Giotto's Hand

“Good. I don’t know why it’s important to me. But it is.”

She shrugged, slightly bemused by herself, then picked up the glasses and bottle and loaded them on the tray, leaving Argyll moodily staring at the fireplace. For the last ten days, it seemed, everybody he’d met had been telling him to make up his mind. He’d never really thought of himself as being so feeble, but majority opinion seemed against him. A bit much for a murderer to give him lectures, but certainly no one could say she was overburdened by doubt and uncertainty.

And she was quite right in one thing. This time he had to make a choice quickly. He looked at the drawing. So very beautiful, and certainly more than he’d ever dreamt of. The Moresby Museum would be happy to give him a fortune for it. But, however lovely it was, it now represented all the silly mistakes he’d made in the past day or so. He stared glumly at the drawing; odd how he was thinking about that, not about Forster. Think, he told himself. Was she right? He envisioned the scene. Flavia would believe him. The police would come back. There would be no Vélasquez. Nobody in the village would say a peep. There wasn’t much chance of making much progress.

And the disadvantages? They’d have to call in the English police, who would be bound to make a formal protest. Flavia would certainly not come out of it well. And as for Bottando… No. She was right there, too.

And the Leonardo. Was he really prepared to see something so pretty destroyed simply because he was upset at being beaten? Wouldn’t that make things worse?

Yes. But, if he took it, he’d be compromised. That was the point of the gift, of course.

“Well?” she said. “What’s it to be?”

“Tell me one thing. You say you stole thirty-one pictures?”

“Thirty-two including the Fra Angelico. I don’t count that.”

“And the nineteen that Winterton told Flavia about?”

“Were the ones whose new owners could not identify us. The others will have to stay in hiding in case someone speaks out of turn. I’m sure Flavia realized that when she was talking to him.”

Put like that, there wasn’t a great deal to be said about it. She was right. There was nothing he could do anyway. So, feigning a certainty he was far from feeling, Argyll stood and picked up the drawing. The move was his answer to all the questions, and Mary saw that instantly.

“Good,” she said seriously. “I hope you don’t take it amiss if I say you are taking the right decision. And having leapt that hurdle, why don’t you follow up by marrying her as well?”

Argyll smiled sadly and walked silently to the door.

“Jonathan.”

He turned round and looked at her.

“I really am sorry, you know.”

He nodded, and left.

A few minutes later, Weller House was disappearing in his rear view mirror and he was driving along the road which led to the motorway, London and the airport. He pulled out into the middle of the road to avoid George Barton walking home to his cottage. He at least came out of this well. He waved, then came up to the patch of road he had pranced up and down on a few days previously to attract the attention of PC Hanson. He was deeply miserable, and could not get out of his head what had happened. Every time he tried, all that happened was that he thought of the beautiful, hateful drawing on the passenger seat. His greatest triumph, and look what had to happen before he could achieve it.

Without even suspecting himself of what he was going to do, he slowed down and turned the car down the narrow driveway, stopped and got out. OK, he thought. Flavia can lie for Bottando, then I can do the same for her. Serves me right. But I am damned if I’m going to turn into Arthur Winterton. Sod that.

There was a light on in the house, and Jessica Forster opened up when he knocked at the door. He thought he’d say hello. He sort of identified with her. Used, manipulated, exploited. The only difference was that she didn’t appear to feel sorry for herself on quite the grand scale that Argyll did.

“I’m just going,” Argyll explained. “I thought I’d see how you were doing. My name’s Argyll, by the way.”

Mrs. Forster smiled with sad pleasure and insisted he get out of the rain. “Come in, please, Mr. Argyll. It was kind of you to call. You’re the friend of that Italian woman, aren’t you?”

Argyll said he was. She had gone back to Italy in a bit of a rush, he explained, which was why she hadn’t said goodbye personally. So she’d asked him to do it instead.

Jessica Forster nodded. “Thank her for the thought. She’s a kind woman. Do you know, the only people who have shown any kindness to me since all this happened are Miss di Stefano—who I don’t know—and Mrs. Verney, whom I’d never really liked. Everyone else has been avoiding me as though I had a contagious disease. I suppose they thought that I was about to be arrested for Geoff’s murder.”

“How are you feeling now?”