Iain Pears - The Raphael Affair

Bottando fussed round them and insisted on summoning the waiter for some food. ‘You must be starving. Some good food will work wonders for you. I remember well what London restaurants are like.’ He made a good-natured face and beamed at Argyll, who was a little surprised at the amiable reception.

‘Mr Argyll, I’m pleased to meet you at long last. I gather you have made another great discovery. I hope you are right this time.’

Argyll shrugged. ‘I think so. By a process of elimination I’m bound to get there eventually.’

‘It’s the elimination bit that worries me. Must it be taken so literally?’

Argyll laughed a little awkwardly, and Bottando politely suspended the conversation while they ate. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ Flavia enquired.

‘This? Oh, this is the bible.’ He read them the spine of his book, ‘Who’s Who in Art . A positive treasure trove of useful information. Full of unsuspected details about our friends, colleagues and enemies.’

He flicked through some pages. ‘Take, for example, my dear friend Spello. To look at him you’d never suspect he was once a senior advisor to the Vatican, back in the 1940s, would you? Such an unkempt man. And they’re such snappy dressers at the Vatican. He must have been very young. I imagine he considered he had a great career ahead of him, rather than merely a secondary position buried in Etruscan statuary. Or that our beloved minister, a very lumpy dolt of military aspect and no apparent delicacy whatever, has a passion for bonsai gardening? Or that Tommaso’s secret desire is to be a painter?’

‘It says that?’

‘Not exactly. But he told me he plans to retire and paint at his villa, and it says here that he once trained at an art school. In Lyons, no less. So, I conclude that he really wanted to be a painter. Evidence plus logical analysis. That’s detection.’

‘And now I suppose you are going to say he was wonderful at it and made a particular study of Raphael?’

‘No, Flavia, no. Would that it were so simple and easy. Alas, poor man, I think he was probably not good at all, and had the sense to look after the paintings of others rather than create his own. Besides, one of the few things we’ve established is that, if it was a fake, then Morneau was the faker. What we need now is proof of something. Which is a task you seem to have taken upon yourselves. So, tell me. Where is it?’

‘Siena,’ Argyll replied simply. Bottando looked surprised. ‘Are you sure? How do you come to that conclusion?’

‘Because it’s the only conclusion to come to. It wasn’t in the Clomorton collection, it wasn’t in the di Parma collection, and it has disappeared. Therefore...’

‘Therefore...?’ prompted Bottando.

Argyll looked superior. ‘I don’t think I’ll tell you. I might still be wrong. Anyway, you have the facts. You can work the rest out yourself. Evidence plus logical analysis, General. That’s detection.’

‘Very funny. Still, as long as I know where you’re going, and as long as you find the thing, I suppose the details can wait. Are you going up there?’

‘Tomorrow morning. I don’t think there’s any need to rush up immediately. I think it’s quite safe for the time being,’ Flavia answered, then broke off to order a coffee. It would play havoc with her stomach juices, but she reckoned she needed something to sip.

‘It may be, but you may not. Some protection might be a good idea when you go,’ Bottando continued.

Flavia shook her head again. ‘No. If we go roaring up the autostrada in a fleet of armed police cars there’ll be an enormous fuss. Initially it’ll be much better to go up quietly and check the thing out. Then you can put as many armed guards around us as you like. The more the better, in fact. But if we go clomping about the place like that, someone will talk. And it’ll be all over the newspapers tomorrow morning. Just make sure you keep it to yourself.’

‘Yes. You are possibly right. What time will you go?’

‘First thing tomorrow morning. Before that I need to draw some money, make out an expenses slip to catch the deadline for the next paycheque, have a nice shower, and collect some clothes.’

‘Tell me where to find you. Oh, by the way, you might want to look at this.’ He reached into his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper.

‘Telex from Janet. Poor man complains about having to do so much work for us, but don’t let that concern you. I’m sure he got someone else to do it for him. He’s been tracking down picture-buying. Score, Byrnes three, Morneau six, everybody else, nil.’

‘May I?’ said Argyll, reaching over to take it. He unfolded it and read the communication carefully.

‘That’s it. That must be it.’ He pointed at a line of type after a few moments’ perusal. ‘“Portrait of a lady, copy after Fra Bartolommeo.” Three thousand Belgian francs, to Jean-Luc Morneau. Seventy centimetres by a hundred and forty. Right size, more or less, and about the right age. Right style. That would have been perfect. Your colleague didn’t send a photograph as well, did he?’ he asked hopefully.

Bottando rummaged around in his pockets once more. ‘Yes,’ he said, handing over another sheet of paper. ‘Not very good, I’m afraid. Just a photocopy from the sale catalogue. Pretty good service though, don’t you think?’

Argyll was too busy looking at it to reply. He handed it over to Flavia, a satisfied look on his face. She looked disappointed. It was, in truth, unimpressive: very dirty, a three-quarter-length of a large middle-aged woman with a prospective double chin and a few other obvious attractions. Dressed in a dark, full-sleeved dress. Black hair, as far as he could tell through the dirt, and overloaded with vulgar jewellery: a tiara, a vast necklace and a thick, intricate ring.

‘Not a great loss if it was used. The portrait of Elisabetta he put on top was much better,’ she commented.

‘True. But look at the window and external scenery in the left background. Very similar to the fake Raphael, and exactly where the tests were taken. I think that’s pretty conclusive, myself.’

Bottando nodded approvingly. ‘You’ve got a good eye,’ he said. ‘I noticed the same thing myself, with a photograph of the Raphael to help.’

‘Which proves Morneau painted it, and that lets Spello off the hook,’ Flavia added with satisfaction.

‘Alas, no. Morneau was also an advisor to the Vatican, back in the 1940s, and he must have known Spello then. That’s one example of why these books are so useful.’

He got up and brushed breadcrumbs from his lap. ‘Time to get back to the office. I have to work even if you two don’t.’

They parted, Flavia and Argyll heading east, while Bottando walked back to the office. He was worried. He hadn’t mentioned it to Flavia, not only because Argyll was there, but also because he didn’t want to concern her unnecessarily. But he knew he was about to take a huge risk with them. And it concerned him greatly.

Less burdened with cares than Bottando, Flavia and Argyll spent a delightful evening, once the business of washing themselves and clothes, and other domestic matters had been taken care of. Flavia had put on the washing machine, opened her mail and fussed about the apartment while Argyll had read some of the books he had brought with him.

While he sat with his leg over the arm of her one comfortable seat, he read out extracts from the books he was looking through. This was a change from the plane flight home, when he had read intensely and said scarcely a word. Flavia had noticed that a guide book to the Palazzo Pubblico in Siena had been one of the volumes.

Argyll laughed. ‘Listen to this. It’s a letter from Viscount Perceval about Lady Arabella. A great diarist and observer of eighteenth-century London, that man. She gets more and more remarkable every time I come across her. It wasn’t only husband two who had wayward habits. Number one also couldn’t keep his hands to himself either. She broke a cello over his head at a royal levee because of it. Then tried to beat him up with her fists. In public. Must have made everybody’s evening.’