Giotto's Hand

“Barking, if you know what I mean,” he said in a loud stage whisper that could be heard outside in the car park. “Of course, it was all kept private. But I was told she ate lots of pills. That’s what killed her, you know, the pills. Poor Mrs. Verney found her. She was staying as Miss Veronica was ill. Only relation who’d have anything to do with her. Anyway, Mrs. Verney went out to London for a day, came back, and there she was, dead in her bed.”

“What about Forster, then? You don’t seem to have liked him.”

George made a facial expression consistent with not liking someone. “Nasty man. Glad he’s dead. And it’s a pity you didn’t kill him, young man.”

“Oh? Why?”

“ ’Cause if you had, I’d buy you a drink.”

“You’re going to buy me one anyway,” Argyll said. “It’s your round. What was wrong with Forster?”

“Dishonest, crawling, mean, vicious.”

“A good start,” Argyll conceded. “Anything more specific?”

“Nothing that I’d tell you. But I will say I was always surprised that a respectable woman like Miss Veronica would have anything to do with him, if you see what I mean, and him married to that poor downtrodden woman who should have left him years ago.”

“Oh,” Argyll said, a confused enlightenment dawning.

“Not someone who was ever seen in here, I can tell you that for nothing,” the barman added from his side of the counter.

Sipping his beer, Argyll decided that this wasn’t really all that interesting. Nothing such as you might call a full curriculum vitae, so to speak. If he did indeed keep himself to himself, then no one in the village was going to know much about his art dealing. Only Mary Verney might be able to help there. Which meant that he was going to have to get her into a much longer conversation.

“Tell me,” he said abandoning the search for knowledge in the bar, “do you have a room for the night?”

A few minutes later he was led up into a bleak, cold chamber, the very sight and feel of which made shivers run up and down his spine. If one wanted to kill oneself, or maybe even write a neglected masterpiece in a romantic sort of way, it would have been ideal. If you wanted a good and comfortable night’s sleep, it wasn’t right at all. When the barman—who did have the grace to look embarrassed—mentioned the price, his spirit rebelled.

And a useful idea came to him. A bit of a nerve, of course. On the other hand, she had offered.

He marched back up the road, turned in on the gates once more, encouraged by the fact that lights were burning cheerfully in a couple of rooms on the ground floor, and knocked with more certainty than he felt on the door.

“Hello again,” he said with an apologetic smile as it swung open and an enquiring face appeared.

“Jonathan! What a pleasant surprise. I was afraid you were the local burglar come to visit me at last. Do come in. I’m having my late-night cocoa by the fire. Trying to keep warm.”

“Is that why you’re wearing a mac?”

“Eh? Oh, no. I was bringing in some wood. Chopped with my own fair hands. It’s another skill you learn

when you’re privileged. Come in. Would you like some cocoa? Slice of cake?”

Try as he might to avoid salivating, something about him must have given off strong hints about what he thought of a mere slice of cake.

“Are you hungry?” she asked with a motherly concern.

“Umm,” he said hesitating between politeness and self-interest.

“You are, aren’t you?”

He smiled regretfully, abandoning the politeness option. “I am absolutely starving,” he said. “I’ve never felt so hungry in my life. I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Oh, you poor thing. The state of the cuisine in the pub doesn’t reach great heights, does it? It was the sausage rolls that put you off, I suppose?”

“A sausage roll I could have managed. The Scotch eggs, though…”

“Ah, yes. I ate one of those once. I can do you a plate of bacon and eggs, with some fresh bread and butter. Not wonderful, but I’m afraid that’s about all there is, until I go shopping tomorrow. But they’re fresh eggs, at least. I have a hen, you know. I keep it in the state bedroom.”

“You really mustn’t,” he said, hoping she would brush the objection aside as mere politeness.

Being a well brought up lady, she did exactly that. “Why not? The bedroom’s not used for anything else. And hens are quite clean, if you treat them properly. Now,” she went on, “come down to the kitchen and do as you’re told. This won’t take long.”

“Is there really a local burglar?” he asked as he settled himself down and surrendered to the comforting feeling that being cooked for by a woman old enough to be your mother brings with it.

“Oh, yes,” she said, as she broke the eggs and fiddled with the bacon. “At least, it strikes me it’s a local.”

“Why?”

“Because all the houses burgled belong to the foreign interlopers.”

“The Americans?”