Giotto's Hand

3

Argyll’s reintroduction to his native country the following day took the form of a valiant battle with the antique state of the London underground system. He was in a bad mood, and had been ever since he’d arrived at the passport section at Heathrow airport to discover that most of the globe had touched down a few minutes ahead of him. Then it took an age to recover his luggage and, on top of that, the tube trains into London were all delayed by what a scratchy announcer said, with not the slightest apology in his voice, were technical problems. “Welcome to England. You are now entering the third world,” he muttered to himself half an hour later as he hung desperately from an overhead support in the train which rattled and squeaked out of the station, so crammed full of jet-lagged travellers it was difficult to see how anyone else could possibly squeeze in. But they did at the next station, only to have the thing stop dead for fifteen minutes a few hundred yards down the tunnel.

About an hour later he emerged at Piccadilly Circus, feeling like Livingstone after cutting his way through a particularly dense piece of jungle, and went into a cafe to restore himself.

Mistake, he realized the moment the coffee was delivered; a grey, weak solution with a smell which, whatever it was, had nothing to do with coffee. Dear God, he thought when he discovered that it tasted as bad as it looked, what’s happening to this country of mine?

He gave up after a while and wandered back out into the street, walked down Piccadilly then turned up into Bond Street. A few hundred yards up was his destination. He shivered. Moving from Rome to England in July can be something of a shock to the system: the skies were dark grey and leaden, he was under-dressed and had forgotten to bring an umbrella. He had a feeling already that he was merely wasting time and money for no other reason than to sidestep decision-making for a few days.

“Jonathan, dear boy. Good trip?” Edward Byrnes said as Argyll walked into the empty gallery and found his former employer carrying what looked like a painting by Pannini from one side of the room to another.

“No,” he said.

“Oh.” Byrnes put the painting down, looked at it for a few seconds, then called an assistant from the back and told him to hang it just there while he was out. “No matter,” he went on when this was done. “Let’s go straight out for lunch. That might restore your flagging spirits a bit.”

There was that to be said about the trip. Byrnes had always been something of a bon viveur, and liked a good lunch. At the very least, Argyll was going to spend the rest of the day feeling well fed. Byrnes led the way out of the gallery door, leaving his minion in charge of the Pannini and with strict instructions about what to do in the unlikely event of a client coming in, then walked at a brisk pace into increasingly narrow streets then, finally, down a set of shabby steps into a basement.

“Nice, don’t you think?” Byrnes said complacently as they emerged into what was presumably a restaurant at the bottom.

“Where are we?”

“Ah, it’s a dining club. Set up by a group of art dealers who were getting fed up with the vastly inflated prices that all restaurants charge round here. The sort of place you can bring the more potentially lucrative client without having to double the price of their purchase to pay for their entertainment. Marvellous idea. We get good food and wine, partly own a new business and have somewhere civilized to sit. Splendid, eh?”

For his part, Argyll preferred not to have to associate too closely with colleagues all the time; the idea of having to eat with them, as well as attend auctions with them, didn’t strike him as such a good idea. On the other hand, he could see the attractions for an incorrigible gossip like Byrnes. The idea of having a large chunk of the art market under his eye at the same time as a plate of food lay on his table was, probably, as close to paradise as he could envisage.

“Come, dear boy,” he said with mounting enthusiasm as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, “I’m starving.”

They sat down, ordered drinks and Byrnes beamed at him for a few seconds before curiosity got the better of him and his gaze wandered off to survey the surrounding tables.

“Hmm,” he said meditatively as he spotted a smooth, moon-faced young man attentively pouring a glass of wine for an elderly lady with an elongated nose.

“Ah,” he continued, moving on to a group of three men, their heads conspiratorially close together.

“Well, well,” he mused thoughtfully at the sight of another pair, one wearing a fine piece of Italian tailoring for the well-to-do male, the other in slacks and sports jacket.

“Are you going to fill me in on any of this? Or just keep it to yourself?” Argyll asked in a tone that just avoided a slight touch of pique.

“I am sorry, I thought you didn’t approve of gossip.”

“I don’t,” Argyll replied. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like to hear it, though. Come on. A few names and faces. That foppish character over there? The one talking to the old witch in the corner?”

“Ah, that’s young Wilson. Keen as mustard and the IQ of a sunflower seed. Thinks that charm will get him anywhere. If that is his latest client, I imagine he will shortly be learning the lesson of his life.”

“What about the three musketeers in the corner?”

“I know two of them,” Byrnes said, treasuring the sight with all the appreciation of a true connoisseur. “One is Sebastian Bradley, a man of high ambition and limited morals who has worked hard in the last few years to relieve Eastern Europe of its most precious treasures.”

“Legally?”

“Shouldn’t think so for a minute. The person next to him is called Dimitri. I don’t know his other name but he supplies Sebastian with works of art—paintings, furniture, statuary, just about anything as long as it’s fallen off the back of a lorry. His ethereal friend I don’t know.”

“Nor do I.”

Byrnes sighed. “You really don’t pull your weight, you know.”

“Sorry. What about the other pair? The smoothy talking to the shaven-headed gent by the pillar?”

“Jonathan, really. I sometimes despair of you. The smoothy—I admire your perception, by the way—is the appalling Winterton, who, as he would be the first to tell you, is the most famous and distinguished dealer in the world. If not the known universe.”

“Oh,” said Argyll humbly. He had heard of Winterton: Byrnes’s only serious rival for the title of the best-connected dealer in London. Naturally, they disliked each other intensely.

“And the other one is Andrew Wallace, chief buyer for…”

“Oh, yes. I know. I wonder if he wants a Guido Reni sketch I bought six months back…”

“Oh, I don’t think you’d want to sell anything to him, you know. It’s really not worth it. Just kill yourself; it’s pleasanter and cheaper in the long run.”

Conversation ceased awhile as they studied the menu and Byrnes got over the shock of having to dine in the same room as Winterton. Then he recovered himself and beamed at Argyll once more. “Now then, how’s business?” he asked.

Argyll shrugged. “All right, I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “The Moresby Museum still sends my monthly retainer for services I rarely provide, and that pays the bills. And I’ve sold some drawings recently for a reasonable amount. But that’s it. The rest of the time I hang around listening to the clock tick. I’m getting really sick of it.”

They sighed in sympathetic unison. “I know. I know,” Byrnes said nostalgically. “Ah, the glory days of the 1980s. When greed, selfishness and vulgar ostentation swept all before them. The Holy Trinity of the Fine Arts. When will these underrated virtues ever return, eh?”

They mournfully considered the sudden outbreak of frugality in the world and tutted over the retrograde and inconsiderate desire of people to live within their incomes. A lengthy complaint by Byrnes about his virtual bankruptcy ended with his recommending the foie gras with truffles to start. Quite acceptable, he said. For the time of year.

“So,” Byrnes went on, when he noticed that Argyll’s glumness was more than his habitual tendency to professional pessimism. “What can I do for you?”

“You can give me advice, if you want. I’m not selling anything, and I’ve got this job offer. If you were me, what would you do? I can’t sit around for the rest of my life hoping something will turn up.”

“Ah, no. Indeed not,” the older man said. “It can be very depressing if you hit a slow patch. I speak from experience. Especially if you don’t have much in the way of reserves. What you need is a backer, of course. Either that or a magnificent discovery of unparalleled importance. A hundred thousand or so would set you up nicely.”

Argyll snorted. “Both discoveries and backers are even rarer than customers at the moment. Besides, I don’t have much of a track record. Why would anyone think that investing in me would be a good bet?”

“Now, now,” Byrnes said reassuringly. “Gloom is one thing, despair another. You’ve sold one or two very nice things.”

“One or two, yes,” said the unrepentantly pessimistic Argyll. For some reason, talking to the vastly successful Byrnes was not yet making him feel much better. “One or two is not a career, though.”

“What do you want, exactly?”

“I want to sell paintings. There’s not much point being a dealer otherwise. That’s about it. I mean, I don’t particularly want to make untold millions or anything like that. But I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Byrnes said kindly. “No one is selling anything at the moment. Not for a profit, anyway. Of course, that may be the trouble.”

“What?”

“Not doing anything wrong. Honesty is a great virtue normally, but a bit of a handicap in the art trade. And I do think that sometimes you take the upright posture too far. Remember that Chardin?”

Byrnes was referring to a small painting that Argyll had bought in a sale a year or so previously. He thought, but wasn’t sure, that it was a Chardin, and persuaded a buyer to take it for a considerable amount of money. The following week he had discovered it was not by Chardin at all, and had been painted by someone very much less reputable.

“It was a clean, honest deal,” Byrnes said disapprovingly. “And you went straight round, presented the man with the evidence that he would never have found for himself, proved it wasn’t by Chardin and took it back, giving a full refund. Now, frankly, I admire your integrity. But not your acumen.”

But I thought it was a good idea,” Argyll protested. “He was an important collector and I was building up his trust. He would have bought more from me…”

“Had he not himself been arrested for corruption and links with organized crime three weeks later,” Byrnes pointed out gravely. “You were being scrupulous with his money. Splendid. Except for the tiny little fact that it wasn’t his money to start off with.”

“I know, I know,” Argyll said glumly. “But I just don’t like that part of the business,” he confessed. “I know I should shave as many corners as possible. But when an opportunity to be cunning or a bit sharp presents itself, my conscience mans the barricades. And there’s no point your telling me all this. You’re exactly the same yourself.”

“There is a difference, though. I hate to have to point it out, but I have a lot more money than you do. I can afford to indulge my conscience. And it’s an expensive luxury.”

Argyll looked even glummer, so Byrnes hammered on. It was, he thought, necessary. He’d been meaning to say it for some time. He liked Argyll and had a high opinion of him, but he did need educating in the realities of life a little.

“You have to face the facts, Jonathan,” he said kindly. “You like your clients and you like pictures. Both are rare attributes in dealers and, frankly, neither is very helpful. Your job is to get as much money as possible and give as little as possible in return. It is to spot things and keep quiet about them. Telling the world that a Chardin is not a Chardin is fine for a connoisseur or an historian; not so smart for a dealer. You have to choose between your scruples and your income. You can’t have both.”

And so the conversation went on, Byrnes being kind, sympathetic and saying everything that Argyll knew perfectly well already and didn’t want to hear. Ultimately, Byrnes concluded that Argyll’s only real option, if he didn’t want to take up the offer of a job teaching, was simply to wait until the market recovered again. “It’ll never be like the good old days,” he said. “But it’s bound to pick up eventually. If you can survive another year or so, you’ll be fine.”

Argyll wrinkled his nose with dissatisfaction. Obviously, he’d been foolish to think that Byrnes—who was well disposed towards him—was going to come up with a magical solution. As the man said, a major discovery, preferably cheap, would do the trick. Dream on, he thought.

“Oh, well,” he said. “I’ll have to think about it some more.”

“I’m not being much help, I’m afraid,” Byrnes said sympathetically.

“Nothing you can do, really. Except maybe order another bottle of wine…”

No sooner said than done. For some reason, knowing that even Byrnes couldn’t think of anything slowly began to cheer him up. Partly because it confirmed that at least he wasn’t missing anything. And secondly because even Byrnes, it seemed, was going through a lean period. If you’re going to suffer, then it’s somehow better not to be on your own.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he said when the bottle had come, a glass had been poured out and he’d drunk half of it. “I can’t take any more reality today. Does the name Forster mean anything to you? Geoffrey Forster?”

Byrnes looked at him cautiously. “Why?”

“Flavia. Somebody said he stole a painting. Decades ago. She wanted me to see if I could find out who he was. It doesn’t really matter, but I’m sure she’d appreciate anything I can dredge up. It’s nothing hugely important, I think, but you know what she’s like. Who is he?”

“A dealer,” Byrnes said. “At least, he was once. I haven’t seen him for years. When the end of the eighties hit, he diverted into freelance expertise.”

“Oh yes? What does he do?”

“Vulturing mainly,” Byrnes said half admiringly. “Picking over the semi-dead bodies of old families. You know, advising impoverished aristocrats and selling off their collections for them. He’s got a sort of half-permanent post with some old lady in Norfolk. Lives up there now. As an example of how to sit out troubled times, it’s a line of business you might investigate.”

“Lucky him.”

“Yes. Useful sideline. His great problem is that he’s a bit difficult.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, I didn’t like him. Quite charming, in a way, if you like that sort of thing, but not many clients could stand him over the long-term either. That was why he was never very successful. There was something a bit insidious about him. Hard to describe, really.”

“Crooked?”

“Not that I’ve heard, no. And if he was, then no one would have been reticent about saying so. What is this picture?”

Argyll explained the circumstances.

“Youthful indiscretion?” Byrnes suggested. “Perfectly possible. Does Flavia want to nail him?”

Argyll shrugged. “Not desperately. But if it was something that could be wrapped up quickly I’m sure she’d love to give him a hard time. Although as far as I can see there’s not much chance of doing anything else.”

“No. Not after so many years. Even if you could prove it. Are you meant to be skulking round and finding out?”

“Not really. But, on the other hand, I’ve not got anything else to do, and I have a day or so here, so I might as well contact him, at least. Do you know what his address is?”

Byrnes shook his head. “No. But he rents space from Winterton. Just to give him a respectable address and telephone number, really, and I don’t think he’s ever there. It’s only five minutes from here. You could walk up and see. They’d know.”

The older man’s benign sympathy and good taste in wine, if it was of no practical help, had ultimately managed to lift his spirits off the floor, and the prospect of doing something which had no connection to his own career furthered this process. By the time he got to Winterton Galleries, he was almost in a decent mood, even though it was very much on probation.

He explained his business, or part of it, to the secretary inside. Was Geoffrey Forster around?

No, he wasn’t.

Did she know where to get hold of him?

Why?

Business. He was on a flying visit from Italy and wanted to talk to him before he flew back.

Very grudgingly, she said he was undoubtedly at his house in Norfolk. He virtually never came here. If Argyll thought it was really important, she could ring him.

Argyll did think it was really important.

Forster had one of those voices which are very much the stock in trade of a certain sort of English art dealer: the type of accent and intonation that can make a nineteenth earl feel socially inferior at a distance of several miles. It was one reason Argyll quite liked Italy. Even over the phone, he felt his hackles rising when Forster asked him, in a tone of drawling impatience, what exactly he wanted.

He explained that he was after information about a painting, and understood that Forster may have had it once.

“What is this? A guessing game? Tell me which picture. I have handled one or two in my time.”

Argyll suggested that it might be better if they met. It was a delicate matter.

“Don’t be such a damned fool! Tell me what it is or stop wasting my time.”

“Very well. I wish to ask you about an Uccello, which was in your possession shortly after it was stolen from the Palazzo Straga in Florence in 1963.”

There was a long silence from the other end, followed, rather irritatingly, by what sounded very much like a laugh. The secretary in the gallery was impressed as well.

“Was it indeed?” Forster said. “Well, well. Maybe I should talk to you about that. Whoever you are.”

He managed to say it with something approaching a contemptuous sneer. Argyll disliked him intensely already, but nonetheless agreed to meet him, in Norfolk, at eleven the next morning. It was, he thought as he put the phone down, a pity he couldn’t persuade Flavia to take a more active interest in locking the man up.

“Know what you mean,” said the secretary in the flat accent of south London, interpreting the sour look on his face with accuracy. “Real bleeder.”

Argyll glanced at her, and decided to be forthcoming. “Is he as bad as he sounds?”

“God, yes. Worse. Luckily, he almost never comes here.”

“Why does he come here at all? I thought he had a job with some old lady?”

“Oh, she died at the end of last year. Her successor took one look and kicked him out. So he’s a bit short of money. God knows why he’s allowed in here though. The boss loathes him, but somehow he’s part of the fittings. Every time he turns up my life’s a misery. No creep like an old creep. Hey, what’s all this about then? Been a naughty boy, has he?”

Argyll shrugged noncommittally. “If anything, he’s been a very clever boy, I think,” he said, unashamedly doing his best to blacken the name of a man who, for all he knew, might be as innocent as a new-born babe.

“Oh, yes? Did you mention something about a stolen picture? Lifted it, did he? When was this?”

Even Argyll, however, retained some shred of discretion. So he looked vague, said he really didn’t know all the details, and asked about how to get to the village of Weller, Norfolk. The girl was disappointed in him, and in a disapproving voice told him that Liverpool Street was the place to start.

Outside, he stood on the street and thought about it. Could he be bothered? He did have some time to kill before the plane back, but on the other hand was reluctant to go interfering in Flavia’s job too much. Over the years, he’d decided that the more police work was left to her, the safer their relationship was. It was only the purely malicious desire to cause this arrogant voice on the other end of the phone some discomfort which prevented him from dismissing the idea entirely.

He decided he’d sleep on it. He had friends to visit, and he’d go and see them that evening. Then he’d rest, relax and consider. In the morning, he would decide what to do.