Iain Pears - The Raphael Affair

Great. A good evening. Why can’t you do something right for once? he asked himself bitterly. That’s what comes of trying to be so clever. It’ll take a lot of explaining this time. And the police will be all over the place soon.

They were evidently all over the place already. He heard sirens as cars drove into the Campo; shouted orders. Footsteps coming up the stairs. Oh well, he thought listlessly, here we go.

What happened next didn’t really concern him much; he still ached and that seemed more important. He didn’t even take his eyes off the sky when a couple of people came through the door and walked over to him.

A flashlight shone in his face, blinding him. He shut his eyes, and heard General Bottando say: ‘It’s Argyll. He’s still alive.’

The rest of the night passed in a blur. Once Argyll realised he wasn’t going to be instantly carted off to the local lock-up, he had thrown a fit, refusing to let a doctor anywhere near him until he was told about Flavia. They said she was all right, but he refused to believe them.

Eventually, two policemen had to carry him down so he could see for himself. It was difficult, and with much cursing, they tried to help him down the steps without letting him fall. As far as Argyll was concerned, it was well worth it. Flavia was sitting against the wall, wrapped in a blanket, her head covered with a large bandage. A small spot of red was just visible around her left temple. She was conscious, complaining of a headache, and asking for some food. There was clearly not much wrong with her. Argyll was so pleased, so relieved and so exhausted, all he could do was pat her hand and look at her. Bottando stood over them with his arms crossed and looked disapproving.

‘General, what about the picture, is it safe?’ Flavia asked drowsily. She had been given a sleeping draught which was nearly taking effect.

He nodded. ‘Yup,’ he said. ‘Cut out of its frame and damaged, but still basically in one piece. It’ll be all right after a bit of work.’

This contented her, and she fell asleep. It was the moment for Argyll to say something, but he couldn’t be bothered. It could all wait until tomorrow.

‘Young man, she’s fast asleep. If you would let go of her hand and stop staring like a love-sick cow, perhaps we could bandage up that arm of yours.’

Argyll hadn’t even noticed, but he must have scraped his arm on the coarse, abrasive stone as he ran up the stairs. Now he did notice it and it hurt abominably. He stuck it out, and the doctor began washing and dressing it.

‘What happened up there, anyway? How did he fall off?’ Bottando asked.

‘I pushed him. But it really wasn’t my fault.’

‘Yes, yes, we know all that,’ Bottando said impatiently. ‘But why did you push him?’

‘He attacked Flavia and came after me. He was pulling a gun. It was the only thing I could think of.’

‘I see. And he just stood there and let you give him a shove?’ Argyll didn’t like the tone of that. Didn’t seem entirely sympathetic.

‘I doubt that he saw me coming.’ Argyll pulled the little aerosol tube out of his pocket. ‘I sprayed this in his face while we were fighting. It’s a cleaning solution for paintings.’

‘Ah. That’ll probably explain it. Needed to clean out his eyes a lot, I imagine. I sympathise with your caution, but he wasn’t pulling a gun,’ Bottando looked at him with a weak smile. ‘He didn’t have one. I’m afraid you have pushed him off a three-hundred-foot tower because he was reaching for a handkerchief.’

The news upset him considerably, but not for long. He was also given a sleeping shot, and drifted off thinking how wonderful Flavia was. Which was generous, he thought, considering how badly she’d treated him. Like everyone else. A cruel and unjust world, when he was only trying to help.

Both of them slept deeply and soundly, even though much of the time was spent in the back of two police cars whistling back down the autostrada to Rome. They didn’t even wake when they were lifted bodily from the cars and carried like sacks of turnips up the stairs to Flavia’s flat.

Bottando supervised the operation, clucking over them with concern. As Flavia had only one bed, he wondered briefly where to deposit Argyll. But there was nothing for it: he conquered his prejudices and had the Englishman laid elegantly by her side, hoping she would understand it was an emergency measure and wouldn’t protest too much the next day. That accomplished, he gave instructions to the policeman who was settling into Flavia’s armchair that he was to remain until they woke, then bring them to the office as quickly as possible.

Flavia woke first, coming out of a drugged sleep so slowly she wasn’t even aware of doing so. Argyll was curled up beside her, his hand holding on to her arm. She stroked his hair absent-mindedly, wondering where she’d put the aspirin.

Then she remembered, began to resent his presence, stopped the display of affection and poked him violently on the arm. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘Jesus. Be careful. That’s tender.’ He woke up fast, shut his eyes again, then opened them and peered around. ‘This is your bed, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I’ll get some coffee. Then we can work out why you’re in it.’ Flavia crawled out of bed and headed out the door to the kitchen. She came back in immediately and grabbed her dressing-gown. ‘There’s a policeman out there,’ she observed. She nodded good morning to him on her second entrance and waved him into silence when he began to explain his presence. ‘Not yet. Can’t take it.’

She leaned heavily on the kitchen counter while she was waiting for the espresso pot to do its stuff. Her picture of the previous night’s events was hazy, but enough to realise it had been a mixed achievement. Argyll had done his bit and found the picture, which went some way to repairing the damage caused by his rather bizarre behaviour in London. Then he had gone and spoiled it by pushing someone off the parapet. She should be grateful, she supposed, but still wished he hadn’t.

When Argyll emerged from the bedroom, he was clearly in no more rosy a mood. His arm hurt, his stomach hurt, his lungs hurt, his legs hurt. He was also brooding over his performance. All that risk, that appalling danger, and for what? She could easily be lying in a little plastic bag with a label round her toe. So could he, for that matter. And not even a Raphael, fine painter though he was, was worth that. Too fast. Rush, rush, rush. That had always been his great trouble. Not enough attention to detail.

So they sat in companionable misery until the policeman, a veritable youth who had recently joined the force and who wasn’t sure how to proceed in these circumstances, interrupted and, following orders, tried to escort them to the office. Flavia made short work of him, and he departed on his own, carrying a message that they’d be along in an hour.

They spent it having showers, eating breakfast, discussing the events of the night before and staring out of the window. If there had been any chance of Flavia persuading herself into a good humour, it evaporated slowly. Eventually she stood up, tipped the dirty dishes into the sink and turned to Argyll.

‘Can’t delay it any longer, I guess. We’d better go in and get it over with.’

So they walked, as slowly as possible, to the office. ‘I’m not looking forward to this at all,’ Argyll commented on the way.

‘What are you worried about? All he can do is shout at you. Me, he’s going to fire.’ She had a point.

‘But I’m the one who’s lost his scholarship,’ he replied. He had a point too.

Bottando’s greeting, though, was a pleasant surprise. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said after they had knocked tentatively on his door. ‘Good of you to come so early.’ It was a little after noon. Flavia couldn’t decide if he was being sarcastic.