was just a question of simple arithmetic, really. Margaret Dunstan-Beaumont had died in 1680 at the age of sixty. Kneller had begun work in England in the mid-1670s. Therefore a Kneller portrait of Margaret Dunstan-Beaumont would have to show a woman of at least fifty-five.

His mind reeling with alarm as the implications came sweeping in on him, he walked down to the dining room and looked at the painting said to be of her with far more attention. It was filthy and still dark. Nonetheless, try as he might, there was no way he could persuade himself that it was the portrait of a fifty-year-old woman. The sitter was no more than twenty-five at best. So he looked closer, and even wetted his finger and rubbed it on the canvas.

Oh, you idiot, he thought miserably as the dirt thinned a little. It is a young woman. You don’t even need to clean it to see that. You even know what it is. You saw it on the wall of Bottando’s office a couple of years ago. Never again, he thought bitterly, will I think that good visual recall is a blessing.

He knew he should ring Flavia immediately, but also knew that, if he did turn out to be wrong, then his constant changing his mind would make Bottando seem like a complete fool. And his confidence about his ability to be right on anything was dwindling fast. On the other hand, if he was finally right, then this whole risky subterfuge that he’d recommended was unnecessary, if not worse. What should he do? Suddenly he felt his old self again, and the thrusting and dynamic alter ego withered and vanished. Damn good thing, considering how much trouble its brief appearance had caused.

To postpone the decision as long as possible, he walked to the bedroom and examined his beloved drawing once more, no longer the neglected orphan but now revealed as a prince in disguise. Now he knew the author, he was disappointed in himself for not having recognized the style the moment he first clapped eyes on it. The broad, confident and assured strokes of the pencil, the subtle way in which light and shade were merely suggested by a stroke here and there, the completeness of the whole thing. But it wasn’t the same: he had loved it; now he also knew that it was Leonardo, and had a watertight provenance traceable back to the artist’s pencil, he was merely awed by it.

He decided to give himself another half hour. Then he would make up his mind.

Forty-five minutes later, he concluded, reluctantly, that he had no choice. Flavia would have to know the full and complete truth. He could not, in good conscience, do anything other. It would be very difficult, but not disastrous as long as she got to Bottando before he started talking to the committee.

“Jonathan, it was awful,” she burbled down the phone before he could even finish saying hello.

“He’s already done it? I thought it was at four?”

“Brought forward.”

“Oh, my God! He told them the whole thing? About Forster being Giotto? He didn’t have any qualms about it?”

“Why should he have any qualms?”

There was a long pause as Argyll digested this.

“You mean you didn’t tell him?” he asked, rocking in anguished astonishment. “He went in to deliver this story about Forster not knowing it was entirely fictitious?”

“I didn’t have time,” she said a little defensively.

“As I say, it was brought forward. And I knew he would have balked at the idea anyway. The damnable thing is that it wasn’t necessary. Bottando had already nobbled Argan. He proved that his brother-in-law was handling stolen goods and raiding archaeological sites. He didn’t need all that stuff on Forster we concocted. So I should never have listened to you in the first place.”

“Well,” said Argyll defensively. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know. I’m sorry. And there’s no harm done, I suppose.”

“You do get some pictures back. I thought that was the most important thing.”

“In theory. And I suppose it was worth it. Veronica is dead, and we couldn’t get Winterton anyway, so it’s not as if we were letting anyone off the hook.”

There was a long pause as Argyll tried to stop his head spinning. “Oh. Well. Just as well then. But what if the, um, truth ever seeps out?”

“I don’t see why it should. I’m going to be in charge of writing the reports and the current owners aren’t going to go out of their way to advertise what happened. Nor will Mary or Winterton, if they have any sense.”

“What about the other pictures?”

“Which other pictures?”

“The ones Bottando had on his list that Winterton didn’t own up to? What about them? The Vélasquez, for example?”

“Pouf! I suppose he was wrong. I can’t see that she did that one. I mean, Bottando isn’t infallible. He was only guessing, a lot of the time.”

“Ah. That’s all right, then.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I’m leaving for London in a few hours. I just have one or two details to clear up.”

“Well, hurry home. Bottando wants to take us both out for a celebration.”

By the time he’d cleaned up his room and packed his bag and made ready to go, he decided that the only person who could offer any form of useful advice was Mary Verney. If anyone was going to know what he should do, she was the one.

He found her in the sitting room, the only comfortable room in the bloody place, as she called it, curled up on a vast Victorian armchair, reading a book.

“Jonathan, dear,” she said, looking up with a smile and taking her reading glasses off. “Are you about to leave me?”

“I think so, yes.”

“What’s the matter, darling? You look dreadfully anxious.”

“A problem. I was wondering…”

“You want to ask me? How flattering. Of course. Go ahead. What is it? I can’t guarantee to be much use. though. I’m still quite flustered from yesterday. Too much excitement.”

Sweet as ever, but this time Argyll didn’t react so warmly. He was too preoccupied. “There are little anomalies, you see.” he said. “Holes in the evidence.”

“Dear me. Can you let me in on the secret! Tell me what they are?”

Despite himself. Argyll smiled at last. She was a very easy woman to like. That was part of the trouble. “Oh. yes. I think maybe you’re just the person to tell. Maybe even the only one.”

“I am fascinated.” she said. “But I’m also thirsty. Whatever it is, I’m sure it will sound better with a gin in hand. I do hope your problems are not so serious that they’ve turned you into a teetotaller.”

Argyll nodded his assent, and she poured a brace of her habitually vast drinks, then he waited while she went down to the kitchen and got some ice and lemon.

“So,” she said as she finally sat down again and turned her full attention on to him. “Your anomalies. Why do they make you so furrowed of brow?”

He took a gulp at his gin. “Because they mean you have not been entirely truthful,” he said more apologetically than was strictly warranted.

There was a long pause and she studied him with perplexed concern. “But you know that,” she said after a while.

“I mean, we end up feeling sorry for you and work out a way of retrieving the situation so you don’t have to suffer because of your relations,” he went on, following his own thoughts.

“Which was appreciated,” she replied. “And it was to Flavia’s own advantage as much as mine.”

“So I thought. But then I find out you’re lying again.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

He shook his head almost angrily. “No, I haven’t. You’ve never been lost. And the fact that it’s all my fault just makes it worse.”

“Meaning?”

“I liked you. So I wasn’t paying attention. And Flavia was in a hurry and allowed me to push her against her instincts and better judgement. So it’s all my fault, you see.”

She looked at him oddly, and suggested he got to the point.

“If your story is true, then cousin Veronica must have stolen all the pictures in the list Winterton handed over. Otherwise, how would he have known where they were now?”

“True. Have an olive?”

“No, thank you. Now. If there were pictures on the list which she didn’t steal, couldn’t possibly have stolen, then your explanation yesterday becomes inadequate.”

“I’m still not with you, my love, but go on anyway. I’m sure you’ll make sense soon.”

“Two pictures she couldn’t possibly have stolen were very much on the list.”

“Extraordinary.”

The Uccello, to start with. Supposedly stolen by her while she was at that finishing school. Except she wasn’t. She never went anywhere near della Quercia’s. Of course she didn’t.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because she was married by then. Her husband died at their fifth wedding anniversary party. His gravestone says that was 1966. Therefore they were married in 1961. You don’t go to a finishing school to find a husband if you’ve already got one. I mean, that’s silly. You don’t have fastidious snobs like della Quercia calling you Miss Beaumont if you are Mrs. Finsey-Groat, nor saying how you married someone awfully suitable later. And judging by how people talk about cousin Veronica, you don’t have the old bat reminiscing about how nice you are either. She wasn’t sent there to find a husband. You were.”

“Hmm.”

“Then there’s the Pollaiuolo.”

“I thought that nice Inspector Manstead had established she was on the guest list.”

“He did, and she was. But she didn’t go. She couldn’t have because she was, in fact, opening the fête here. 10th July, 1976. A Saturday, and obviously the second Saturday in the month. The traditional day of the fête. Which she never missed. So I looked it up. She got a good write-up in the parish magazine. A charming and gracious speech over the tombola stands. As George said, she never missed a single one.”

“Amazing.”

“And finally there is the little matter of the theft of the Vélasquez portrait of Francesca Arunta. Taken two months after Veronica had a stroke. Frankly, the vision of her hobbling through the streets with a Vélasquez tied to her Zimmer frame is too much to countenance.”

“Is that on the list?”

“Not on the list Winterton provided. Flavia discounted it because there was no real evidence who took it, even though it was on Bottando’s list of Giotto’s greatest hits.”

“So Bottando was wrong and Flavia is right, then,” Mary suggested kindly. “She obviously can’t have stolen that, can she?”

“My point exactly.”

“So?”

“So what is it doing in your dining room?”

“Ah,” she said. “A good point. I must say, that one is a bit difficult to answer. What conclusions do you draw from all this?”

“Simple enough. Forster wasn’t Giotto. And cousin Veronica wasn’t Giotto. But you are.”

“And what do you expect me to say to that?” she said with a bright laugh.

“I expect you to look faintly amused, and ask how it was that I could come to such an entertaining but, alas, erroneous conclusion.”

“No, I won’t do that. But I will point out a problem with your basic premise. Why would I risk an investigation on my own doorstep, when doing nothing would mean that police attention would never head in my direction? What sort of sense does that make?”

“It makes perfect sense, although the implications are upsetting.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your cousin gets wind of something fishy. She doesn’t know what to do, so she asks Forster, who has assisted the family in the past. He looks hard, and eventually produces proof that your money is more than a little dodgy. Nails it down just after you’d stolen the Vélasquez.

“She confronts you with it. And dies. I don’t think she killed herself, nor do I think Forster killed her. You murder her because she has found out about you. You slip her the extra pills and leave her.

“Forster’s mistake is to try to blackmail you, rather than going straight to the police. You decide to murder him as well at the appropriate moment.

“But before you do that, you have to make sure that you can get your hands on whatever evidence he might have accumulated. So, instead of that nonsense about Fancelli telling the police against your wishes, you actually tell her to go to the police, to stir Forster up.

“It works very nicely. The moment I talk to him, he makes an appointment to see me and goes out to get his evidence. Winterton tells you the bait has been taken, you go down, kill him and take it all away.

“And George Barton’s confession? You heard it, after all.”

“George Barton didn’t say anything about killing him. The whole conversation could just as easily have been about how he’d seen you coming out of Forster’s house that evening. Because he likes you, and didn’t like Forster, he was telling you he wouldn’t say anything.”

“And hasn’t.”

“No. And probably won’t. This is an extraordinary tight-lipped place. Anyway, Forster’s dead, you’ve destroyed the evidence, and you think you’re in the clear. Until you realize that we are looking for more evidence. So you do the next best thing: you bum his papers, in the hope we’ll stick with Forster, and as a fall-back you keep on dropping hints here and there about your crazy cousin. Not knowing how she kept the place going with so little money. Going on fugues. Interested in art. Dr. Johnson said she stole things, but he also said that you told him that.

“And all along, right in front of our noses, there is the reason: the Vélasquez stolen from Milan a couple of years back; waiting, I assume, to be collected.”

Mary Verney gave a heavy sigh, and looked at him sadly. “I am sorry, Jonathan,” she said eventually after debating how to approach the issue and then deciding that there was little point in being anything but straightforward. “You must be feeling quite dreadfully abused.”

This was the trouble. Not only was she a thief and a murderer, he had just proven it. Morally, at least. But she was still charming and he still liked her. Damn the woman.

“That is putting it mildly.”

“I suppose you don’t think too highly of me.”

“Two murders, God knows how many thefts, framing Forster and your cousin, manipulating Jessica Forster, lying through your teeth to me and Flavia and the police. I’ve come across people who are better socially adapted. I mean, why? You’re really nice. You have intelligence, and presence…”

“And I could have been an honest woman. Married to someone I didn’t care for, doing a job that bored me, growing old and frightened about not having enough money to retire on, living in a poky little flat somewhere, which was all I had to look forward to after this family of mine had done their worst. Yes. I could have done that. But why the hell should I have done?”

“And instead you chose to steal other people’s property.”

She sniffed. “If you like. So I’m a thief. But I never destroyed anything or took from people who couldn’t afford it. Most of them didn’t even know the value of the paintings I took. They only made a fuss later. I have stolen thirty-one paintings. The nineteen we told you about will soon be back in the hands of their original owners. Of the remainder, one by one they will drift back into the public gaze. In essence, they are borrowed, as all paintings are, really. You cannot own a painting; you are merely its custodian for greater or shorter periods. They all still exist, after all, and many are better looked after than they were before.”

“But property, and legitimate ownership…”

“Oh, Jonathan, really. Stop puffing up like that. Even though I only met you a few days ago, I know you better.”

“Do you indeed?”

“Well enough to know that such statements don’t mean much to you. The Calleone Vélasquez. Do you know where the money came to buy that? Centuries of screwing the peasants, and massacring the natives in South America. The Dunkeld Pollaiuolo, owned by an English aristocrat who’d squeezed Ireland dry for two hundred years. What I do is wrong, I suppose. But at least I don’t pretend I’m a public benefactor.”

“If that’s all there was to it, I would be half inclined to agree with you. But there’s more than that, isn’t there? You killed two people. Don’t you feel guilty about that? Just a little.”

“I’m not happy about it,” she said slightly indignantly. “I’m not a psychopath, you know. But I’ve already told you there’s no point in feeling guilty. Do it, or don’t do it. Simple as that. In their case, I was merely defending myself. They were blackmailers and leeches, who didn’t even have the courage of their own greed. Both of them were content to profit from what I did, but had the gall to sneer, and criticize me for actually doing it. Veronica, the model of noblesse oblige. She ignored me and was vilely rude to me for years. She persuaded Uncle Godfrey not to help my mother when she was dying. She would have nothing to do with me until she heard I had money. Then she was all over me, wanting me to put it into restoring Weller to its former glory.

“She never earned a penny in her life, and didn’t care one jot where I got mine as long as she got her hands on it. I agreed, and kept her afloat. In fact, it was a wonderful way of storing away illicit money. But I did it only on condition that I got this place in return, so that eventually I’d get the money back. My mother liked the place, and so did I. She should have inherited it; I was damned sure I would. I’d already paid for it a couple of times over by the time Veronica died.

“Veronica had no choice, and agreed. But, once she’d got a large infusion of cash, she began to try and get out of it and wanted to give Weller—which would have been sold long since without me—to some cousin. Anything to make sure I didn’t get it.”

“This is when Forster came in?”

“That’s right. The old cow started trying to find some pretext to weasel out of the deal and still keep my money. So she brought in Forster. I suppose she must have realized there was something odd, as I had so much money which seemed to come from nowhere, but she couldn’t pin it down. She explored my past life, people I’d known, and came across Forster, who told her that I’d been up to something in Florence. So she told him to find out more. He did, with the Pollaiuolo. And Veronica summoned me, at the end of the last year, produced his evidence and told me that I’d seen the last of my money. And could forget about Weller, which would go into a trust where I couldn’t touch it.

“She was dying anyway, that’s why she was in a hurry. I thought about it for a bit, then hurried the natural process along a little. That was all. What else could I have done? I was damned if she was going to steal my money before she went.”

“And Forster?”

“He was a piece of scum,” she said thoughtfully, the words contrasting strangely with the soft and melodious voice. “He got Fancelli pregnant and left her. Not him, says he. The girl was a slut. Could have been anyone. The Stragas said that if della Quercia was going to continue associating with them, Fancelli would have to go. Primitive, intolerant times. I felt for her. My own origins weren’t so much more respectable.

“So she was out on her ear. I was appalled. If no one else was going to help her, I would. I’d been sent to Italy to find a husband to get me off their hands. I didn’t want to go to a finishing school to find a husband, for God’s sake. I wanted to look after myself.

“I didn’t have any money to give Fancelli, so I thought it only fair that the Stragas should provide it. They all trooped off to Mass on Sunday at ten on the dot. There was always a side door left open so lunch could be delivered. I slipped in, took the picture and left.

“It was so easy,” she said with a tone of fond nostalgia. “I don’t think they even noticed it had gone for a couple of days. The next stage was to slip it off to an old friend of my mother who sold it. Again, very easy.

“So Forster didn’t take it? That stuff Fancelli said was just lies?”

“He took her to Switzerland, and delivered the parcel for me. I had very carefully sealed it up. He, of course, simply opened it. I gave him some money to shut him up, and the rest to Fancelli. I paid for her to have her kid, just as I’m paying now for her to die. I liked her. So she was prepared to help me.”

“And Forster didn’t try to blackmail you then?”

“He couldn’t. It would have been my word against his. Getting rid of him then was very simple. The whole thing was simple, in fact. As far as I was concerned, what I got out of the Straga episode was the knowledge that stealing paintings is a cinch, if you know what you’re doing. One other lesson: I had a natural alibi. When my thefts were discovered, the police always looked for a man. ‘He must have got in through…’; ‘‘He took the picture off the wall…’ I knew it would never occur to them that a woman was responsible unless I made a bad mistake. I very much regret the feminist movement, you know. It made life more difficult.

“So I went on. The first few solved my financial woes for a while. I came back to England, married Verney and retired. Then the bastard left me with the kids to support. So I decided that full-time art theft was as good an option as any. I learned about art history until the money ran out, worked at an auction house and an insurance company or two as a secretary, slowly built up contacts and got to know Winterton, who I spotted as someone who was unscrupulous, ambitious and—this may sound odd—entirely trustworthy.

“After four years’ patient research, I was ready. I had detailed breakdowns of the whereabouts of paintings in a dozen houses, as well as plans of such security systems as existed and knew which ones had been photographed. It was then merely a question of picking them off, one by one.”

“How much did you get?”

“I was doing quite nicely by then. The art market was going up, of course. Between 1971 and 1975, I netted nearly $600,000; ’75 to ’80, over a million. From then on, I worked to commission, when a specific client had been lined up—and had paid—in advance. One intermediary, who never came into personal contact with the clients either, no assistants. Always smallish paintings, nothing I couldn’t carry easily myself. And I was always very, very careful. If I didn’t like the prospects, I’d hand the money back. And I always insisted on the painting going into hiding for a couple of years so it wouldn’t pop up until the police had stopped looking.”

“Fra Angelico?”

“My only failure and the reason we are sitting here now. I’d got into the house by working as a cleaning lady—a useful way of doing it, by the way. So, of course, I had to stay on afterwards for several months: it would have been too obvious to have disappeared. That was why I had to use that idiot Sandano to get the thing out of the country. Bad mistake. I’d not approached him directly, of course, so there was no danger, but I lost the picture.”

“The Milan Vélasquez?”

“I had to do that, because I’d already been paid for the Fra Angelico. It went wrong, so I offered them an alternative. They insisted on the Vélasquez. I wasn’t happy, because I knew a print had been made which could identify it; it was too well-known for my normal way of doing things. But I wanted the contract off my hands and I wanted to retire. I’m getting much too old for this sort of work. But I insisted it went out of circulation for a couple of years before delivery. When I got Weller, I decided it was a perfect place to put it.”

“Why? Wasn’t that asking for trouble?”

“I had to put it somewhere, and there’s no bigger giveaway than stashing these things in safe deposit boxes. I know bankers aren’t meant to peek. But I did not intend to trust my continued liberty to the promise of a banker. Besides, once I’d hidden the documentation, stuck it in an appropriate frame and dirtied it up, it looked quite convincing. Then I called in the morons from the auction house. They swept through in about half an hour—for which they charged an outrageous sum—and scarcely gave it a second glance.

“So for export purposes I now have certificates from English Heritage, the auctioneers and the Inland Revenue itself saying it is a mock-Kneller scarcely worth £500 due to its poor condition. Perfect. That’s the great virtue of experts: people believe them. But my worries were right. There was a print, and you recognized the picture from it. Even though you did take some time over it.”

“So what happened with Forster?” Argyll asked, brushing aside the criticism of his abilities. “What did he have on you?”

“His account of Florence, documents on the Pollaiuolo and a fair smattering of stuff he’d picked up from comparing auction house records and inventories here. I mean, he couldn’t prove anything about Veronica’s death, but there was enough to link me positively with two thefts. And once an investigation starts… So he wanted me to buy them back.”

“And you killed him instead?”

Mary looked sad that he should have such a low opinion of her. “No, I agreed,” she said reproachfully. “I don’t make a habit of killing people, you know. I agreed. And every time I agreed, he upped the price. I got a million for the picture, with another million on delivery in a month or so. Bargain basement, but what the hell. Forster wanted three million for his grubby bits of paper. He pushed me further than I could go. That was when I lost patience. I went to Fancelli and sent Winterton to Sandano. The police took the bait, you turned up, Forster got his evidence.”

“And you got Forster. Dear God.” Argyll rubbed his face in his hands, and closed his eyes as he digested all this information and realized the enormity of his mistake.

“I’m so sorry, Jonathan,” she said gently. “You must be feeling very badly used. And I can’t blame you. I’ve grown quite fond of you in the past few days; I would much rather it had ended in a different way. But what could I do? You can’t expect me to go to jail just because I like you?”

Argyll nodded silently. He didn’t really know what he thought at the moment.

Mary Verney continued to regard him with what seemed very like genuine sympathy and affection. “The thing is, what are you going to do?”

“Hmm?”

“Be the straight arrow, as our American friends say? Go to Flavia, and tell her what you know? I’m not going to leap at you with an axe or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. There is a difference, you know. Between you and them.”

Argyll sighed. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“So?”

“In different circumstances, I would have happily sought your advice. I had a high opinion of your good sense.”

“Thank you. I can lay out the options, if you like. I’ll be biased, of course, but you can tell how accurate I am.”

“Go on.”

“The upright good citizen approach,” she said briskly. “You go straight off to Manstead. Please sir. Mrs. Verney is a thief. With the Vélasquez and the leads you provide he would certainly get enough to convict me and Winterton. I doubt I would be even charged with the murder of either Forster or Veronica, though. Absolutely no evidence. Zilch; George would never say anything.

“Still, justice gets done: I atone for a misspent life. Splendid. But, for the satisfaction of locking me up for a few years and getting one extra picture, there will be costs. Mainly borne by Flavia who will have to give a very good account for having deceived her own boss, told lies to the English police and, in effect, conspired to pervert the course of justice in a major way. All of which she did on your recommendation, if I remember. She is, I gather, already unhappy about it. You wait till she hears this one.”

Argyll rubbed his eyes and groaned quietly.

“From what you tell me, her boss won’t come out of it too well either, as he’s just told a pack of lies to his superiors,” she went on. “Saying he didn’t know what was going on won’t exactly impress them, and I imagine the man he has just humiliated will be more than ready to take his revenge.”

Argyll looked at her stonily. “Go on.”

“The other option is to take the advice you are so willing to give others. Forget all about me and Forster and Veronica and Winterton and Vélasquez. You have made a mess. You now have the choice of making it worse, or…”

“Or?”

“Or not. Don’t do anything. Forget it.”

He slumped back in the armchair and stared at the ceiling as he thought about this.

“Here,” she said. “Maybe it’s not appropriate any more. But I was going to give you this as a parting present.”

She handed him a box. He unwrapped it, and pulled off the cardboard lid. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, lay a drawing of a hand.

A Leonardo da Vinci. Just what he’d always wanted.

“I suppose we can take the profuse thanks as read on this occasion,” Mary said drily. “But you seemed to like it and it means nothing to me. A token of affection. Not a precious one, I’m afraid, but I hoped it would indicate my pleasure in your company over the last few days. Which was real enough, although I can’t expect you to believe that any more. I’m very sorry it’s gone sour, but I hope you’ll take it anyway. As an apology.”

Argyll looked at her and it sadly. Oh, sod. Of all the times for someone to give him a bloody Leonardo, this was about the worst. This is a nightmare, he thought.

In the old days, this morning, he would instantly have told Mary Verney exactly what it was. They would have celebrated his cleverness and her good fortune, and sealed a friendship on it. He would never have taken it and kept quiet, even if it was what a real art dealer, a Winterton, would do. But now? Honesty on his part seemed hardly appropriate, given the circumstances.

He looked at it again, in its dusty frame with the cracked glass. Selling it would set him up as a dealer with enough finance to succeed. Good God, he wouldn’t have to succeed any more. He could retire. That’s how you get ahead in this business, he thought. Spotting the opportunity and grabbing it with both hands. Look at Winterton. That’s how he began.

“And if I prefer to go to the police?”

“Then you preserve your purity and self-esteem but would have to live with the knowledge that the costs of your particular brand of principled indecision are being borne by everyone else. Particularly your fiancée.

“Do that if you want: no one can stop you. Not even me any more. But if you do, I’d advise you to start looking for another girlfriend; she’ll find it difficult to forgive you. I know I would. You told her it was her duty to recast the truth for Bottando, and she listened and did just that. Are you not prepared to do the same for her?

“But,” she said firmly, giving him a long, hard look, “whatever you do, make up your mind more quickly this time: indecisiveness and irrelevant feelings of guilt really are your biggest faults. But whatever you do, take that drawing.”

“I don’t want it.”

She picked it up and took out a cigarette lighter, which she held underneath it. “Nor do I. Either you have it or nobody does.”

“I’ll take it. I’ll take it,” he said hurriedly.

“Good. I don’t know why it’s important to me. But it is.”

She shrugged, slightly bemused by herself, then picked up the glasses and bottle and loaded them on the tray, leaving Argyll moodily staring at the fireplace. For the last ten days, it seemed, everybody he’d met had been telling him to make up his mind. He’d never really thought of himself as being so feeble, but majority opinion seemed against him. A bit much for a murderer to give him lectures, but certainly no one could say she was overburdened by doubt and uncertainty.

And she was quite right in one thing. This time he had to make a choice quickly. He looked at the drawing. So very beautiful, and certainly more than he’d ever dreamt of. The Moresby Museum would be happy to give him a fortune for it. But, however lovely it was, it now represented all the silly mistakes he’d made in the past day or so. He stared glumly at the drawing; odd how he was thinking about that, not about Forster. Think, he told himself. Was she right? He envisioned the scene. Flavia would believe him. The police would come back. There would be no Vélasquez. Nobody in the village would say a peep. There wasn’t much chance of making much progress.

And the disadvantages? They’d have to call in the English police, who would be bound to make a formal protest. Flavia would certainly not come out of it well. And as for Bottando… No. She was right there, too.

And the Leonardo. Was he really prepared to see something so pretty destroyed simply because he was upset at being beaten? Wouldn’t that make things worse?

Yes. But, if he took it, he’d be compromised. That was the point of the gift, of course.

“Well?” she said. “What’s it to be?”

“Tell me one thing. You say you stole thirty-one pictures?”

“Thirty-two including the Fra Angelico. I don’t count that.”

“And the nineteen that Winterton told Flavia about?”

“Were the ones whose new owners could not identify us. The others will have to stay in hiding in case someone speaks out of turn. I’m sure Flavia realized that when she was talking to him.”

Put like that, there wasn’t a great deal to be said about it. She was right. There was nothing he could do anyway. So, feigning a certainty he was far from feeling, Argyll stood and picked up the drawing. The move was his answer to all the questions, and Mary saw that instantly.

“Good,” she said seriously. “I hope you don’t take it amiss if I say you are taking the right decision. And having leapt that hurdle, why don’t you follow up by marrying her as well?”

Argyll smiled sadly and walked silently to the door.

“Jonathan.”

He turned round and looked at her.

“I really am sorry, you know.”

He nodded, and left.

A few minutes later, Weller House was disappearing in his rear view mirror and he was driving along the road which led to the motorway, London and the airport. He pulled out into the middle of the road to avoid George Barton walking home to his cottage. He at least came out of this well. He waved, then came up to the patch of road he had pranced up and down on a few days previously to attract the attention of PC Hanson. He was deeply miserable, and could not get out of his head what had happened. Every time he tried, all that happened was that he thought of the beautiful, hateful drawing on the passenger seat. His greatest triumph, and look what had to happen before he could achieve it.

Without even suspecting himself of what he was going to do, he slowed down and turned the car down the narrow driveway, stopped and got out. OK, he thought. Flavia can lie for Bottando, then I can do the same for her. Serves me right. But I am damned if I’m going to turn into Arthur Winterton. Sod that.

There was a light on in the house, and Jessica Forster opened up when he knocked at the door. He thought he’d say hello. He sort of identified with her. Used, manipulated, exploited. The only difference was that she didn’t appear to feel sorry for herself on quite the grand scale that Argyll did.

“I’m just going,” Argyll explained. “I thought I’d see how you were doing. My name’s Argyll, by the way.”

Mrs. Forster smiled with sad pleasure and insisted he get out of the rain. “Come in, please, Mr. Argyll. It was kind of you to call. You’re the friend of that Italian woman, aren’t you?”

Argyll said he was. She had gone back to Italy in a bit of a rush, he explained, which was why she hadn’t said goodbye personally. So she’d asked him to do it instead.

Jessica Forster nodded. “Thank her for the thought. She’s a kind woman. Do you know, the only people who have shown any kindness to me since all this happened are Miss di Stefano—who I don’t know—and Mrs. Verney, whom I’d never really liked. Everyone else has been avoiding me as though I had a contagious disease. I suppose they thought that I was about to be arrested for Geoff’s murder.”

“How are you feeling now?”

She shrugged. “I’m recovering, I suppose. Trying to get my life together again. That’s what I have to concentrate on, now. At least I don’t have to worry about anything. The police tell me it was definitely just an accident. Do you know, I’m glad? Geoff had his faults, I knew that better than anyone; but it would have been a horrid way to die.”

“Yes. Well, I imagine it will take some time. Do you know what you’ll do?”

“I’ve scarcely thought. I shall probably go and live in London. See if I can find someone to give me a job, although God only knows what I’ll do. It’s not as if I’m qualified or anything. But I always hated country life, and now I have no one to look after but myself, I can get away from it. I hate cows and local gossip and village fêtes. I suppose I’ll have to stay for a while, to sort out Geoff’s things. Although there isn’t a great deal to sort out. There doesn’t seem to be anything but debts. I can still hardly believe what’s happened.”

Argyll sympathized, and said he could hardly believe it either. He thought Mrs. Verney had been a bit hard on Jessica Forster. No dynamo, certainly, but resilient, and, in her way, courageous. She deserved better treatment than she had received. “He really left a mess, did he?”

“I’m afraid so,” she said, smiling bravely. “I’m on my own, now. There’s no savings, no insurance, and a lot of debts and mortgages. Even his pictures aren’t worth much, I’m told.”

“Oh dear. In fact,” he went on, “I didn’t just come to ask how you were. I’ve got something for you.”

He produced the little packet. “It belonged to your husband. It’s something he left you.”

She grimaced. “I suppose I shall have to find its rightful owner, then.”

“No. It really did belong to him. No hanky-panky at all. He bought it; quite above board. I thought you’d like it.”

She opened it up and looked inside sceptically. “I don’t know that I do. Small, isn’t it?”

“It is small, yes. But if I were you I’d sell it. It might help your finances quite a lot. There’s a place called the Moresby Museum in Los Angeles which is always on the look-out. I’ll contact the director and send the details of what it is, if you want. I have all the information he’ll require.”

“Is it worth a little money? Can’t be, surely. It’s not even finished.”

“Let me take care of the money angle,” Argyll reassured her. “I’ll tell him what price you’ll accept and make sure you get it.”

Mrs. Forster shrugged again, perplexed at the strangeness of the world, then tucked the drawing away and put it on a shelf above the television.

“That’s very kind of you,” she said. “I appreciate the thought. I will of course pay you for your trouble…”

“No,” he said sharply, and saw her recoil a little from his vehemence. “No,” he repeated more gently. “That’s quite all right. My pleasure.”

“Well, thank you,” she said simply.

“Think nothing of it. Just don’t tell anyone about this until you contact the Moresby, OK?”

“Why?”

“Funny business, the art world. You wouldn’t want Gordon to pay you an unexpected call before you leave. Besides, if the taxmen decide it’s part of your husband’s estate, you might not be allowed to sell it for months.”

Mrs. Forster nodded.

“Listen,” Argyll went on, shaking her hand, “I’ve got to go and catch a plane. Good luck. And please don’t lose that drawing.”

And Jonathan Argyll, former art dealer, left Weller and all it contained.

As he drove, he found himself breathing more easily, and he began to compose a letter in his mind to the international university accepting their kind offer of a position. He even began to wonder how on earth he was going to teach a load of ignorant, spotty-faced adolescents to appreciate the subtlety, grace and profundity of baroque art.

But he hadn’t a clue; so he forgot all about it, and hummed to himself instead.