Giotto's Hand

There was another long pause, as Lucy thought some more and Argyll reflected about the adverse impact of office politics on character. “Now. Tell me,” she went on, coming out of her reverie, “what exactly do you want?”

“That depends on how much you’re prepared to help.”

“We have a policy of the utmost cooperation with the police to assist them in trying to make the art market a more honest and reputable place.”

“Really?”

“No. But in this particular case I think we should make a start. What do you want?”

“Two things, then. Firstly, a list of everything Forster sold through you. And bought, I suppose. Secondly, I’d like to know whether your firm did the inventory on Weller House.”

“Post-mortem?”

He nodded. “Somebody did; it would have been official valuers and Forster was in charge then. It struck me he might well have chosen you. Your firm does that sort of thing, doesn’t it?”

She grunted. “Oh, yes. If the owners decide to sell it gives us a head start. That at least I can help you with. On the other hand, his trading might be a bit more difficult. All the details will be in Alex’s office and I don’t want to disturb him, if you see what I mean.”

“Of course.”

“Hold on.”

And she disappeared into the next office, carefully making sure that there was no one in it. Argyll heard the sound of file drawers being slid in and out, then a pause, then the whirring and clunking of a photocopying machine. Eventually, she returned, bearing a few sheets of paper.

“I’ve got the inventory at least. We did it at the end of January,” she said. “I only copied the paintings for you; I’d have been there all day if I’d done the furniture as well.”

“That’s fine.”

She handed the sheets over. “Pretty motley collection,” she said. “We’re not the greatest auction house in the world, but even we get to deal with higher quality stuff. Ninety-nine in all.”

“Paintings?”

“Er, hold on.” She counted quickly. “Seventy-two paintings. The rest are drawings. What’s the matter? You look disappointed.”

“There’s more than I was expecting.”

“Oh. Anyway, there’s scarcely anything worth bothering about in the whole lot. Nearly all pretty ordinary family portraits. One supposed Kneller, but that apparently is a bit dubious. There’s a note from the person who did it saying if that’s a Kneller, he’s a cucumber. The rest are even worse.”

He nodded. “Now, I’ve taken more of your time than I should. I should leave you.”

“Not before you promise to keep me fully informed of everything that you find that concerns us.”

Argyll agreed.

“And put me up for a week when I come to Rome in September.”

Argyll agreed.

“And sell pictures through us if you ever use a London auction house.”

He agreed to that.

“And take me out for dinner before you leave.”

And that. As he left he wondered whether he could give the bill to Bottando.

11

He got back to Byrnes’s gallery about half an hour after Flavia, and the two of them then slogged their way across central London to get to the station. Liverpool Street Station at five-thirty in the evening requires a strong stomach and nerves of steel even when you’re used to it; for Flavia it resembled nothing so much as a scene from Dante’s Inferno. A post-modern, recently-restored Inferno, no doubt, but even the fine restoration work on the station could not disguise the basic chaos of the transport.

“Dear God,” she said as she followed Argyll towards what was flagged as the 5:15 to Norwich, but which was still hanging around in the station, “are you serious?”

She looked at the ancient carriages with the doors hanging open, the windows filthy with years of grime and the paint peeling off, then shook her head in disbelief. Then she peered through the caked mud and saw the hundreds of commuters crammed in with barely a square millimetre of space, each one gamely reading a newspaper and pretending this was a civilized way of spending their brief sojourn on earth. “Is this the express service to Belsen, or something?” she asked.

Argyll coughed with embarrassment. It’s always awkward, being in the position of feeling patriotically obliged to defend the indefensible. “It’ll get us there,” he said lamely. “I hope.”

“But why don’t these people just get off and put a match to the thing?” she asked with the incredulity that only someone who lives in a country with an effective train service can muster.

Argyll was halfway through explaining that British Rail would just transfer the charred wrecks to the Brighton line when a loud crackle was followed by an incomprehensible booming around the station.

“What?” asked Flavia, frowning and trying to make it out.

“I don’t know.”

The grunting and mumbling seemed to be understood by the passengers on the train, however. With one huge collective sigh, they folded their newspapers, picked up their briefcases, got off and organized themselves on the platform. None seemed particularly perturbed by the fact that the train should have pulled out of the station twenty minutes ago.