Giotto's Hand

Undeniably, however, he was someone who needed to be eliminated from police enquiries, so they hauled him out of bed at ten in the morning and carted him off for a good going-over.

Much to police merriment, the fact that he and his mum hadn’t managed to synchronize their stories helped enormously. Although he started off being obstinate, then angry, it required little skill on the part of the policeman interrogating him to note that there was something of a discrepancy between his mother’s account of a blissful evening together, and Gordon’s memory that he had, instead, spent the entire period in his bedroom listening to music.

Even when Gordon obligingly changed his story to try and help out, the policeman was, with barely controlled delight, able to point out that while he maintained they had watched the football on BBC-1, his mother was strangely convinced they’d been watching the film on ITV.

“Film about football, was it, Gordon? Or maybe you’ve got two televisions, one in each comer of the room?”

Gordon, however, was not someone who knew how to give way gracefully. “We watched the film, then the football,” he explained.

The policeman pulled a copy of yesterday’s paper out of his pocket, and opened it at the television guide. “Odd,” he said, “I can’t see any football on offer yesterday. What match was this, Gordon?”

Gordon snarled, and lapsed into a sullen silence.

“Have it your own way, then. But I must tell you, Gordon boy, it’s not looking too good for you. Why don’t you just tell us what you were up to?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And killing that man. Tut, tut. I’m surprised at you. Not your sort of thing, really, is it? Murder, that is, Gordon. Nasty.”

Gordon blanched. “Didn’t kill no one,” he said. “What are you talking about? Who said anything about murder?”

The policeman ignored the question. It had been worth a try after all, even if the pathologists had still not made up their minds. All they knew so far was that he’d broken his neck by falling down the stairs, had a reasonable amount of alcohol in his blood supply and appeared to have eaten lamb chops and carrots for dinner. All very interesting; unfortunately, they were dithering and taking refuge in technicalities when it came to the important question.

“Of course,” the policeman went on, trying one last time to hurry things along. “We might accept manslaughter. Or even self defence, if you ask us nicely, and make our lives simple.”

But Gordon’s limited mental faculties had shut down. He sat there morosely, words like “brutality,” “persecution” and “harassment” half forming on his lips.

The policeman sighed and got up. “Ah, well. I’ve no doubt we’ll be seeing you later, Gordon.”

“These police are a bit secretive, dear,” Mary Verney said when Argyll ambled back to Weller House after a morning stroll and hung around the place wondering what to do. He ended up helping her chop vegetables for lunch. “It’s the modern age. Ask them the time and they look as though you’re a spy or something. You have to be firm with them. And talking of being firm, your fiancée rang. Flavia, is that right?”

“Yes,” he said, a bit surprised at the connection.

“She sounds quite charming,” she went on. “Very good English. She asked me to tell you she’d be coming to England this evening and would call when she got in. After she’s seen the police in London.”

“Aha!” Argyll said brightly.

“Which means you have a little explaining to do, if you please.”

“About what?”

“The seeing the police in London bit.”

Argyll considered this, and decided it was a reasonable request. “Simple enough,” he replied after a moment. “She’s in the Italian police. The Art Squad. And recently there have been one or two little questions about Forster.”

“Oh, yes?”

“It’s all a lot of nonsense, really, but I gather they’re quite keen to find out whether he stole lots of paintings, starting with an Uccello in Florence years back. The man in charge had this theory about some shadowy professional criminal working for umpteen years, and then some little old lady in Rome pointed the finger at Forster.”

“Really? And is there anything in it?”

“How should I know? But, of course, there are billions of unsolved thefts they would dearly love to pin on to somebody.”

“No doubt. But I’d drop Geoffrey if I were them,” Mary said after giving the idea careful thought. “I’ve always had this idea that master criminals should be dashing, flamboyant, romantic figures. If a little runt like Geoffrey Forster turned out to be one I would be profoundly disillusioned. I mean, he was a cheat and a bit of a bastard. But I don’t think he would have had the endurance to plan anything and carry it through.”

“No. On the other hand, people have been talking, and so it has to be investigated.”

“I suppose so,” she said meditatively. “But that’s something else you have to explain.”

“What?”

“What has this got to do with you?”

“Nothing. I was merely asked to find out what I could as I was in England. I rang, Forster said he wanted to talk to me, and…”