Giotto's Hand

“It’s Mr. Forster, Mrs. Verney. He’s dead. Broken neck, by the look of it.”

Mrs. Verney seemed taken aback by this, but lost none of her poise and certainly wasted no time with conventional expressions of regret, shock or horror.

“When?”

Hanson shook his head. “Some time, I think. The body’s cold. He appears to have fallen down the stairs. This gentleman here” — he indicated Argyll with a nod of his head — “found him.”

“About ten minutes ago,” Argyll offered. “Eleven o’clock, or thereabouts. I had an appointment.”

“I’d be grateful if you’d keep me informed,” the woman said, ignoring Argyll completely after giving him a rapid look over. “It used to be our house, after all. I knew we should have had that staircase fixed. Is it the top stair? It’s always been a bit wobbly. I did tell him once…”

Constable Hanson said that sort of thing would have to wait until the experts arrived. So she stood there, hands in pockets, thinking for a moment.

“Well,” she said after a while. “If I’m going to be sued for selling someone an unsafe staircase, I’d like to know about it as soon as possible. Come along, Frederick,” she went on, whistling at the labrador that had been snuffling around the rose bushes. It occurred to Argyll that, had there been any useful hints like footprints in the soil, they probably weren’t there any more.

And then she marched off down the pathway and disappeared up the road.

“Who was that?” Argyll asked the policeman, thinking that the common assault might make a useful bridge to establish more cordial relations.

“Mrs. Mary Verney,” the policeman said. “The local landowner, not that she’s really local, or owns much land any more, I gather. Quite a nice woman, but not really from these parts. She only took over when her cousin died recently.”

“Ah.”

But any further opportunity for conversational bonding was lost, because at that moment the full range of policemen arrived to do their several duties.

And so the slow, ponderous wheels of justice began to inch forward. Photos were taken, distances were measured, brows were furrowed, windows were peered at, chins were scratched. Bodies were removed and statements were taken. It lasted for hours, and as far as Argyll could see, didn’t accomplish a great deal.

The local police, however, were very pleased with themselves. Fingerprint men danced around, puffing away like a bunch of manic hairdressers. Other miscellaneous experts also gave it as their preliminary view that, at a rough guess, Geoffrey Forster had met his end by falling down the stairs. They were not so bold as to say how this unfortunate event had come about.

Deprived of anything really meaty by way of discoveries, rather like Flavia with Sandano, they turned their full attention to Argyll in revenge, and he spent the next several hours stating his business, explaining his presence and accounting for his movements. He recommended that, if they wanted testimonials to his good character and general usefulness to the police, they should contact the Art Theft Department in Italy. A Signorina di Stefano, he added, spoke good enough English to praise him to the skies in language they would understand.

With some reluctance, the collective mind of the police edged slowly towards the conclusion that, if Forster had been given assistance in his final descent, then it was unlikely that Argyll had provided it, especially as the doctors later offered a preliminary opinion that he had been dead for twelve hours at least and Argyll could prove relatively easily that he had been in London at the time. While not ruling out some devious piece of skulduggery entirely, it didn’t really fit. Moreover, Bottando, in Flavia’s absence, did his duty by saying that in his opinion Argyll was a generally law-abiding type.

“And this picture,” Inspector Wilson said, “did you believe that Mr. Forster had it in his possession?”

“No. I’d be very surprised if he did. Anyone who kept a stolen painting for more than two decades would be a bit silly. Why bother to steal it in that case?”

“But it was your impression that he knew what you were referring to. When you mentioned it on the phone?”

“Oh yes. It seemed so. He said he’d talk to me about that. The ‘that’ was emphasized, you see.”

“You know what this picture is?”

“I have an approximate description. I was told about it a few days ago. Before that I’d never heard of it. It was a Madonna and child.”

“You don’t have a photograph, I suppose?”

Argyll shook his head and said that nobody had one.

“Very useful, sir. Thank you. Now, you got here…” And on they went, stating, typing, witnessing, confirming, signing. Eventually it was all over.

“Oh, and one other thing, sir. Your passport.”

“What about it?”

“Could I have it, sir?”

“What? Why?”

Wilson smiled apologetically. “You’ll get it back in a few days, I’m sure.”

“You mean I’m going to be stuck here?”

Wilson smiled again.

“But what about my job? I live in Italy, you know.”

“I know. That’s why we want your passport.”