Giotto's Hand

“Depends on how resilient the breed is. In the case of my family, not very. They die like flies. I’m about the last. My Uncle Godfrey, who reduced the place to the dire state which you can see, dropped off his perch about fifteen years ago. His daughter died last winter. Leaving me this bloody mausoleum, for which generosity I was not overly grateful. And her dog, of course. Worst day of my life, when I inherited this place. The dog’s OK, though.”

“You don’t have to live here, do you? Couldn’t you just close it up and move into a comfortable bungalow?”

She sighed as she poured the boiling water into a kettle the size of a bathtub. “Then who’d fix the fuses when they blow? Or the plumbing when it gets stuck? Or the roof when it leaks? Without constant attention this baroque slum would fall down in a week. You can’t just walk out and leave it. And before you suggest it, don’t think I haven’t thought about it. Fat insurance policy, nice fire, and me crying my eyes out as I cash the check.”

Argyll sat down at the kitchen table and grinned at her.

“But, of course, I’d get caught, wouldn’t I? And I’m damned if I’m going to spend the rest of my life in jail for this place.”

“You can’t give it to someone?”

She snorted. “Who? I’m the only Beaumont who’s ever earned a penny. If I can’t manage, that lot certainly couldn’t. The only thing to be said for them is that they’re too sensible to try. They know a loser when they see one.”

“What about the National Trust?”

“They’d take it. But not encumbered with debts, which is the problem at the moment. So I’m stuck with it, unless I can lay my hands on some cash. Funny world, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you have a couple of million you have no use for? We could turn the place into a conference centre, or fill it with geriatrics and squeeze every last penny out of them.”

“Not on me.”

“Pity.”

“No children, then?”

“Three. Twins and a single. They’re all scattered to the winds, thank God. I mean, I love them dearly, but now they’re off learning for themselves how beastly life is, I find my existence is very much calmer. Quite like being young again.”

“Goodness.”

“Now, tell me about yourself. Who are you? Where do you come from? Do you live alone? Are you married? What, most importantly, is going on in the village? And are you responsible for it?”

So Argyll sang for his tea, giving the details of his life as the vivaciously waspish woman opposite nodded and asked supplementary questions. Her eager cross-questioning over the death of Geoffrey Forster would have done a skilled lawyer proud. For the first time since he got off the plane, he felt relaxed, and as a result he stayed chattering much longer than he should.

“But are you a good art dealer, dear?” she asked after she’d exhausted the topic of Geoffrey Forster and moved on to excavate Argyll’s personal life.

He shrugged. “I’m not bad at the art bit. It’s the dealing side that lets me down. I’m told I lack the killer instinct.”

“Not ruthless enough, eh?”

“That’s the general opinion. In fact, the main trouble is not having enough money to buy pictures in the first place. The really major dealers start off either with oodles of their own, or a backer who will put up capital. But I haven’t noticed the queues forming.”

“I wish you luck.”

“Thank you.”

And so the conversation harmlessly meandered along and it was nearly eight before he glanced at the clock on the wall, gave a start and stood up.

“Are you in a hurry?” she asked.

“Not exactly. But I should go; I have to find somewhere to stay the night.”

“Stay here.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that.”

“Please yourself. How long are the police going to be interested in you?”

“I’ve no idea. I can’t imagine what else they might need. But they seem to expect me to hang around. And they’ve got my passport as well.”

She nodded. “A bit of a captive, then. Tell you what, if you’re still here tomorrow, come for dinner. I can guarantee that the food will be better than the pub, if nothing else.”

Argyll said he’d be delighted.

6

Flavia got back from Florence in a fairly jolly mood, and before knocking off for the evening, went into the office to tell Bottando of her findings. “Is he about?” she asked Paolo, who was standing by the coffee machine.

“Think so,” replied the colleague. “Go carefully, though. He’s a real misery this afternoon. I was going to ask him for a day off, as a reward for catching the Leonardo man. I thought better of it when I saw his face. It was his compulsory overtime on a Sunday face.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know. Just getting old, I guess. However good you were once, too long doing the same thing…”

Aha. Forewarned is forearmed. Paolo had gone over to the enemy. She mounted the stairs with a proper mixture of sympathy and caution, to present her findings.

When she told him about her trip, however, he didn’t seem impressed. Just nodded in an absent-minded fashion.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Paolo said you were an old sourpuss today.”