And then she marched off down the pathway and disappeared up the road.
“Who was that?” Argyll asked the policeman, thinking that the common assault might make a useful bridge to establish more cordial relations.
“Mrs. Mary Verney,” the policeman said. “The local landowner, not that she’s really local, or owns much land any more, I gather. Quite a nice woman, but not really from these parts. She only took over when her cousin died recently.”
“Ah.”
But any further opportunity for conversational bonding was lost, because at that moment the full range of policemen arrived to do their several duties.
And so the slow, ponderous wheels of justice began to inch forward. Photos were taken, distances were measured, brows were furrowed, windows were peered at, chins were scratched. Bodies were removed and statements were taken. It lasted for hours, and as far as Argyll could see, didn’t accomplish a great deal.
The local police, however, were very pleased with themselves. Fingerprint men danced around, puffing away like a bunch of manic hairdressers. Other miscellaneous experts also gave it as their preliminary view that, at a rough guess, Geoffrey Forster had met his end by falling down the stairs. They were not so bold as to say how this unfortunate event had come about.
Deprived of anything really meaty by way of discoveries, rather like Flavia with Sandano, they turned their full attention to Argyll in revenge, and he spent the next several hours stating his business, explaining his presence and accounting for his movements. He recommended that, if they wanted testimonials to his good character and general usefulness to the police, they should contact the Art Theft Department in Italy. A Signorina di Stefano, he added, spoke good enough English to praise him to the skies in language they would understand.
With some reluctance, the collective mind of the police edged slowly towards the conclusion that, if Forster had been given assistance in his final descent, then it was unlikely that Argyll had provided it, especially as the doctors later offered a preliminary opinion that he had been dead for twelve hours at least and Argyll could prove relatively easily that he had been in London at the time. While not ruling out some devious piece of skulduggery entirely, it didn’t really fit. Moreover, Bottando, in Flavia’s absence, did his duty by saying that in his opinion Argyll was a generally law-abiding type.
“And this picture,” Inspector Wilson said, “did you believe that Mr. Forster had it in his possession?”
“No. I’d be very surprised if he did. Anyone who kept a stolen painting for more than two decades would be a bit silly. Why bother to steal it in that case?”
“But it was your impression that he knew what you were referring to. When you mentioned it on the phone?”
“Oh yes. It seemed so. He said he’d talk to me about that. The ‘that’ was emphasized, you see.”
“You know what this picture is?”
“I have an approximate description. I was told about it a few days ago. Before that I’d never heard of it. It was a Madonna and child.”
“You don’t have a photograph, I suppose?”
Argyll shook his head and said that nobody had one.
“Very useful, sir. Thank you. Now, you got here…” And on they went, stating, typing, witnessing, confirming, signing. Eventually it was all over.
“Oh, and one other thing, sir. Your passport.”
“What about it?”
“Could I have it, sir?”
“What? Why?”
Wilson smiled apologetically. “You’ll get it back in a few days, I’m sure.”
“You mean I’m going to be stuck here?”
Wilson smiled again.
“But what about my job? I live in Italy, you know.”
“I know. That’s why we want your passport.”
“But I’m not under arrest? You don’t suspect me of anything?”
“Oh, no. But we might want to talk to you again, and it would be much easier for us if you were close to hand.”
He was very polite about it, but quite firm. Argyll, scowling and a little alarmed, handed the document over. He’d never realized it could be confiscated like that. Now it was gone, he rather missed it.
After he’d been told that a further statement would be required in due course, he was left at his leisure, although how he was to fill it in a village like Weller he was not entirely sure. As he walked past the bus stop in the only real street the place possessed, he realized that he was in a bit of a pickle: the last bus to Norwich had gone and there was not much chance of getting a train back to London. He would have to throw himself on the mercy of the constabulary and beg for a lift somewhere. Unless, that is, he could find a place to stay.
He was also out of cigarettes, so went to stock up and make enquiries.
“Five packets of Rothmans,” he said to the surly, pasty-faced woman on the other side of the counter in the tiny village shop-cum-post office, and grabbed one of the packets that were put down in front of him. He glanced around for emergency rations so that he could maintain a small supply of provisions. Alas, everything was in tins, had been deep-frozen for aeons, or was covered in a thin layer of dust. He decided to leave them be, and settled for some biscuits. One thing about Italy, it doesn’t know much about good biscuits. Not with chocolate on top.
“Tell me,” he went on to the woman, who struck him as a fine example of the dangers of in-breeding and bad diet, “is there a hotel around here somewhere? Where I can get a room for the night?”
“You in the police?”
“No.”
“Twelve pound fifty.”
“What?”
“For the cigarettes. Twelve pound fifty.”
“Good God,” he said, reluctantly handing over much of his cash. “What about a hotel?”
“No hotel.”
There is a pub though,” said a cheerful and familiar-sounding voice from behind. He turned round and saw Frederick the labrador standing in the open doorway of the shop. “But the rooms are a bit dicey.”
“Rats,” he said in disappointment.
“That’s right,” agreed Mary Verney evenly, following the dog in. “But you might survive a night or two. You have to stay around because of Geoffrey, do you?”
Not the discreet type. Argyll could see, out of the corner of his eye, the large pale cigarette server moving slightly downwind so she could hear better. He in turn edged towards the door, and Mrs. Verney accompanied him.
“What’s your name?” she asked as they emerged into the fresh air again.
She talked in a pleasing, well-modulated voice that was, nonetheless, strangely lacking in accent. Argyll decided this was merely because she talked normally: none of the thick rusticity of the locals, nor the tonsil-strangling accents normally associated with the English aristocracy.
Argyll introduced himself, then turned his attention more directly to his fellow customer. A pleasant, very English-looking lady, lots of tweed and Labrador hair. Good bones, as they say, and the sort of skin that retains its freshness through decades of being lashed by fresh, cold rain while out in pursuit of furry animals.
“D’you want some tea, by the way? I’m just about to make some. It’s just so I can pump you dry about Geoffrey and what’s been going on there. Be warned. The police are being damnably uncommunicative, and I’m dying to know.”
Argyll considered, then accepted. It would make a pleasant change. Besides, while he was providing her with information, she might do the same for him.
So he walked by her side back through the main street of the village, then down a broad avenue that branched off to the left, with his new companion chattering away about the family of jays nesting in the oak tree, the depredations of Dutch Elm disease which had quite transformed the area. Her remarks were punctuated by whistles and shouts at Frederick the dog who lolloped alongside, snuffling his nose joyously into every patch of summer mud that presented itself for inspection.