Giotto's Hand

“Well, I tell you Forster may have been a crook, and you pooh-pooh the idea, even though you loathed him. The police arrest Gordon and you dismiss the notion that he might be a murderer, even though you reckon he’s a burglar.”

She shrugged. “I prefer to think that I reach a balanced account of people. I mean, please don’t stop trying to prove Geoffrey was a thief: nothing I’d like better. Who knows, you may even be right. I’m willing to be persuaded. Give me that cooking wine, will you? On the side over there.”

“Oh. Tell me more about him,” he said directly, sitting himself down at the kitchen table in a companionable fashion and, rather shame-facedly, pouring the contents of his own contribution into two glasses.

“More? What do you want to know now?”

“Everything. Did you know him well? What was he like?”

“Ah,” she said, stirring thoughtfully. “Complicated story.” She paused for a while as she added a bit of pepper to her potatoes, then stirred furiously again. “Why not, though? Everyone’s dead. You know he was my cousin’s lover?”

“It was hinted at in the pub,” he replied. “But it was a little ambiguous.”

“That’s unlike them. They’re normally quite graphic. Anyway, Forster met her a long time back, I gather. He knew the family off and on, and got his foot in the door when Uncle Godfrey died, helping with fending off the inheritance taxes. But he really locked on to her a couple of years before she died. Pure exploitation, of course.”

“In what way?”

“Veronica was not the world’s most attractive person, alas. I don’t mean physically, but she was—well, not exactly a warm and vibrant personality, if you see what I mean. And you may have heard that she was a little unstable. Forster spotted her weakness, and when his business got into trouble, he laid siege to her, simply to get his hands on the family silver, as far as I can see. I’m not entirely certain what he sold; nor was Veronica, she always said she trusted him and what was the point of expert advisers if you had to check up on them all the time? I’ll give him this, he was a great actor.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“I mean, one knew he was loathsome: that was obvious to everyone except Veronica. But one never knew quite why he was loathsome, or what he was up to. You just knew that he wasn’t to be trusted. God knows how his wife ever put up with him.”

“Ah, yes. The wife. Where is she?”

“I gather on the grapevine that she was spending a few days in London when he died. She should be back any moment. At least she isn’t going to be suspected of giving him a good shove.”

“Why do you say that? Is that you just being optimistic about human nature again?”

She looked puzzled for a moment at the need to explain. “Because it’s absolutely inconceivable, that’s why. Though the Lord knows, she has motive.”

“What’s she like?”

“Simple and innocent, swept off her feet by an older man with forked tongue before she’s old enough to know any better. Not that age had much to do with it, in her case, I fear. Very, very stupid. One of life’s victims. Not much character, I’m afraid: a bit colourless. The sort who looks as though she washes her face in bleach every evening. Doesn’t know how to look after herself. She’s quite sweet, but no resilience; she put up with him for years and years. Why should she suddenly snap now?”

“People do.”

“They do. But if she’d killed him, she would have had to go to her sister, sneak back to push him down the stairs, then slip away again. Which would need a bit of forward planning. That sort of cold calculation is not her style.”

Argyll gave her a disapproving glance, and she smiled reassuringly.

“You look sceptical. You shouldn’t be. You haven’t met her. Besides, as far as I can tell, it’s far from certain he was killed deliberately. Why do you assume he was?”

“Simply because it’s an awful coincidence that he died just before I got to talk to him.”

“Look on the bright side: it spared you an unpleasant encounter.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I know. But it’s only a coincidence if Geoffrey was indeed a thief.”

“He said he’d talk to me about a stolen painting.”

“Probably just to threaten to sue you for slander.”

“But you didn’t like Forster. Or trust him?”

“That’s about it. He used people, and dumped them when he’d finished, and he was a liar and a cheat. Maybe that’s helpful if you’re an art dealer. Perhaps you should try it.”

“So what did your cousin see in him?”

“He had a certain charm. If you like that sort of thing, which I don’t very much,” she conceded. “Handsome enough in a sort of slick fashion. And poor old Veronica was a bit unhappy. She married and her husband died young. Silly ass got drunk at their fifth anniversary junket, fell into a pond and drowned in five inches of water. Too sozzled to roll over. Even Veronica thought he was a bit hopeless; that was why she went back to using her own name: she reckoned the Beaumont was more worthwhile preserving than Finsey-Groat. And she never found anyone else worth sacrificing the family name for.