Iain Pears - Giotto's Hand

“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.”