Giotto's Hand

“For example, the fact that Forster was carrying on with the cleaning girl, and Mrs. Forster didn’t like it one bit. She may look like a long-suffering simpleton, but even she must have got a bit annoyed by that. Can’t say I blame her, either. And there is the problem of the London trip, of course,”

“Which problem is that?”

“Mrs. Forster is in London, staying with her sister. But on the evening of Forster’s death, she goes on her own to the cinema. She leaves the house at five, and comes back way after midnight. I know some films need some editing, but nine hours is a bit long, even for one of these avant-garde things. Acts a bit oddly, so the sister says, when asked why she was out so late.”

“And what does she say to you?”

“She says she was out, went for a walk, ate, saw a film, then, as it was a nice evening, walked home. Maybe she did.

“But now there’s the affair of the burning papers,” he went on. “And who could have burnt them but her? Safeguarding her position by destroying evidence of what he was up to? Not wanting her husband’s estate confiscated by outraged victims?”

“Have you had any response from the Belgians about that picture Winterton mentioned?”

Manstead nodded. “I have. A nice man, that, by the way. Kind of you to put me in contact. As for the picture, they sent this. It’s still in the collection.”

He slipped out a slightly murky photograph from his file and, with a little smile of expectation, handed it to Flavia. It was very far from being a clear image. Flavia peered at it, and grunted.

“We’ve also shown it to the Earl of Dunkeld, who swears blind it’s his. Pollaiuolo. St. Mary the Egyptian.”

Flavia nodded, and sipped her beer. “How was it stolen?”

“Simplicity itself. Big family wedding on”—here he paused and looked at his notes—“the Saturday. 10th July 1976. Blushing bride marches down the aisle, organ plays, confetti thrown, party held in the ballroom—such useful things to have about the house, ballrooms, don’t you think? Anyway, the whole thing is a huge success. Flawless. Everything right and proper and wonderful. Except that in the morning the library had this picture hanging up in it. Late at night a tired but proud father goes in for a quiet and relaxing sit down…”

“Blank spot on the wall?”

Manstead nodded. “Exactly. By which time everybody had gone home. Could have been anyone of seven hundred miscellaneous guests, relatives, caterers, musicians or vicars.”

“Has anyone cast an eye over the guest list?”

“I’m sure they did. But I assume nothing came of it.”

“Could they do it again?”

“I’ll ask. Of course, if Forster was as good as your boss reckons, he would hardly have been there under his own name. Might not even have been on the guest list at all. Long time ago, as well. You can look at the file yourself, if you want.”

“Please. So. How did it get to Belgium?”

“That’s the problem, of course,” Manstead said with a smile. “The man who bought it is dead. And, naturally, his records don’t say. Wouldn’t, would they?”

“Any note about Forster selling them anything?”

“No.”

“Oh,” said a disappointed Flavia.

“Sorry about that.”

“But he did know about it. That’s important. It means there are now hazy links between Forster and the disappearance of one Uccello, a Pollaiuolo, and a Fra Angelico. Three stolen paintings, dating between 1963 and 1991, and all on my boss’s list of thefts by Giotto’s hand. His own distinctive style, as you might say.”

“Impressive, and very hopeful. But there is nothing absolutely solid for any of them. Hazy, as you say. Now, Where’s that beer of mine?” he wondered.

In fact, Manstead’s beer had been ambushed, or at least Argyll had. He had scarcely given the order to the barman when George, who might well have been lying in wait for hours, docked alongside him.

“Hello again, young man,” he said to open proceedings. “What’s been going on, then?”

“Not a lot,” Argyll said airily, as he watched the barman’s wife, whose name, he gathered, was Sally, pull the pints. “You probably know as much as I do.”

“In that case, they’re not going to find anyone, are they? ’Cause I know nothing at all. Except that someone burnt all of Forster’s papers, his wife’s back, and that they’re going to have to let Gordon Brown go sooner or later.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because he didn’t do it. He’s got an alibi.”

“First I heard,” said Argyll, noticing that George was speaking in a remarkably loud voice.

“I know,” he said. “But someone’ll tell you soon enough. No doubt about that. Bound to. Even I know he didn’t do it.” And, giving everybody in hearing distance what was unmistakably a significant look, George nodded sagely to himself, picked up the remains of his pint, and walked off to his comer seat. Argyll got the strong feeling that the man had delivered his message. He was just uncertain who the message had been delivered to. It certainly wasn’t him.