Giotto's Hand

He found out at about ten that evening, as the trio were clearing away the table in the morning room and beginning the task of carrying everything down to the kitchen. A good meal, except for a bumpy start: Flavia had been asked to cook some pasta and, despite her protestations that cooking really wasn’t her area of expertise, she had given in eventually. Mary Verney had this certainty that all Italians are born cookers of pasta. Her opinion changed somewhat after the first course.

And then the doorbell went.

“Unexpected late night calls seem to be popular all of a sudden,” Mary said as she got up and prepared to go on the long voyage across the saloon, through the entrance hallway to the door. It was a trip that took several minutes, and she returned only to poke her head through the door and summon them to the little sitting room which was the only properly comfortable part of the house.

“It’s Sally,” she explained as she led them through the darkened hallway. “The barman’s wife. Don’t know what she wants. But I’m feudally obliged to listen, and as it seems to be about Geoffrey, I thought you might want to hear as well.”

Sally, the barman’s wife, was standing in her coat looking mightily uncomfortable, until Mary sat her down by the fire, beamed maternally and made appropriately reassuring noises.

“I said I had a headache and left Harry to close up,” she said. “I’m so sorry to bother you but… oh!”

Her face fell as she turned round and saw Flavia and Argyll.

“What’s the matter?”

“I think I’ve made a mistake. Perhaps I ought to go.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mary said firmly. “If you need to talk to me on your own, then those two can go for a walk.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, now panicking and wavering in her resolve. “I’m sorry I came at all. But I thought you might tell me what to do…”

“Just so,” said a curiously unsurprised Mary. “I think, if I can give you a little piece of advice, you would be well advised to tell Miss di Stefano your story as well. You can rely on her.”

“But what about him?” Sally said, pointing at Argyll. “He gossips with George. All the time.”

Mary went into the hallway and let out a piercing whistle, putting both fingers into her mouth to produce the right effect. It echoed through the great rooms like an air-raid siren, and in response there was a muffled barking and a patter of eager canine feet. She picked Argyll’s coat off the hook and tossed it at him.

“Please, Jonathan. A little favour. In the interests of village serenity. Take Frederick for his evening constitutional. Walkies! Walkies!” she said, switching her attention to the beast that came running expectantly through the door.

“Women’s business,” she went on, noting that Argyll seemed markedly less enthusiastic than Frederick at the prospect. “Come back in half an hour.”

By the time he got halfway to the gate, Flavia was regarding the unhappy woman with what she hoped was an air of encouraging sympathy. Sally was in her late thirties, heavy in the face and pale from too much bad food and too many hours confined behind the bar of the pub. A pretty face though. With a little bit of care, she thought to herself… But, as Argyll constantly told her, that was not the way things were done here.

Whatever Sally had come for, she was not over eager to tell them about it. She sat in a sullen silence, staring down at the carpet, unable to begin.

“Perhaps if I helped,” Mary prompted. “You’ve come about Gordon, is that right?”

“Oh, Mrs. Verney, yes,” she said in a rush. It was as though the older woman had pulled the bung out of a barrel. The words suddenly started gushing out. “He didn’t do anything wrong. I suppose everybody knows he steals things and he can get rough. But not like that.”

“The police seem to like the idea,” Mary said.

“But they’re wrong. I know they are.”

“And why is that?”

Sally lapsed into silence again.

“Because he was with you? Is that it?”

She nodded, and looked up with alarm.

“Tell us what happened,” Flavia suggested.

“Perhaps I should explain first of all,” Mary said. “Gordon is married to Louise. Formerly Louise Barton. George’s daughter. That’s why Sally didn’t want Jonathan to overhear this.”

Then Sally began her tale. It was simple enough. Both she and her husband worked behind the bar only at busy periods. At weekends they got in help, but ordinarily they managed on their own. Most lunch-times and evenings either one or the other worked the bar. On the day Forster died, it was Harry, and his wife had the evening off. The bar of the pub was downstairs, and the living quarters upstairs at the back. At eight o’clock, just as it was getting busy and she knew her husband would be occupied until closing time, Gordon had left the bar, gone round the back and climbed up the drainpipe and into her room. He’d stayed there until he’d heard the bell for closing time, then disappeared the way he’d come.