Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘This was Monday, right?’

He nodded.

‘And that was the day I could get no work out of anyone at the Interior Ministry because there was some international delegation in town. Financial liaison and supervision, or something.’

He nodded again.

‘And Rouxel’s granddaughter told Jonathan that he was on the French delegation of some committee dealing with financial supervision.’

Bottando nodded again.

‘Rouxel was in Rome that day?’

A further nod.

‘He made that call?’ she asked, pursuing the matter with what she thought was fine logic.

Bottando shrugged. ‘No,’ he said, spoiling it. ‘It seemed a reasonable presumption. But at the time he was in a meeting, which he never left. A further snag is that when Muller was killed Rouxel was at an official dinner, and when Ellman was shot he was already on a plane back home. I checked and double-checked. There’s no doubt. He didn’t kill anyone or phone anyone.’

‘Which leaves this putative policeman with the scar.’

‘It does. And if you’re right, then we’re delving into very muddy waters indeed.’

‘Oh, God,’ she said, suddenly disgusted with the whole business. ‘What do you think?’

‘As far as evidence goes, I don’t know,’ Bottando replied.

‘Damnation,’ Flavia said crossly. ‘All our leads have gone dead. Or at least, we’ve made progress, but it hasn’t got us anywhere. All we’ve uncovered is long-dead detail that doesn’t mean much. I wish Muller had been right. If there had been something special about that last judgement, we would at least have had something to go on.’

And over in a quiet and almost forgotten corner of the room, cogs whirred. Old, rusty levers clicked over. Synapses, sluggish with disuse, flickered into hesitant life. The half-formed idea in the back of Argyll’s mind leapt suddenly and boldly into full and well-focused shape.

‘What?’ he said.

‘This painting. If we could—’

‘You called it the last judgement.’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah,’ he said, leaning back in his armchair with an air of profound relief and satisfaction. ‘Of course. Do you know, you’ve never told me I’m brilliant as well as beautiful.’

‘And I’m not going to unless you earn it,’ she said a little testily.

‘Logic. Hartung’s letter referred to the last judgement; Muller assumed it meant The Death of Socrates , the last one to be painted.’

She nodded.

‘One of a series of four.’

She nodded again, trying to be patient.

‘The sales list of Rosier Frères listed Hartung’s purchases. One picture by Floret of Socrates. And another. Sent to an address on the Boulevard St-Germain. The street where Mrs Richards’ parents lived. And Rouxel lodged. And Mrs Richards said Hartung had given Rouxel a picture. A religious one.’

‘So?’

‘The series was the judgements of Alexander, Solomon, Socrates and Jesus. We knew where three are; The Judgement of Jesus is missing. We assumed it referred to a representation of Jesus’s trial. Before Pilate. But is that so?’

‘Jonathan, dear—’

‘Hold on. Hartung gave Rouxel the Socrates to go with the other one. Right? Mrs Richards said so. And he still has the other one,’ he went on with mounting enthusiasm. ‘I saw it. I recognized the style, not that it registered. Heavy colour, slightly wooden. Christ Enthroned with the Apostles .’

She looked at him blankly.

‘That’s the advantage of living with art dealers of the more educated variety. At the end of the world, Christ will sit enthroned with his disciples, and he will judge Man from the Book of Life. And he shall separate them one from another. Some routine like that, anyway. Also called, as you know very well, the Last Judgement. Muller hadn’t thought it through. He was after the wrong picture.’

He sat back once more looking awfully pleased with himself. ‘If there is anything at all to be found, that’s where it will be.’

Flavia considered this carefully. ‘I wish you’d thought about this before,’ she said.

‘Better late than never.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Does it help?’ Bottando asked.

She thought about that. ‘It will confirm — or refute — my general idea. If there’s anything there. I think, you know, it’s time to bring this case to an end of some sort. One way or another.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘I think so. Yes.’

‘Isn’t she clever?’ Argyll said admiringly. ‘Whatever did you do before she worked for you, General?’

‘Oh, I just had to struggle along,’ he replied.

‘I’m so glad we’re getting married,’ he continued. ‘Such a smart person to have as a wife.’

Bottando thought this was getting irrelevant. ‘Congratulations,’ he said drily. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy. Not before time, in my opinion. Now, Flavia, dear. Are you sure you can wrap this up?’

‘Let me put it like this. I can either find a solution, or make sure no solution will ever be found. Whatever, the case will come to an end. Do you want me to do that?’

Bottando nodded. ‘It would probably be best. Ideally, I would like to bring a murderer or two to book. But if that’s not possible, I want it off our hands. How do you propose to go about it?’

She smiled faintly. ‘I think first of all we have to consult. That is, we go through tried and trusted channels. We will go back to Paris.’

Whatever happened, this had better be over soon, Flavia thought to herself as she trooped wearily on to the plane. She couldn’t keep this up much longer. Some businessmen, it seemed, could do this sort of thing perpetually. Three countries a day, airport-hopping. She couldn’t. She could barely even remember what day it was. All she knew was that the moment she thought she’d reached a place where she could lay her head and have a quiet, uninterrupted night’s sleep, the opportunity was whisked away again. She’d had one decent night’s sleep in the last week. She was haggard, confused, upset and thoroughly miserable. A short fuse. A little time bomb waiting to blow.

Argyll, who recognized the signs all too well, left her alone throughout the flight, lost in his own thoughts. He knew perfectly well that to try conversation, or even to attempt to brighten her life with his little jokes, would be counter-productive to say the least.

Besides, he wasn’t feeling like little jokes either. He didn’t know what was going on in Flavia’s mind, but he did know he was mightily sick of this business. People trotting around stealing pictures is one thing. Even murder wasn’t so bad, once you got used to it. But this case involved too much long-term unhappiness for his taste. Argyll liked people to be content; however naïve it made him appear, he had always considered contentment to be the most basic of human rights. And this case was full of people who had missed it. Muller, living all his life with the desolation of being virtually parentless, of having to deal with his family heritage. At least he was spared the anguish of knowing his mother was still alive in such a condition. And his mother, leading a shady half-life, a sort of hobbling corpse for forty years or more. Even Ellman’s son had been corrupted by it all, effectively blackmailing his own father and justifying himself by saying it was all in a good cause. Only Rouxel and his family were untouched. The distinguished man, the beautiful granddaughter, sailing serenely through life, unaware of the misery swirling all around them. Perhaps they were about to be enveloped as well. Something had reached out of the past; Rouxel was the only one it had left untouched. So far.

Dear old Byrnes had driven them to the airport, lent them money and even paid for their tickets, saying that he was certain that the Italian state would take care of it eventually. Even his frosty wife had recovered from the early-morning affront to make them sandwiches for the trip. As Argyll had tried to explain, she wasn’t so bad really. English ladies are occasionally like this: hearts of marshmallow, heavily protected by a covering of solid titanium. They can be quite kind, as long as no one notices and points it out. Then they get brusque and insist that they’re nothing of the sort. An odd national characteristic, really.