Giotto's Hand

“So, no husband, no children, no friends. Easy meat for someone to come along and fleece her.”

“Is that what he did?”

“Well, he was selling stuff off, never producing any accounts, and I’m certain he was keeping a large chunk of money for himself. I tried to make her see sense, but she was too goggle-eyed. Dimwit.”

“When did she die?”

“January. I was here; she’d had an attack and I was summoned by Dr. Johnson yet again to see what was to be done with her this time. No one else would come. She was a depressive, you know.”

“It was mentioned.”

“She had these turns. For ages she’d be fine, then she’d go crazy.”

“What sort of crazy?”

“Oh, all sorts of crazy. She’d go on a fugue; just disappear for a week or so; nobody ever knew where she’d been. Or she’d lock herself in the house and refuse to see anyone. Or she’d sit and drink. Or something. When she died, she was in a big one and just overdid the drink and the pills.”

“Why did you look after her?”

She shrugged. “There was no one else. She refused proper treatment and when she was really bad I was the only person who could do anything with her at all. She was virtually intolerable, I must say. I went out one day and she killed herself. I like to think it was an accident, although I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s silly, but we’d just had a fight. About Forster, in fact. It was beginning to dawn on her that he wasn’t that wonderful after all. She asked me what I thought, and I told her to get rid of him. At which point she blew up and called me all the names under the sun. I marched out in a huff, and she consoled herself with half a bottle of whisky and half a bottle of pills. Had I been a bit more resilient…”

“You feel you’re to blame?”

She shook her head. “Only when I’m in a bad mood. When I’m in a good mood I realize it was a disaster waiting to happen. Sooner or later she would have pushed it too far. It’s just a pity she couldn’t have left me out of it. Typical of her, really.”

“Were you close?”

“Not so you’d notice. In fact, I don’t suppose we liked each other, if truth be told. But she left this place to me simply because she wanted it kept in the family, and I was the closest relation who wasn’t a total deadbeat. Although I can’t say I have enough to keep it up, or the inclination either. More rabbit?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Some summer pudding, then? It’s very good.”

“I’d love some.”

She spooned it out, covered it with thick cream, and allowed Argyll a few moments to eat, admire and eat some more.

“Where do you fit into this family of yours?” he asked, desperate for a bit of context into which he could place his nosing through the family papers.

“On to me now, are we? OK. I’m the daughter of the family black sheep, Mabel,” she said, “who went to the bad. Although she had a much more interesting life than anyone here. Until she got sick, at least.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“It was, in a way. Mother was artistic, which in gentry-speak is always a euphemism for being unbalanced, if not actually certifiable. This is why I always had more sympathy for Veronica than most people. More practice. Mother spent a typical youth and was supposed to inherit Weller House—there were no sons, despite my grandmother’s conscientious efforts—find a rich husband who would rebuild the finances and generally do her duty. Instead, she got all sorts of ideas, and suddenly upped and left to become a war nurse in Spain, which shocked the family enormously. Being bountiful to the unemployed was one thing; wiping Bolshevik bums was quite another, and so naturally they disinherited her. From their point of view it was a natural thing to do, and I don’t know that Mother minded much. I was born under what you might call ambiguous circumstances just before the war started. She died when I was fourteen. The family, very reluctantly, took me over and tried to make a lady out of unpromising material, and I suppose failed quite badly. End of story. Am I boring you?”

“Lordy, no. Tell me more.”

“Not much else to tell, really. I married, had children and my husband and I parted company, giving me an adequate settlement.”

“That’s the Verney bit?”

“That’s it. He was a decent soul, really. I just hated him. At which point my life story becomes very dull and uninteresting. I moved around from place to place, settled in London, did this, that and the next thing.”

“You never married again?”

She shook her head. “No suitable candidates presented themselves. Not for the long-term, anyway. By the way,” she went on, making one of those leaps of the imagination which Argyll was beginning to find alarming. “Flavia rang again.”

“Oh?”

“Could you meet her in London tomorrow at lunch-time?”

“Oh. That’s a pity. I was quite beginning to enjoy myself here.”

“Are you indeed? Splendid. In that case you can come back. Will she be coming here as well?”

“I’ve no idea. Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“In that case, I hope she will make less of a fuss about staying here than you did. Coffee?”

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