Giotto's Hand

“Well, I didn’t like him. Quite charming, in a way, if you like that sort of thing, but not many clients could stand him over the long-term either. That was why he was never very successful. There was something a bit insidious about him. Hard to describe, really.”

“Crooked?”

“Not that I’ve heard, no. And if he was, then no one would have been reticent about saying so. What is this picture?”

Argyll explained the circumstances.

“Youthful indiscretion?” Byrnes suggested. “Perfectly possible. Does Flavia want to nail him?”

Argyll shrugged. “Not desperately. But if it was something that could be wrapped up quickly I’m sure she’d love to give him a hard time. Although as far as I can see there’s not much chance of doing anything else.”

“No. Not after so many years. Even if you could prove it. Are you meant to be skulking round and finding out?”

“Not really. But, on the other hand, I’ve not got anything else to do, and I have a day or so here, so I might as well contact him, at least. Do you know what his address is?”

Byrnes shook his head. “No. But he rents space from Winterton. Just to give him a respectable address and telephone number, really, and I don’t think he’s ever there. It’s only five minutes from here. You could walk up and see. They’d know.”

The older man’s benign sympathy and good taste in wine, if it was of no practical help, had ultimately managed to lift his spirits off the floor, and the prospect of doing something which had no connection to his own career furthered this process. By the time he got to Winterton Galleries, he was almost in a decent mood, even though it was very much on probation.

He explained his business, or part of it, to the secretary inside. Was Geoffrey Forster around?

No, he wasn’t.

Did she know where to get hold of him?

Why?

Business. He was on a flying visit from Italy and wanted to talk to him before he flew back.

Very grudgingly, she said he was undoubtedly at his house in Norfolk. He virtually never came here. If Argyll thought it was really important, she could ring him.

Argyll did think it was really important.

Forster had one of those voices which are very much the stock in trade of a certain sort of English art dealer: the type of accent and intonation that can make a nineteenth earl feel socially inferior at a distance of several miles. It was one reason Argyll quite liked Italy. Even over the phone, he felt his hackles rising when Forster asked him, in a tone of drawling impatience, what exactly he wanted.

He explained that he was after information about a painting, and understood that Forster may have had it once.

“What is this? A guessing game? Tell me which picture. I have handled one or two in my time.”

Argyll suggested that it might be better if they met. It was a delicate matter.

“Don’t be such a damned fool! Tell me what it is or stop wasting my time.”

“Very well. I wish to ask you about an Uccello, which was in your possession shortly after it was stolen from the Palazzo Straga in Florence in 1963.”

There was a long silence from the other end, followed, rather irritatingly, by what sounded very much like a laugh. The secretary in the gallery was impressed as well.

“Was it indeed?” Forster said. “Well, well. Maybe I should talk to you about that. Whoever you are.”

He managed to say it with something approaching a contemptuous sneer. Argyll disliked him intensely already, but nonetheless agreed to meet him, in Norfolk, at eleven the next morning. It was, he thought as he put the phone down, a pity he couldn’t persuade Flavia to take a more active interest in locking the man up.

“Know what you mean,” said the secretary in the flat accent of south London, interpreting the sour look on his face with accuracy. “Real bleeder.”

Argyll glanced at her, and decided to be forthcoming. “Is he as bad as he sounds?”

“God, yes. Worse. Luckily, he almost never comes here.”

“Why does he come here at all? I thought he had a job with some old lady?”

“Oh, she died at the end of last year. Her successor took one look and kicked him out. So he’s a bit short of money. God knows why he’s allowed in here though. The boss loathes him, but somehow he’s part of the fittings. Every time he turns up my life’s a misery. No creep like an old creep. Hey, what’s all this about then? Been a naughty boy, has he?”

Argyll shrugged noncommittally. “If anything, he’s been a very clever boy, I think,” he said, unashamedly doing his best to blacken the name of a man who, for all he knew, might be as innocent as a new-born babe.

“Oh, yes? Did you mention something about a stolen picture? Lifted it, did he? When was this?”

Even Argyll, however, retained some shred of discretion. So he looked vague, said he really didn’t know all the details, and asked about how to get to the village of Weller, Norfolk. The girl was disappointed in him, and in a disapproving voice told him that Liverpool Street was the place to start.