Giotto's Hand

A long digestive pause from central Rome. “Ah, well. No matter. It’s not your fault. You can’t create criminals—or evidence—where none exist. If you can come back by tomorrow that would be helpful.”

She put the phone down, and sat quietly, lost in thought about the various options, all of them unsavoury, which presented themselves.

“Poor old Bottando,” Argyll commented.

“Hmm. I think he’s deluding himself about the support he’s going to get. Personally, I don’t think anyone will help him. I think he’s losing his grip on political realities, you know.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

She pursed her lips and thought. “My best, I suppose,” she said without much conviction that this was going to be good enough. “I’ll have to go back. I can’t say I relish watching the old fellow being gored to death, but at least I’ll be able to give what support I can. Come on. I think I need a chat with Mrs. Verney. And a stiff drink.”

It’s awkward to go asking pointed questions of your hostess, not least because she might take offence and render you suddenly homeless. On top of that, Flavia rather liked the woman. She was generous, lively, and very good company.

But the fact remained that the clock was ticking. Flavia still had no proof of anything, but she was fairly certain, on such knowledge as she possessed, that she knew what had been going on. The only problem was that being right was as bad as not knowing anything at all.

“Ah, you’re back,” Mary said cheerfully as they trooped into the kitchen. She gave the mixture in her pot a quick stir then replaced the lid. “I hope you’ve had a profitable day.”

She looked up at them, and scrutinized their faces carefully. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Graveyard looks. It’s serious talk time, is it?”

“If you don’t mind.”

She took off her apron, tossed it over the back of the chair, and got out a tray, some glasses and a bottle.

“These may be needed,” she observed. “Come on, then. Back to the sitting room. Let’s see what you want.”

Very much in control, she swept out of the kitchen, and up the stairs to the sitting room, with Flavia close behind and Argyll bringing up the rear with the tray. He was in full agreement that it was of central importance, and busied himself pouring and distributing while the other two settled themselves into position in the overstuffed armchairs and prepared for combat.

“All right then,” Flavia began. “I’ll give you an account of the day Forster died. Round about lunch-time, Jonathan and Edward Byrnes are eating together. At two-thirty, or thereabouts, he rings Forster and says he wants to talk to him about a picture. A stolen one. Immediately afterwards, it seems, Forster leaves the house and heads for Norwich, where he visits and empties his safe deposit box. Later that evening, he is visited by George Barton, and has an acrimonious fight about George’s forthcoming eviction. George leaves, and is seen by his son-in-law, Gordon. Around nine o’clock, Forster falls down the stairs, breaks his neck and dies.

“His body is discovered the next morning by Jonathan. Gordon, at the time of the death, is in bed with Sally, the barmaid; George was visiting his daughter and Mrs. Forster was with her lover.”

“With her what?” Mary said with astonishment.

“True, apparently.”

“Good God! My opinion of her rises all the time.”

“Yes. Anyway, the point is that nobody saw, heard, smelt, suspected, divined or guessed that anything was wrong. So much so that the police here, I gather, now agree. As far as they are concerned, the case of Forster’s death is closed until such time as there is some evidence to justify reopening it.”

“That’s a relief,” Mary said. “Everybody will be very pleased.”

“So what do we conclude? That Forster’s trip into Norwich had nothing to do with Jonathan. That his death was an accident. That his willingness to talk to him about a stolen Uccello was also unconnected to his death.”

Mary Verney looked placidly interested, but said nothing.

“Even so, there is evidence that Forster was connected in some way with the theft of pictures. Three statements from three people, none of whom know each other, all point to that. And, of course, there was the burning of Forster’s papers, for which deed we must pencil in Mrs. Forster. She returns to find her husband dead and also under investigation as a thief on a grand scale. Perhaps she knows it’s true. So to protect what little money she has, she decides to bring the police investigation into this angle of her husband’s life to an abrupt halt. End of story.”

Mary Verney continued to look calm, but companionably distressed at such an unsatisfactory conclusion.

“The trouble is, of course,” Flavia went on, “that however agreeable this is as an explanation, it is not true.”

“Oh. Are you sure?”

“Fairly certain, yes.” .

“Why?”