The Immaculate Deception

3

She was home early, even before Jonathan, and drank a glass of wine on the terrace – her promotion, their marriage and the fact that even Jonathan now had a regular salary of a sort meant that, finally, they could afford an apartment they were happy to be in. Still in Trastevere, but four whole rooms now, high ceilings, and a terrace overlooking a quiet square. If you stretched you could just see a bit of Santa Maria. Flavia was too short, but Jonathan could see it, and it gave him a twinge of pleasure just to know it was there. Although the least houseproud of people, even she made something of an effort to keep it neat and tidy. A sign of age, perhaps.

She had left early because she wanted some time to think, and there were always too many distractions in her office. Phones, secretaries, people popping in and out to ask her opinion, or to get her to sign something. She loved it all, most of the time, but it made it difficult to reflect and consider. That was best done looking out at the ochre-coloured buildings opposite, watching people doing their shopping, listening to the quiet murmur of a city going about its business.

Bottando’s lack of practical advice had given her more than a little to think about. She had gone through it all, backwards and forwards, considering every option and possibility in a methodical way, and come up with nothing better. However, the essence of it – keep your head down, do nothing, but avoid any involvement – appalled her. And struck her as almost as dangerous as doing something. Her head was on the block, come what may. If something, anything, went wrong, she would be the one to take the blame. Acting head. Never yet confirmed in her post, even after a year. A matter of a moment to get rid of her; no noise, no fuss. Simply an announcement that a new and permanent chief, more experienced and fitted for the job, was being drafted in over her.

But what could she do? It was certainly the case that she couldn’t do anything practical without somebody finding out quickly. Nor could she go trotting round the wealthy of Italy asking if they had a spare suitcase full of unwanted dollars lying around. Fund-raising was hardly her job. If anyone could do it, it should have been Macchioli’s task. That’s what museum curators did these days. Or were supposed to. Alas, his talents notoriously did not lie in this direction at all. Still, it might be worth while having a serious talk with him, just in case a ransom note arrived.

Argyll came home an hour later, in a relatively good mood considering he’d spent the day trying to din the rudiments of art historical knowledge into his students, and plonked himself down beside her to admire the view. Once it had been as admired as was possible, he asked about the meeting with the prime minister. She didn’t want to talk about it yet, so she fended him off.

‘How’s the paper?’ she asked mischievously to take her mind off things. This was a sore point with Argyll. He had been taken on in his current job to teach baroque art to foreign students passing a year in Rome, a task he was eminently fitted to do. Then the administration – a baroque organization itself – had decided for reasons that no one really understood that salary levels would be partly determined by academic production as well as hours put in at the coal-face. Raise the reputation of the institution. Must be taken seriously as a university, not dismissed as a finishing school for rich kids. Which, of course, it was. The essence of the edict, however, was that if you want more money, produce articles. Papers. Better still, a book or two.

Not really that easy, and Argyll was of a stubborn disposition. The idea of being forced into writing things made his hackles rise. However, a bit more money would be agreeable. He was nearly there; he had ruthlessly exploited his old footnotes and conjured up two articles of extraordinary banality for minor journals, and had also been invited to give a paper at a conference in Ferrara in a few weeks’ time, and that would put him over the required limit.

Except that he didn’t have a paper to deliver and, while he did not hesitate to produce grandiose trivia in the comforting anonymity of a journal no one read, he hesitated to stand up in front of a live audience and parrot out obvious nonsense. So, no paper; not even the glimmer of one. He was beginning to get worried. Flavia did her best to sympathize when she was informed, again, that he still couldn’t think of anything, and eventually Argyll shifted to another topic, as dwelling on the matter risked ruining an otherwise pleasant evening.

‘I had a phone call today.’

‘Oh?’

‘From Mary Verney.’

She put down her drink and looked at him. Not today, she thought. It’s been bad enough already without her. She was retired, Flavia knew; she had said so last time they almost arrested her for theft on a grand scale. But she’d said that the time before last as well.

‘She asked me to ask you if you’d mind if she came back to Italy.’

‘What?’

Argyll said it again. ‘She has a house somewhere in Tuscany, it seems. She hasn’t felt comfortable going there for the last few years, what with you so keen to lock her up. So she simply wanted to know whether you had any outstanding business with her. If you do, she’ll stay away and sell the house, but if you don’t she wouldn’t mind coming and seeing if it still has a roof. I said I’d ask. Don’t look at me like that,’ he concluded mildly. ‘I’m the messenger. You know, the one you don’t shoot.’

Flavia huffed. ‘I really do have better things to do, you know, than reassuring ageing thieves.’

‘So it seems.’

‘What does that mean?’ she snapped.

‘You weren’t really listening to my fascinating anecdote about the coffee-machine in the staff room. My little joke about the tourist being taken to hospital when a piece of the Pantheon fell on his head didn’t make you smile at all, even though it was quite a clever play on words and would normally have produced at least a flicker of amusement. And you have twice dipped your olive into the sugar bowl and eaten it without even noticing.’

So she had. Now she thought about it, it had tasted odd. So she heaved a sigh and told him about more serious matters. By the time she finished, Argyll was dipping his olives in the sugar bowl as well. He, in contrast, found them quite tasty. He could see that it did really put the antics of the departmental coffee-machine in the shade.

Oddly, the more important matter was swiftly dealt with. Flavia didn’t want Argyll’s advice on this one, but got it anyway. It just wasn’t very good. ‘Your stomach,’ he said. ‘It’s been playing you up for days now. How about if we got Giulio downstairs to have you admitted to hospital for a week? Urgent tests? Suspected ulcer? Gastro-enteritis? You could blame my cooking. He’d be happy to oblige. Then you could sit it out in peace and security.’

Giulio was the doctor who lived on the grander first floor of their block. And Flavia was sure he would oblige. He was an obliging fellow. And her stomach – in fact, her entire internal system – was misbehaving shockingly, although it was better now, probably thanks to the wine. But this was one she could not duck out of, and Argyll knew it as well as she did.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘If you want to be useful, you can tell me about this Claude.’

‘What’s to tell? It’s a landscape. Not one of his huge ones, which is no doubt why it’s so popular with the thieves.’

‘What about the subject, though? Cephalis and Procris.’

Argyll waved his hand dismissively. ‘Wouldn’t worry about that. They’re just figures wandering around the canvas and put in to give it respectability. Claude couldn’t do people for toffee. Arms and legs too long. Bums in the wrong place. But he had to do them to be taken seriously.’

‘Still. What’s the story?’

‘No idea.’

And Flavia clearly wanted to say no more, so he switched the topic. ‘Tell me about Bottando. You’ll miss him, won’t you?’

‘Terribly. Father figure, you know. It gives you a shock when permanent fixtures are suddenly not so permanent. Also, he’s not happy about it, either. It’s not a good way to end after all this time.’

‘We should get him a present.’

She nodded. ‘Can you think of anything?’

‘No.’

‘Nor me.’

They paused. ‘What shall I do about Mary Verney?’

She sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose there are so many thieves in the country, one more won’t make any difference. At least we can be certain she didn’t steal the Claude.’