“Exactly. There’s some risk, but given the number of pictures in the world and the small number of people able to recognize them, it’s not that big.”
Flavia nodded. “This woman is going to send you a list of his sales and purchases, is she?”
“In a couple of days. She doesn’t want anyone else to know.”
“I could do with the evidence now.”
Argyll thought this over. Some people are in such a hurry all the time. They’d only heard of Forster less than a week ago, after all.
“The statements about him aren’t good enough?”
“One person, thirty years out of date and with a grudge. Sandano I’m not sure we can use: I promised him confidentiality. Della Quercia is too batty to be relied on. All Winterton says is that Forster recognized a possibly stolen painting. It’s a pity Veronica Beaumont is dead. Evidence that Forster was selling pictures supposedly from Weller House, and proof that they didn’t come from there would be very useful. We might then be able to find out where they got to. Was there anything in his papers about his sales?”
“Not so far. But I haven’t finished them yet.”
Then it was her turn to think and to change the subject. “What do people in this village think of him? Nobody this afternoon seemed to have a high opinion. Winterton thought he had bad taste—which Bottando’s Giotto most certainly did not have, if he existed. Byrnes sneers about Forster being charming. Why would anyone sneer at someone being charming?”
“Because this is England, my dear, and that’s what we do here.”
“Why? I like people to be charming.”
“But you’re Italian,” he explained patiently, as she slipped the car into gear and lurched forward a few hundred yards. “In this country charm means you’re superficial, have a tendency to flattery, are probably a bumptious social climber and, moreover, the term carries very distinct implications that you like women.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“A ladies’ man,” Argyll said darkly. “Few things can be worse. It suggests a propensity to slobber over people’s hands and pay compliments like some continental. You can do that sort of thing with dogs, but not with the opposite sex.”
“You do come from a very strange country, you know. Tell me about my new hostess. Am I going to enjoy her company?”
“Mrs. Verney? Very much, I think. At least, I do. She’s quite charming. And, before you ask, women can be charming. That’s perfectly acceptable, even in England.”
“I see. And in what does her charm consist?”
“Comfort. She makes you feel relaxed and at home, even in that chilly great barn of a house. She’s very intelligent, I think; a wry sense of humour, rather quick on her feet.”
“Why is she so obliging?” she asked suspiciously.
“Curiosity about you, probably. But as you’re curious about her as well, that’s all right. Besides, I suspect the real truth is that she’s a bit lonely. She doesn’t really have much of a life up there, you know.”
They arrived at the village at well past nine, and Flavia drove straight to Weller House. The rain was finally stopping as a way of welcoming them to Norfolk, and Mary greeted them like long-lost friends, led them into the kitchen—you must be hungry, so I kept a little food over for you—then settled them down so she and Flavia could cast an eye over each other and see what was mutually in store for them. Flavia was tired, Mary seemed unusually quiet and cautious.
But they got the measure of each other fairly quickly; Flavia was better with a drink beside her, and Mary relaxed. Argyll, in fact, felt rather left out, and a little affronted by the way they hit it off. Neither of them bothered to talk to him very much at all; rather, they chattered away, discussing the state of British transport, the weather, the horrors of living in London, Rome and Paris and the problem of getting good materials for salad to grow in an English climate.
“And have you reached a conclusion about Geoffrey?” she asked after a while.
“Not really,” Flavia said. “Enquiries are continuing.”
“We may have linked him to another picture,” Argyll added, for no particular reason except for the fact that he hadn’t been able to say anything for nearly quarter of an hour and needed to make his presence felt a little. “A Pollaiuolo. But there is a bit of bad news for you as well, I’m afraid.”
“How’s that?”
Flavia explained. Personally, she wasn’t absolutely convinced that she wanted to talk about this case to someone she’d only met half an hour previously, but as Argyll seemed already to have told her everything, as she was her hostess and as she did indeed seem an eminently agreeable soul, there seemed to be little point in holding back.
“Forster might have been disguising the pictures he sold by saying they came from here,” she said.
Mary looked interested. “Why? What would that accomplish?”
“You know crooks launder money so it can’t be traced?”
“Of course.”
“Picture thieves often launder paintings. Give them a false pedigree to explain where they came from. An old collection like yours, full of pictures that no one has seen for a hundred years or more, would be absolutely perfect. Unless somebody checked with your family.”
“Which would have been a waste of breath. As I told Jonathan, Veronica wasn’t exactly coherent all the time.”
“Even better.”
Mary looked thoughtful. “That would explain why he hid the documents on what actually was in the house, I suppose.”
“Probably.”
“Anything going on here while I’ve been away?” Argyll asked. “More murders, arrests or anything?”
“No,” the older woman replied almost sadly. “Quiet as the grave. Jessica’s here, though.”
“Is that the wife?” Flavia asked.
“That’s right. She came back this morning, poor thing. She’s in a bit of a state; I suppose it must be a shock. So I asked whether she wanted to be put up as well; I couldn’t imagine she wanted to stay in that house. But she said she was fine.”
“That was very kind of you.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “It was. I must confess I was terrified that she might accept the offer. I’m all for helping the afflicted in their hour of need, of course, but frankly”—here she lowered her voice as though too many people might hear—“the woman is so wet she makes me want to scream.”
“Have the police talked to her?”
She shrugged. “How should I know? Even George Barton is in the dark about what’s going on. And if he doesn’t know, then a mere amateur like myself is unlikely to find anything out.”
After about another half hour of idle conversation — Argyll’s lack of opportunity to talk meant he finished his food very much faster than did the other two—he decided to go to bed, leaving them comfortably ensconced in the sitting room wondering whether to have a brandy.
12
He was woken up by a loud bashing on the door and a head sticking itself inside.
“Oh, Jonathan. Sorry to wake you,” said Mary. “The police have just arrived and could you get up as quickly as possible?”
Instead of a coherent response, he stuck his head out from underneath the blanket, into the dank, cold air and said “Wha?” or something like that, as he tried to orientate himself.
“Coffee’s in the kitchen,” she added brightly before disappearing.
Still fuddled, but doing as he was told, Argyll levered himself out of bed and reached for his clothes. He then wasted several precious minutes while he wondered where his left sock was, discovered it under the bed, along with generations of other debris, then dressed and went downstairs.