Iain Pears - The Raphael Affair

That’s true, thought Flavia to herself.

‘...but essentially well-researched and interesting. Not nearly as narrow as the subject suggests. So I’m not giving favours to the undeserving poor,’ he concluded.

‘So you noticed nothing at this party and were never on your own?’

‘Only when Argyll disappeared off to the toilet, or to get some drinks, or something like that. He was quite flustered all evening. I think he was excited at being back in Rome.’

Well, maybe so. She switched the subject once more. ‘You talk about being commissioned?’ she prompted.

‘My little secret,’ he replied. ‘Most of my colleagues and rivals still believe I owned the picture. I let them think it because it drives them into such paroxysms of jealousy. All I did was act as an agent. I shipped it back, sent it to the restorers and organised the sale.’

‘Why did you choose these particular people?’

‘No reason. They were available, I’d worked with them before and knew them to be reliable. They were very excited. They were in the office from the moment the crate arrived: we could hardly keep them away from it.’

‘Could you give me their names?’

‘By all means. I’m sure they would be pleased to talk to you. One of them rang me this morning, very upset indeed. They became very proprietorial about it — always saying how lucky I was to own such a picture. I couldn’t bear to disillusion them.’

‘Who did it belong to then?’ Flavia leant forward in her chair in anticipation. He might lie. Almost certainly would. But even so it might provide something to go on. Even if it turned out to be a lie, his assertion would prove something.

Byrnes spread his hands over the desk. ‘I wish I knew. I was given instructions by letter from a lawyer in Luxembourg. It was a bit odd, I know, but such procedures are not entirely unknown. There is often a certain amount of disguise when some rich family wants to raise some cash discreetly. To buy and sell a picture anonymously is more unusual, but at the time I thought the picture was not especially valuable. So I could see no reason for not going ahead.’

‘But you weren’t tempted to keep the picture when you knew what it was?’

Byrnes smiled at her. ‘It occurred to me, of course. But by that time I’d signed a contract as the agent. Besides, it’s not the way I operate. As you know, the art-dealing community is not noted for its impeccable integrity,’ — here Flavia grinned — ‘but there is a sort of honour among thieves, and not pinching someone else’s discovery is part of it. That’s why I felt a little guilty about Argyll.

‘But quite apart from the moral issue, I didn’t know who was behind it all. For all I know, it might have been the Vatican itself. It always needs ready money these days, and this method might have been a way of circumventing the objections to the sale which would otherwise have developed. It never does to offend someone if you don’t know who you are offending. Besides, the retainer alone was very generous.’

‘You were never suspicious that something might be wrong?’ Flavia asked doubtfully.

‘Of course. I haven’t worked in the art business for quarter of a century without learning to trust no one. But I chose the people who tested it. They were in no doubt that it was genuine, nor was the Museo Nazionale. I could see nothing wrong. If I’d had the slightest doubt, I’d never have agreed to the museum’s terms in the sale contract.’

‘Which were?’

‘Simply that if the painting’s authenticity was called into question I’d be responsible for refunding the money as agent for the owner. Very tight and carefully drafted. They included it, I suppose, to satisfy the finance ministry that they were being careful with the taxpayers’ money. Besides, Tommaso was involved and we’ve never got on, even though we keep up an appearance of friendliness.’

Flavia said nothing in reply to this, but sat quietly, waiting to see if he would continue on his own. In a fit of what was either calculating revelation, or confessional zeal, he did so.

‘You see, I once sold Tommaso a Correggio. Doubts were cast on its authenticity, and Tommaso threatened me, saying that if I didn’t take it back, I’d never sell another picture in Italy. There was nothing in the contract which said I had to. But I did, out of a sense of pride. Nonetheless, he still made life as difficult for me as possible for the next fifteen years. So it was quite a triumph to get him to take that Raphael, even if the terms were stiff. He hated doing it, but his desire for the picture was too great.’

He shrugged as a way of showing his bewilderment with the ways of God and men. ‘Ah well. That’s all past history now. The terms of that contract seem to be redundant. The painting’s destroyed.’ He smiled gently at her. ‘So there’s nothing for me to take back even if they wanted me to, is there?’

That, essentially, had been the interesting part of the day; the rest was spent listening to people explain how — and why — they hadn’t seen anything interesting or significant at the party. Out of more than eighty people, some sixty-five, Flavia reckoned, could easily have slipped out of the room unnoticed, gone upstairs, set light to the picture and come back down again. Of that sixty-five, around fifty knew about the alarm system. Of the remaining fifteen, nearly all could easily have found out.

More frustrating and personally irritating was the fact that she found herself quite liking Byrnes and being seduced — well, perhaps seduced was not the right word — by his charm. She’d gone in to see him determined to be distant, cold and efficient, but despite these laudable intentions, she found herself enjoying talking to him, and warming to his odd combination of vagueness and business acumen.

And the man had taken advantage of the fact. As she was leaving, he’d casually mentioned he was going back to London that evening, and would he be required for the investigation any more? Damn right, he would; but she could find no pretext upon which to detain him. He was evidently intent on going and they could not require him to stay without announcing that he was a suspect. But on what grounds if she couldn’t mention the forgery? Equally, by politely asking permission to leave, he had countered any suggestion that he was hotfooting it to safety.

All she could do was lamely say that, of course, it was quite in order for him to go. He’d spent some time laying out his motives for destroying the picture — revenge, greed, the works — and all she could do at the end was wish him a safe trip home. He’d thanked her soberly, and wished her luck in the investigation. Was he laughing at her? Surely he was, but that poker face, moderated by thick glasses and clouds of smoke, had been impenetrable.

Then there had been the interminable interviews, often tramping over ground that — she found to her irritation — had already been worked over by Bottando, and, on top of that, her ears ringing and her head spinning, her useless visit to Argyll’s apartment. At quarter to eight, tired, weary and wanting only to go home and have a bath and an early night, she dragged herself up the stairs of the office to write up a few reports. This made her feel virtuous, but did nothing else to cheer her up at all. She had a feeling that disaster was just around the corner.

She was wrong, as she often seemed to be these days: it was lumbering down the stairs, in the shape of a perspiring, out of breath and evidently troubled Bottando.

‘Flavia. Good. Come with me,’ was all he said as he hurried past her. She turned round and followed him to his car in the square. Clearly it was serious; it took more than a small crisis to break the General out of his habitual slow amble. They both got in the back, Bottando gave the driver an address in Trastevere, and told him to hurry. He did so, complete with sirens, horn and screeching tyres for dramatic effect.