Iain Pears - The Raphael Affair

‘Entirely incorrect. I just wanted to enjoy my lunch rather than have to suffer through it. Although I must admit I do want to hear what you know about Morneau. He sounds a character.’

‘He was. I recommend, by the way, the trout. It comes with one of the few sauces they do here which doesn’t have too much flour. Otherwise, stick to the veal. It is very good to see you again. But, I must insist that you play fair. I will tell you about the life and secret career of Monsieur Morneau — as much as we know — if you tell me the latest goings-on and scandal in Rome. I haven’t seen you for some time. There must be a great deal I’ve missed.’

He fussed over the bread, spearing it on his fork and using it to sop up some garlic sauce from his plate, while Bottando considered whether he should break the policy of silence about the Raphael which he had so convincingly explained to Flavia several weeks back. It was about the only decent anecdote of recent vintage, and he knew Janet would appreciate it. On the other hand, he doubted the man’s ability to keep it to himself.

‘Well, then,’ Janet began, lifting his head reluctantly from his plate and wiping a dribble of gravy from his chin. ‘As you probably noticed, Morneau was an exceedingly rich man for an art dealer. He had an extravagant lifestyle, a house in Provence, a spacious apartment in Paris, and a gallery which, although successful, certainly did not generate enough income to support his expenditure. No mortgages, no debts. All his residences, incidentally, had been completely swept of any incriminating papers by the time we got there to have a look around. A very tidy man.

‘So where did this money come from? Not from legitimate activities, and not from peddling stolen icons either. We know of twenty-five he probably stole. Even if there are another twenty-five we don’t know about, that gives you, say, six or seven million francs over a ten-year period. He spent much more than that. So what else was he up to?

‘Then he disappears. This is a man who turns up at almost every gallery opening, hasn’t missed a performance of the ballet for nearly fifteen years, and is an artistic socialite of the first order. He ducks out of sight for nearly a year, and then he turns up, in an embarrassing position and dead. So where has he been, eh? Tell me that.’

He finished his little speech and smiled, as if expecting applause for the brilliance of his logic.

‘I was hoping you would. You haven’t actually told us anything at all. What was he doing?’ Bottando asked.

Janet shrugged. ‘There I cannot help you. Deduction can take you only so far. Any further requires more information. Now tell me. What about Rome?’

Before he could begin, Flavia, who had been staring absently out of the window, made one of her first comments of the day. She didn’t like being ignored, although she was occasionally prepared to put up with being treated as merely a decorative appendage by Bottando. He didn’t do it very often and, besides, he was old and southern and could hardly be expected to be perfect. But it was time, she decided, to make her presence felt.

‘Maybe we should test the Commissioner’s powers of deduction a little further,’ she said, smiling winsomely at the Frenchman. She always did that when she suspected she might be being a little rude. But before she could proceed further along these lines, Bottando interrupted her.

‘Quite,’ he said. ‘But how good a painter was he? What were those fake icons he turned out like? It struck me that we might approach some of the more reputable forgers in Naples and ask a few careful questions there. Now he’s dead they would probably be more forthcoming than usual.’

Janet considered the matter for a moment. ‘As for Morneau’s qualities as a painter, he was very good indeed, but he was born too late. He disliked modernism in all its forms. Had he been born a century earlier he would have had a great success.

‘His icons were very variable. The earliest ones were good, painted on old panels, covered in dirt, quite well-executed. But once the technicians knew what they were looking for, they could easily spot them — something about paint in wormholes, which you don’t get in the real thing. The later ones were sloppy. It looks as though he realised that they didn’t really have to be that good to be convincing, so stopped wasting so much effort.

‘Technical problems aside, however, they are remarkable, even the bad ones. They have a great spiritual quality, almost as if he were painting for his own sake. I’m not really surprised the monks were taken in. Once they had been aged and covered with dirt, they looked wonderful, even better than the originals. You should see them. One always tends to assume that fakes are not as good as the real thing. I’m not so sure. Morneau understood the paintings. That’s where most of these people fall down.’ He smiled at the two of them. ‘There. All along you suspected your old friend was a philistine, eh?’

They had reached the coffee, and the conversation showed signs of wandering off into the byways and alleyways of anecdote. Flavia stirred herself for another attempt.

‘Commissioner,’ she began. ‘The bank’s log of when Morneau opened his box. When was the last visit?’

‘I don’t know. We haven’t been able to get that out of the bank yet. However, according to his passport, he last visited Switzerland in May,’ he answered.

She smiled in quiet triumph. She must remember to point out to Bottando what an extraordinarily good employee she was. Even if she occasionally caused him a great deal of trouble and heartache. As she was about to do now. She reached into her handbag and took out one of the sketchbooks she’d purloined. Apologising insincerely for abducting evidence in such a cavalier fashion, she handed it across to the two men. ‘Have a look at that. Ring any bells?’ she asked.

Janet glanced at it, looked noncommittally puzzled, and passed it to Bottando. He was equally blank. Then Flavia detected vague stirrings of unease, and a sudden realisation. ‘Ah,’ he said as he handed it back. Very quick on the uptake, really, she thought.

‘I don’t mean to be inquisitive...?’ Janet said.

Bottando looked flustered. ‘Indeed not,’ he said. ‘But this must be kept very quiet. The slightest hint could wreak havoc on the market.’

Flavia was again impressed. She’d had the entire walk to the restaurant to work out the implications of the discovery; Bottando had had only a few seconds and he instantly saw the problems and pitfalls. Especially the impact on the art market if the slightest breath slipped out.

‘Of course, of course,’ replied Janet. ‘But what is it, exactly, that I’m not meant to hint about?’

Flavia handed him back the notebook. ‘These sketches,’ she said casually, ‘would appear to bear a remarkably strong resemblance to the portrait of Elisabetta di Laguna in Rome. By Raphael. Or perhaps we’d better begin to say, attributed to Raphael.’

Janet looked again, then nodded. ‘I suppose they do. But so what? Every artist in the western world has probably made sketches of it.’

‘Before last May? Before the painting had been uncovered and before anyone could possibly have known what it looked like?’

Janet leaned back in his seat, and a broad smile slowly spread across his face. ‘How splendid,’ he commented eventually. ‘How delightful,’ he said after further thought. ‘How very awkward for you,’ he added apologetically as an afterthought.

‘When you’ve stopped enjoying yourself,’ Bottando said severely, ‘you’ll begin to see why it’s important you keep very quiet. No gossip back in the office. Not a word. Not even to your wife. Or anybody.’