“We know that.”
“That is the only name I know, I’m afraid, and I can’t help you with any details, never having acted for the family myself. And I gather his work ended when a new owner took over. But as I say, I had little to do with him.
“Now, then,” he said, standing up in an end-of-interview way, “please don’t hesitate to contact me if you think I may be of further assistance to you…”
“Of course,” Flavia murmured. Indeed, she was surprised that they’d been there for so long, and that they’d got so much out of him.
“What did you think?” she asked Manstead as they emerged once more on to the street.
“Outrageous!” he replied.
“You are new at this game, aren’t you?” she said with a faint smile.
“You mean that’s common?”
“Refusing a decent commission merely because of a little matter like a painting being stolen? Very uncommon. He’s more honest than I’d anticipated. Assuming he’s telling the truth. He might have gone ahead and sold it anyway, using someone else as a cover. Could you check?”
“What is this picture? Another one on Bottando’s list of Giotto’s greatest hits?”
“Yes, it is. That’s three connections. Uccello, Fra Angelico and Pollaiuolo. In fact, they’re beginning to pop up so fast I’m amazed Forster stayed out of jail long enough to die at home. Can you look into this Belgian collection?”
“I don’t know many people in Belgium.”
Flavia took out her notebook and scribbled a name and number on it. “Try him. Tell him I sent you. He’ll do his best.”
Manstead took the number and stuffed it in his pocket.
Flavia beamed at him. “I bet you’re getting sick of me.”
Manstead sighed. “Not at all,” he said gallantly.
Argyll’s own metropolitan labours—apart from picking up some clean clothes—took the form of a social call on an old friend of his called Lucy Carton. Old friend was, perhaps, pushing it a bit. considering that they had only vaguely known each other some years back, but it is amazing how fondly you begin to think of even virtual strangers when you need a favour of them.
Argyll’s logic was simple. Although he had not talked to her for years now, idle gossip with mutual acquaintances had kept him approximately in touch with her movements since she had left university and hurled herself into the mêlée of the London art world, sliding elegantly up the greasy pole from being an assistant (read, secretary) to being an exhibition organizer, and on to the slightly more lofty heights as an expert valuer at one of the smaller auction houses which attempted to chip away at the duopoly of Christie’s and Sotheby’s.
More to the point, it was the same auction house at which Forster had bought and sold paintings, and Argyll, eager to find out more about the man’s activities, thought that it would be a good idea to see exactly what he had been doing. His problem was Forster’s position as effective curator of the Weller House paintings, a collection which had done quite nicely for the past century or so without being looked after at all. If Forster was spending his time running around Europe stealing paintings, why go to all the bother of seeking out Veronica Beaumont (as he had apparently done) and take on a job which provided an income that was little more than chickenfeed in comparison to what Fra Angelicos and the like must have brought in. Answer: because it must have served a useful purpose. To Argyll’s way of thinking that seemed obvious. Unfortunately, it wasn’t at all obvious what that useful purpose was.
Besides which, he thought he might be able to render a small service to Mrs. Verney, which he was keen on doing merely for its own sake, and not simply because it might make her think of using his services should she decide that selling off some paintings might be a way to restore herself to solvency.
Such was the aim, although as he was shown into Lucy’s office (must be doing quite well if she had an office) he was not sufficiently naive as to think that achieving it was going to be so easy. What were your connections with this suspected criminal? Not many auction houses like such questions, and he remembered that Lucy was more than bright enough to work out what his questions meant, however carefully he might phrase them. No harm in trying, though.
Fortunately, she seemed perfectly pleased to see him, even though the surprise at his sudden materialization was evident. She had quite a sweet face, although Argyll remembered that behind the soft, almost chubby features lurked a mind that was surprisingly steely. The contrast between appearance and reality quite possibly accounted in some measure for her possession of an office. Argyll confessed that he had not come merely for the pleasure of seeing her.
“I sort of guessed that. You don’t want a job, do you?”
“Oh, no,” he said, a little startled.
“That’s good. We don’t have any.”
“No. I’ve come to ask you a question or two about a client.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow in a that’s confidential, you know that, we never disclose anything about clients, fashion.
“An ex-client, in fact. A man called Geoffrey Forster. Who is now safely dead.”
“Dead?”
“Fell down the stairs.”
She shrugged. “That’s all right, then. I vaguely remember the name.”
“He did buy and sell through you?”
“Think so. I can’t remember any details. Why?”
“It’s his pictures, you see,” Argyll said, nervously getting to the difficult bit. “There’s a certain amount of confusion about them which needs to be sorted out.”
She looked patiently at him.
“Where they came from. Where they went.”
“Who needs to sort it out?”
Argyll coughed. “Well, the police, really. You see, they might not have been his.”
She was looking sufficiently alarmed by now for Argyll to realize he might as well jettison the subtle approach and tell her everything. Unless she had changed a good deal, she was a common-sensical sort of person who would probably be amenable to a dose of honesty. It seemed to work; or at least, the more detail he went into about Forster’s possible career as a thief, the more she seemed to relax, and even to enjoy the account.
“But these were Italian pictures mainly, is that right? Is that what you’re saying?”
“For the most part, yes. Fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.”
She shook her head. “I do Dutch and English, you see. I’m not allowed to touch Italian. Alex does Italian.”
“Who’s Alex?”
“My boss. He reckons he’s the great expert. He doesn’t like me. Tried to stop me getting a job here. Italian’s the one thing I really know about, and he always makes a fuss if I so much as look at one of the pictures he sees as his. He is determined that no one but him will do them. His empire. He’s worried about people finding out he’s an idiot.”
“So if Forster slipped some stolen Italian paintings through here…”
“Alex would have assessed them. How very interesting,” she said and thought this over for a while. “And if they turn out to be dodgy, and if there’s any trouble about why we didn’t notice… Hmm.”
There was another long pause, as Lucy thought some more and Argyll reflected about the adverse impact of office politics on character. “Now. Tell me,” she went on, coming out of her reverie, “what exactly do you want?”
“That depends on how much you’re prepared to help.”
“We have a policy of the utmost cooperation with the police to assist them in trying to make the art market a more honest and reputable place.”