Iain Pears - Giotto's Hand

“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 comers 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 comers 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.