Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

The pictures were an electric jumble, from Renaissance to modern; no masterpieces but nicely done. Apparently hung at random but, in fact, with a distinct pattern to them. A tiny little Madonna, Florentine school probably, matched by what looked suspiciously like a Picasso drawing of a woman in pretty much the same posture. A seventeenth-century Dutch interior paralleled by an impressionist interior. An eighteenth-century version of Christ enthroned in Glory with Apostles, which Argyll studied carefully for a moment, and alongside it — a bit blasphemously, really — a socialist-realist painting of a meeting of the Third International. Evidently the owner had a slightly impish sense of humour as well.

As Argyll was looking around, Rouxel rang a small bell by the side of the marble fireplace. In due course it produced Jeanne Armand.

‘Yes, Grandfather?’ she asked, then saw Argyll. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, a bit flatly. Argyll was surprised by this; considering the way they’d hit it off the previous evening, he expected her to be as pleased to see him as he was to see her. Evidently not. Maybe she hadn’t slept well, either.

‘Coffee, please, Jeanne,’ Rouxel said. ‘Two cups.’

Then he turned his attention back to Argyll, and his granddaughter left without saying another word. Again, Argyll found this a little perplexing. There was a brusqueness, almost an impoliteness, which contrasted strangely with the way the charm suddenly returned as the old man indicated a chair for his visitor on one side of the fireplace and settled himself into another one nearby.

‘Now, dear sir, do tell me. I’m dying to hear how this painting has come back to me in such an unexpected fashion. Has it, by the way, been damaged at all?’

Argyll shook his head. ‘No. Considering that in the past few days it’s been hurled around train stations and hidden under beds, it’s in perfect condition. Please examine it, if you want.’

So Rouxel did, and expressed satisfaction once again. Then he gently probed the entire story out of Argyll.

‘Besson,’ Rouxel said half-way through the rendition. ‘Yes. I remember him. He came to the château to measure up and take it away for the exhibition. I must say, I didn’t take to him at all. Although I never would have suspected—’

‘It is only a suspicion, you understand. I wouldn’t want the police—’

Rouxel held up his hand. ‘Goodness, no. I have no intention of bothering the police. I did have a word with one I knew when it was stolen and he told me, frankly, that it would be a waste of time to try and get it back. Now I have got it back, it would be perfectly pointless.’

Jeanne re-entered, bearing a tray with a pot of steaming coffee, milk, and sugar. And three cups. Rouxel looked at the tray with a frown.

‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘I said two cups.’

‘I want a cup myself,’ she said.

‘Oh, no. I’m sorry. But you know how pressed I am. Stop being a gossiping woman and get back to your work. Those letters really must be finished today. Please attend to them.’

She retreated once more, flushed with humiliation at the publicly dismissive tone of his order. Argyll could well understand why. It hardly matched up with the glowing portrait she’d sketched out the previous evening. Far from being the highly valued, indispensable organizer of his life, the devoted and doted-on granddaughter, it seemed that in reality she was little more than a secretary. A bit awkward to have her fantasies unveiled in such a way.

Rouxel carried on as though this small domestic scene had not happened, returning to the conversation as though there’d been no break in it at all. The charm was back in full force.

Then the litany of questions, buried in the running account of the case so far. And at each point, Rouxel shook his head. Muller didn’t ring a bell. Nor Ellman. But at the mention of Hartung, he nodded.

‘Of course, I remember the name,’ he said. ‘It was quite a cause célèbre . And as I was involved with the prosecutor’s office in Paris at the time I knew of the case.’

‘What happened?’

He spread his hands. ‘What can one say? He was a traitor, who caused the death of many, many people. He was arrested and would have been tried. And, I’ve no doubt, found guilty and guillotined, had he not killed himself first. A bad business, all around. There was a hysteria in the air then. Lots of old scores to be paid off, many collaborators and traitors to be rooted out. Fortunately it died down quickly, but we French are still a little sensitive on the question of what happened during the war. It was not a happy time.’

Now there was an understatement, Argyll thought.

‘So what are your conclusions?’ he asked with a smile. ‘You seem to have done a considerable amount of hard work on my behalf over this.’

‘The only thing which makes sense is that Muller was completely potty,’ he said. This was a bit disingenuous, but he had decided he didn’t wholly like or trust the old man. Just prejudice, and he certainly didn’t have the full facts, but he was almost shocked by the way Rouxel had spoken to his granddaughter. Families have their own little ways, of course, and it is a foolhardy outsider who rushes to pass judgement on them. But Argyll did not approve of the contrast between the cold family man and the warm, charming version being presented to him. Too much of the politician, there.

‘And you have no idea what Muller was after?’

‘All I know is that somebody else took it seriously enough to kill him. And you now have the picture. It’s none of my business, I know, but I would beg you to be a little more careful. I would never forgive myself—’

Rouxel waved his hand dismissively. ‘Pah. I’m an old man, Mr Argyll. What possible point could there be in killing me? I shall be dead soon enough anyway. I’m sure I’m in no danger at all.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Argyll replied. Then he got up to leave, an exit accompanied by a satisfying jousting between Rouxel who wanted to ply him with cheques for having been so kind and helpful, and Argyll who, desperately as he needed the money, felt it would spoil his gesture if he accepted. He parted instead with a heavy hint that, if ever Rouxel wanted to sell some pictures and needed an agent...

Back in the garden, after he had left Rouxel, he spied Jeanne Armand again. She was clearly waiting for him, so he gave her a wave and waited for her to come over.

‘How are you this morning,’ he asked breezily, noting that she didn’t look so happy.

‘Quite well, thank you. I wanted to explain.’

‘You don’t owe me any explanations, you know.’

‘I know. But it’s important to me. About Grandfather.’

‘Explain away, then.’

‘He’s under enormous pressure at the moment. What with the preparations for the prize, and being on this international financial committee and all the rest. He overdoes it, and that reminds him that he’s getting old. So he gets ill-tempered sometimes.’

‘And takes it out on you.’

‘Yes. But we really are very close. He’s such a great man, you know. I... I just didn’t want you to get the wrong impression. I’m all he has. His one close relative. Close enough to be irritable with.’

‘Right,’ said Argyll, thoroughly mystified by why she felt obliged to tell him this.

‘And of course he’s never really forgiven me.’

‘What for?’

‘For not being a grandson.’

‘You’re not serious?’

‘Oh, yes. It was important to him. He wanted to found a great dynasty, I think. But his wife gave him a daughter and then died. And his daughter produced me. And I’m divorced. He hated it when I left my husband. I think it makes him wonder what it’s all been for. Of course, he never says that,’ she went on quickly. ‘But I know he thinks it sometimes.’