Iain Pears - The Raphael Affair

‘So you see. Motive, opportunity and no alibi. Enough to arrest me on, if that’s what you feel like doing.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, then went on more formally. ‘For the time being, however, we’re not arresting anyone. But I must warn you not to leave Rome for the next few days. Any attempt to do so will be treated as attempted flight. Do you understand?’

‘Perfectly, General,’ came the equally stiff reply, which then turned into a conspiratorial smile. ‘But I can tell you that if you do arrest me, you’ll be making a big mistake. It’ll be all Tommaso needs to restore his reputation. Because of that committee, you’ll go down with me.’

It was seven-thirty in the evening. Bottando sat in his office, waiting for Manzoni to show up. He wanted to see the man, especially since Manzoni had rung up in the early afternoon to say that he had found something which might be of interest. But the restorer was late. Often the case with these sort of people, but Bottando, who still retained some vague elements of his earlier military training, was irritated nonetheless. Punctuality, he thought, was a very great virtue; not that so many of his countrymen agreed with him. He filled the time catching up on some work and trying to control his mounting ill-humour.

While he was muttering about lack of consideration and the indignity of full generals being made to wait by junior restorers, Flavia had arrived at Argyll’s flat to see what progress he’d made during his day’s work. There was no answer. Despite her express request that he be there, he’d gone out. Damn him. She thought for a moment that maybe the bell didn’t work. It was an old, run-down block and that was a distinct possibility. So she went into a bar and telephoned. Still no answer.

She was furious, and started thinking along the lines that were currently occupying her boss back in the office. She’d had a tiring day and was frustrated at having worked so hard for almost no result. And to be stood up by someone who was lucky not to be in jail already was outrageous.

The high point, or low point, of her day’s business had been a visit to Sir Edward Byrnes. Unlike Bottando, she had not been faced with a virtual confession, and she’d found it difficult to ask all the questions she needed without bringing up their suspicions about the origins of the picture.

Byrnes had to believe that all they were after was the person with the wandering aerosol. There was no need to show all their cards, especially as, in her book, the successful and wealthy Englishman was far and away the most likely suspect.

She found him in his hotel: it was highly expensive and, typically, not one of the more obviously opulent affairs that are to be found around the via Veneto. Rather, Byrnes’s combination of money and exquisite taste had landed him in a highly anonymous but very private and splendidly elegant palazzo off the Corso, where the few guests allowed in reposed as though they were at home with the servants.

In the delicate pink-and-white drawing room, deserted apart from the two of them, Byrnes sat Flavia down on a sofa, arranged himself opposite her in a tapestry-covered armchair, and summoned a waiter with a brief wave of his hand. He was at their side in a commendably respectful matter of seconds.

‘A drink, Signorina?’ he asked in flawless Italian. ‘Or are you going to say “not while I’m on duty,” eh?’ He blinked in an amiably owlish fashion from behind thick pebble-like glasses as he spoke. There were two ways of interpreting that, Flavia decided. On the one hand, it might be a good-natured look that goes along with someone trying to make himself agreeable. On the other, it might be an expression of contentment from someone who knows he’s got away with it.

‘Not me, Sir Edward. I think that’s only for the English police. Besides, I’m not in the police.’

‘Good. Very sensible.’ She wasn’t sure what part of her reply he referred to. He ordered two glasses of champagne kir without asking her opinion on the matter. ‘Now, how can I help you?’

Not, thought Flavia, ‘What do you want?’ He’s keen to sound more accommodating than that. Doesn’t mean he will be any more forthcoming, mind you.

Flavia smiled at him. He was ordinarily not someone who let anybody do the talking, let alone a woman. ‘Obviously it’s about the Raphael, and the events of yesterday...’

‘And you want to know whether I habitually go around with aerosols of gasoline in my pocket? Or if I saw anyone looking especially furtive?’

‘Something like that. Routine questioning of everyone in the museum yesterday evening, you understand.’

‘Especially if they happened to be responsible for the picture being there in the first place,’ he observed, taking out a short stubby pipe and beginning to fill it from a leather pouch. The trouble with everybody in this business is that they’re too quick on the uptake, she thought.

‘I wish I could provide you with some helpful comment. I am, of course, deeply upset by the whole thing. I’d formed a great attachment to the picture, and was very proud of my role in it. I gather it’s beyond repair?’

If Byrnes hadn’t been responsible for burning the picture, he would, naturally, want to know how successful the attack had been. Flavia nodded, and he nodded back in acknowledgement. He was still filling the pipe, which was evidently a highly complex and technical operation. His head was bent over as he shovelled a remarkable amount of tobacco into the bowl, then tamped it into place with a little metal device apparently designed for just such a purpose. While he was doing this, with immense concentration, she couldn’t see his face at all well. Eventually he looked up at her again, stuck the pipe in his mouth and continued, not having noticed the long break in the conversation.

‘You get fond of them, when you’re with them for a long time,’ he said absently. ‘Especially this one. I watched over it very carefully, once I realised what it was. The high point of my career. And now this. It was an appalling thing to happen. From what I’ve read, it would have been difficult to prevent as well. You seem to be looking for a madman, and it’s impossible to guard against random acts.’ He now began on the equally intricate business of turning the pipe bowl into a minor inferno. Smoke billowed out in profusion, and drifted in a thick smog across the room.

‘I’m sure you understand that we have to establish everybody’s whereabouts for the entire evening?’ Flavia said, tearing her eyes away from the pipe and getting back to business.

‘Of course. That’s simple. I arrived at the hotel at about six, checked in and walked straight to the museum. I talked to various people and was still there when the announcement about the, ah, incident was made at about eight.’ He reeled off a list of names. She jotted them down.

‘And how long did you spend talking to each of these people? With Argyll, for instance,’ she said casually. He didn’t appear to make any connection of significance.

‘With him longer than most, I suppose. As he may have told you already, I’m financing his trip here, and I quite like talking to him.’

She nodded. ‘May I ask why you gave him this money?’

‘Mild guilt. Or rather sympathy. Or is it empathy? I heard afterwards that he, like the person who commissioned me, was on the trail of this picture, but that I got there faster. That often happens, of course, and I’ve been pipped at the post myself. Ordinarily I just see it as the luck of the game. Except that it was such a big prize and Argyll was clearly counting on it for his work, rather than for simple financial profit. So I thought that the least I could do would be to offer some form of recompense. He does, in fact, deserve it. His work is much better than he makes out. A little sloppy over details...’