Giotto's Hand

“Can’t imagine,” Flavia said. “What was her name?” she demanded, even more loudly than before.

“Of course, that was one of the high years, where I entertained the daughters of two dukes simultaneously. And one American millionaire. I was naturally a bit dubious about her, even though she came highly recommended. And I was quite right, as I discovered. She spent too much time talking to the servants. Such a lowly characteristic. No really well-bred person would do that. Not even an American. Breeding will out, you know.”

“Her name?”

“Emily, I believe. Emily Morgan. She came from Virginia. I believe that is in America. I can’t say I have ever wanted to go there myself, of course.”

“Not her. The servant.” She stood over her, glowering, willing her to act sane just for a few seconds. “What was the name of your servant, Maria?”

She shrank back in the chair, shocked out of her reverie.

“Fancelli,” she said. “Maria Fancelli.”

“Ah,” said Flavia with relief, and tripped over the sofa as she stepped back in exhaustion after her effort.

“Of course, I got rid of her as quickly as possible, you know. It wouldn’t have done at all. And fortunately, the event did not become common knowledge among the select circle with whom I associated at that time. Not like now, of course.”

“Ah, yes,” said Flavia, no longer paying much attention.

“Signorina Beaumont was very upset, but I consoled her by telling her that people like that would sink to their own level, no matter how refined an example they were set. I believe that she tried to help the girl, thinking that she was merely young and foolish. I knew better, though.”

Flavia grimaced in a way she hoped could pass muster as a sympathetic smile. Horrible old woman, she thought.

“Ah, those days are long gone,” the old snob rabbited on. “Once the cream of Europe came here, and felt it a privilege. Now what do they do? Back-packs, camping, noisy music and all sorts of inappropriate social mixing. I always say, if the aristocracy of Europe wishes to continue, it will have to avoid mixing with the lower orders. Do you know, signorina, I fear for the future. I really do.”

“Do you really,” she said, and gave up the unequal struggle.

It was partly because she had been so roundly defeated by the chaotic senility of Signora della Quercia that Flavia spent the entire evening getting her revenge by interrogating Giacomo Sandano with quite unnecessary vigour.

The poor man, after all, had done little to merit such treatment and as he had paid his debt to society over the little matter of the Fra Angelico, he scarcely deserved to be bothered: but as she’d gone to a considerable amount of trouble to find out where he was, it seemed a pity to waste the effort. She was mindful of Bottando’s strictures, and wanted to demonstrate her thoroughness, if nothing else.

She tracked him down in a bar in one of the seedier outskirts of the city after having discovered that he was not, as she’d anticipated, back in jail again. Sandano was. in fact, one of those ever-hopeful types who are permanently convinced that this time his plan is fool-proof. That was partly why the department loved him so dearly: every time he was tempted off the straight and narrow, they could count on another successful arrest and prosecution shortly afterwards.

He was, in brief, a rotten criminal, and a judge had once told him so. He was more of a danger to himself than anyone else and his compulsive thieving and swindling brought him so little personal gain that nobody could really understand why on earth the man bothered.

Take his most recent exploit of trying to steal some candlesticks from a church, which had apparently landed him with only a short sentence. As the prosecutor remarked when preparing the case, it was quite a good idea to think of hiding inside the altar until the place was leaked up for the night. It wasn’t quite so brilliant to choose Christmas Eve, the one day when it wasn’t locked up and remained full of people until near dawn.

Sandano had wedged himself in the box at six in the evening, and had finally given himself away at two in the morning when his body became so racked with cramps that he’d cried out in agony. It took some time before the priest and congregation got over the shock at what appeared to be a divine voice emerging from the altar, but when they’d recovered, they dragged him out, revived him with brandy, called the police and Sandano was, once again, returned to jail.

He was sitting over his drink, a hunched-up, weedy sort of man in his thirties, with an unhealthy demeanour and surrounded by a faint but permanent aroma of stale cigarettes. Slob, she thought as she walked up behind him. Could at least make an effort.

“Gotcha!” she said cheerfully, clapping her hand on his shoulder. Sandano nearly leapt out of his skin.

“Confess, Giacomo, confess,” she went on, to soften him up a little.

“What?” the verminous little man said in terror. “What?”