Giotto's Hand

“I don’t care one way or the other what it seems to you. But I suspect Miss di Stefano here knows exactly what I mean. A painting is stolen; the owner registers the loss and collects on the insurance. Has it really been stolen? Or has the owner sold it through a dealer and faked the theft so he can be paid twice? Does the new owner think he is buying a stolen work, or does he think he is buying a legitimate painting which is being sold discreetly for fear of having to hand over too much to the taxman? What some previous owner has done fifteen years ago and in another country is not my concern: making a living at art dealing is hard enough without going out of your way to find trouble. In my case, I decided the best thing to do would be not to get involved.”

“And give Forster office space upstairs as a little thank you for heading you away from trouble?”

Winterton nodded. “I would prefer to say that my opinion of him lifted a little after that. But not that much.”

Manstead felt decidedly ruffled at this, but noticed that Flavia remained perfectly calm, dealing with Winterton’s explanation as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Indeed, he got the distinct impression she even approved of his decision. Certainly, she didn’t bother to follow it up.

“Now,” she said, taking control of the questioning once more, ”how did Forster know it was stolen? That’s the important thing, isn’t it? If he had no finer feelings, spotting something as obscure as a Pollaiuolo would hardly come easily to him. So how did he know? Not a famous theft, or a famous collection.”

Winterton shrugged.

“He didn’t say, ‘I know it’s stolen because I stole it myself?’ ” she suggested.

Winterton looked ruffled, a state which Flavia found a great improvement. “Of course not,” he said eventually. “Firstly, I doubt he had it in him. And if he did, he would hardly tell me, would he? A bit stupid, even for him?”

“Not necessarily,” Flavia said thoughtfully. “After all, I assume you would have sold it on the London market, wouldn’t you? And it might have been awkward had it reappeared. After all, I assume you are good at your job—you must be to have achieved your current position—so you would have done a proper check on the painting’s provenance, and perhaps discovered one or two inconsistencies. Was the painting sold?”

“I believe not,” Winterton said.

“And you told the family that it was a bit doubtful.”

He nodded.

“There you are then. One quiet word, and Forster stops a sale which might have caused him considerable problems. Perhaps he was not as stupid as you think. Now, how about Forster’s clients? Do you know any names?”

“Not many,” he said, replying now with great reluctance and scarcely concealed irritation. “He did business at one stage helping families sell off their possessions, I know. When the market turned down he went into that line of business more or less full time. He virtually became an estate manager for the house near where he lived.”

“We know that.”

“That is the only name I know, I’m afraid, and I can’t help you with any details, never having acted for the family myself. And I gather his work ended when a new owner took over. But as I say, I had little to do with him.

“Now, then,” he said, standing up in an end-of-interview way, “please don’t hesitate to contact me if you think I may be of further assistance to you…”

“Of course,” Flavia murmured. Indeed, she was surprised that they’d been there for so long, and that they’d got so much out of him.

“What did you think?” she asked Manstead as they emerged once more on to the street.

“Outrageous!” he replied.

“You are new at this game, aren’t you?” she said with a faint smile.

“You mean that’s common?”

“Refusing a decent commission merely because of a little matter like a painting being stolen? Very uncommon. He’s more honest than I’d anticipated. Assuming he’s telling the truth. He might have gone ahead and sold it anyway, using someone else as a cover. Could you check?”

“What is this picture? Another one on Bottando’s list of Giotto’s greatest hits?”

“Yes, it is. That’s three connections. Uccello, Fra Angelico and Pollaiuolo. In fact, they’re beginning to pop up so fast I’m amazed Forster stayed out of jail long enough to die at home. Can you look into this Belgian collection?”

“I don’t know many people in Belgium.”

Flavia took out her notebook and scribbled a name and number on it. “Try him. Tell him I sent you. He’ll do his best.”

Manstead took the number and stuffed it in his pocket.

Flavia beamed at him. “I bet you’re getting sick of me.”

Manstead sighed. “Not at all,” he said gallantly.

Argyll’s own metropolitan labours—apart from picking up some clean clothes—took the form of a social call on an old friend of his called Lucy Carton. Old friend was, perhaps, pushing it a bit. considering that they had only vaguely known each other some years back, but it is amazing how fondly you begin to think of even virtual strangers when you need a favour of them.