“Not a lot, really. I was trying to find out about Geoffrey Forster.”
“And?”
“And not much. I gathered that your cousin liked him and sold him the house, that you didn’t like him, and that was about it.”
“George Barton, was it?”
“I think so. Old chap with a dog.”
“That’s him. He’s the village radar set.”
“He seems a bit gloomy.”
“I would have thought he’d be celebrating. Forster owned his cottage and was about to evict him. He was going to develop it into a weekend cottage for rich Londoners. Presumably, George has a stay of execution now. If that’s not an unfortunate way of phrasing it.”
Argyll said he thought that was very interesting. Local colour. He liked that.
“Tell me,” she went on, “if you didn’t come for my cooking, why did you come?”
“An even bigger favour, I’m afraid.”
“Go on.”
“You sort of offered me somewhere to stay…”
“No room at the inn?”
“Well…”
“Not exactly the Hilton, is it? Of course; a pleasure. I can hardly claim not to have room. You can have any one of, I believe, twelve bedrooms. Most of which have not been slept in for a decade or more.”
“That sounds like the pub.”
“Better decorated, though, where the rain hasn’t brought the wallpaper off. Although probably just as chilly. Are you married?”
“Eh?”
“You. Married?”
“Oh. No. Not exactly.”
“Getting married?”
“I think so. Maybe.”
“You think? Maybe? Not exactly?”
“Flavia’s very slow in some departments. Quick as lightning generally, but a bit retarded when it comes to making up her mind over things like getting married.”
“Maybe you should make up your mind instead?”
“Pardon?”
“Sorry. None of my business.”
“It’s all right. You’re probably right. Anyway…”
“Is she in the art business as well?”
“Who?”
“Your fiancée.”
“Sort of,” Argyll conceded. “Do you mind putting me up like this? It’s an awful lot to ask, I know. I feel very guilty about imposing…”
“Either stay or go. But don’t stay and feel guilty. It’s a waste of time.”
“Oh. Well. In that case, I’ll stay.”
“There you are. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she said with a pleasant, but slightly mocking smile. “And I don’t mind at all. I’d love the company. Especially if you can tell me what happened to Geoffrey Forster. It’s about the most exciting thing to happen in Weller since the Saxons invaded.”
8
“Ha!” said Flavia with pleasure when, at 11 o’clock the next morning, 10 o’clock Norwich time, she put the phone down after a conversation with Argyll. He had rung to ask what, exactly, she thought he should do. Very nice part of the world. East Anglia, apart from the danger of catching a cold in the chill, but he did feel he was imposing a little.
On whom? she had asked, and he had explained at some length about the famous hospitality of the English aristocracy, their surfeit of bedrooms and his discovery that their central heating was not up to the rigours of an English summer.
“Far be it from me to get unpaid labour out of you, but if you could just hang around and listen, then that might be useful for us. And if you could find that Forster was a thief, preferably on a big scale, then we’d be eternally grateful. Bottando is fighting back.”
“Ah. I don’t know that I understand what you’re on about, but no matter.”
“Could you go through Forster’s business papers?”
“I shouldn’t think so for a moment. If I were a policeman, I wouldn’t let me look at them. I’ll try, if you like.”
“Thank you. Apart from all that, how did you get on in London?”
“Oh,” he said, dragging his mind back to the distressing subject of his career. “You mean Byrnes? All right, I suppose. That is, his general view is that I should be a little more ruthless in my approach. And make up my mind about this teaching job.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. Are you going to listen?”
“I’m not sure I agree with either of you. Or Mrs. Verney, in fact, even though you all seem to tell me the same thing. But I have decided to decide by the end of the week. About this job.”
“That’s progress. So what’s this woman like? Your hostess?”
“Oh, she’s splendid. Quite delightful.”
“She doesn’t want to buy any pictures?”
“Afraid not. She’s about as strapped for cash as I am. On a grander scale, of course, but I suppose these things are all relative. She’s more likely to sell some.”
“Are there any?”
“Quite a few. I had a look around this morning when she was out. They’re OK, but nothing special. The Beaumont family wasn’t adventurous in its tastes, and I gather Forster sold anything worth much. But I thought I might double-check, in case he missed something.”
“Who did you say?”
“Forster. He sold things from the collection.”
“Not him. The other one. Did you say Beaumont?”
He agreed that he had. “It seems to be the family name,” he explained. “Why?”
Because there was a woman called Beaumont at Signora della Quercia’s. Whom Forster was keen on, so it seems.”
He grunted. “It sounds like cousin Veronica. Mrs. Verney doesn’t seem the finishing school type. Shall I ask?”
“If you could.”
And then she went to report to Bottando, who was, yet again, in an ill-humour. Argan, he said, was lobbying for the Leonardo forger to be clapped in irons and was going around accusing everybody of being slapdash over a raid on an antiquities gallery in the via Giulia. Someone had driven a small truck through the window, loaded up and driven off. Happened every day of the week, almost. Why Argan was in such a fuss over this one had escaped him, until someone pointed out that the gallery was owned by his brother-in-law. And, of course, it served to make the department look bad.
“I did say the fake Leonardos were entirely trivial, but that, of course, is not the point. It got into the papers, and so there’s an opportunity for the department to have a high profile.”
“The paperwork will take me at least a month.”
“Will it?”
“If you want it to, yes. I could spin it out indefinitely, if that’s what you want.”
Bottando nodded. “Splendid,” he said with satisfaction. “We’ll make an apparatchik of you yet. Now, Forster. What is the state of things there?”
“Interesting, since you ask. Signora Fancelli points the finger, and much of her story is supported by della Quercia. Sandano reckons Forster was behind the Fra Angelico. He was working in some way for a woman called Beaumont who was also at della Quercia’s. And he’s dead, of course. As far as I know, the police in England have not yet decided whether he fell or was pushed.”
“Hmm. Anything there to indicate he was a bit light-fingered?”
“Not as far as Jonathan knows. On the other hand, he rightly points out that the police aren’t exactly going to take him into their confidence. Relying on him for information isn’t the best thing to do.”
Bottando nodded thoughtfully. “Which, roughly translated into clear and unadorned prose, means you think you ought to go and see for yourself. Is that what you’re getting at?”
Flavia confessed it had crossed her mind.
“And what about friend Argan? He thought you going to the other side of Rome a gross waste of resources.”
She looked at the ceiling and studied the cobwebs growing across one corner. “He hasn’t got your job yet, has he?”
Bottando scowled. “You know what I mean. Will this be worth it? Or will it merely provide Argan with more evidence to be used against us?”