Giotto's Hand

Argyll was leaning against the bar of the pub and, very much less chirpy than before, considering the miserable choices before him. He had arrived just before nine, and went to the bar for some food before seeing about somewhere to stay for the night.

Scotch egg, pickled onion, pork scratchings, came the reply. Or we could do you a nice ham sandwich, if you like. There might be one left over from lunch-time.

He shook his head in mixed sadness and horror. A pint of bitter and a packet of crisps, please.

“Don’t blame you,” came a voice, clearly not local and more likely hailing from somewhere in the vicinity of Wisconsin. He looked to the end of the bar, and spied two men, one old, gnarled, bright-eyed and local and the other young, fresh-faced, glum and foreign. He was in uniform and the one who had roused himself to comment on the quality of the traditional pub fayre.

“You’re new around here, aren’t you?” asked the wizened old duffer perched on the stool, taking over the conversation.

“You’re the person I saw in Forster’s house this morning,” he continued accusingly. “The one who told me to move along. You in the police then?”

There was going to be no escape, that was clear. Probably everybody in East Anglia knew who he was by now and wanted a private conversation about Geoffrey Forster. But, as with Mary Verney, that was all right as long as it was mutually advantageous. Argyll knew of no reason why he should be discreet.

“No,” he said. “I just found the body.”

“You kill him?”

The question rather took Argyll aback. It seemed a bit rude, really. He hastened to explain that he had only ever seen Forster dead.

“Who did kill him, then?”

“I really don’t know. What makes you think anyone killed him?”

“Hope they did,” the old man said, and the Wisconsin flyer looked glumly into his beer.

“Right,” he said. Not a brilliant conversationalist.

“This is Hank,” the old duffer continued. “He’s got another name, but there’s no point telling you what it is. It’s unpronounceable. That’s because he’s foreign. I’m George.”

Argyll nodded politely.

“So, who do the police think did it?” he continued methodically, lest he leave a loophole for Argyll to hide relevant information in. “Anyone seen leaving the scene of the crime?”

“Not as far as I know. And I don’t even know it was a crime,” Argyll repeated.

“Met Mrs. Verney already, I gather,” George continued, switching direction rapidly.

“Oh. Yes. I met her. Nice woman, I thought.”

“A dark one, her.”

“Oh yes? Why’s that?”

“She’s a foreigner. Only came here when she got Weller House. When Miss Veronica died.”

“So I gather.”

“Not got the ways, you know.”

“What ways?”

“Tries hard, I’ll give her that. But she doesn’t really know. Take the village fête.”

“What about the village fête?” Argyll asked politely. He wished he could find a way of steering the conversation back to Forster. Oddly, they didn’t seem to want to talk about him. He would have thought that a real murder would have got them chattering away like crazy.

“Refused to turn up. Too busy, she said. That’s the trouble, y’see. She’s not here so often. Always going down to London and places. Miss Veronica, now. She never missed a fête in her life, even though she was sick all the time.”

“Now, George, don’t go prattling,” said the barman easily as he came over to return a pint glass to its rightful place. “This gentleman doesn’t want to hear about Mrs. Verney.”

“Quite right,” Argyll said, deciding that the direct approach might be better. “I want to hear about Geoffrey Forster.”

“Pfuff! A piece of scum, he was,” was George’s considered opinion on this. “And I’ll say this for Mrs. Verney, she’d have no truck with him. She may be odd, but she’s no fool.”

“So why did she sell him a house?”

“That was Miss Veronica’s doing,” he said. “Thought he was wonderful, she did. Thought the sun shone out of his backside. Course, she was a bit…”

“George,” said the barman sharply. “Now you shut up. I’ll not have that sort of idle gossip here.”

What sort of gossip? Argyll thought. Come along, you old fool. Don’t listen to him…

“It’s not gossip,” George protested, “I’m not saying anything…”

“Can I buy you a drink?” asked the gossip-hating Argyll.

“Don’t mind if I do. Pint, please. And a half for the dog.”

A small mongrel looked up expectantly from the floor, with bright eyes and a slightly alcoholic expression. The American airman said he had to get back to base, and wandered off with a couple of comrades who’d been playing a surprisingly good game of darts.

When master and dog both had their snouts stuck in a bowl of bitter, Argyll resumed the hunt. He decided he’d start discreetly.

“And what about Miss Beaumont? What was she like?”

George scowled as he swivelled round to see if the barman was in earshot, decided he had a brief opening as the man drew a Guinness at the far end of the bar, and then discreetly tapped the side of his head.