“Oh, hello,” he said lightly and, to his mind with an utterly false tone of surprise in his voice. “I thought I was alone in here. Where did you spring from?”
Mary Verney, for the first time since he had met her, seemed ill at ease. “I was doing some tidying,” she said. “In the vestry.”
As she talked, Argyll thought he heard a faint click of the door from the vestry into the churchyard closing. George Barton making his getaway.
“I didn’t know you were a God-fearing member of the parish,” he rabbited on.
“I’m not. But one has to do one’s bit. It’s expected.”
“Oh, indeed. Although I must say I think that not having to do one’s bit is one of the advantages of the big city. It is a lovely church, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful. Wool money, you know. Did you see our misericords?”
Argyll confessed he hadn’t. He’d only been in the church for a few seconds, he said, slipping the information in. It seemed to make her much more relaxed. Then he followed patiently while she gave him a guided tour of the misericords (one of the finest sets in the county, fourteenth century, elbow rests with leaf work, underseats with monsters, birds and scenes of country life). Very pretty, but even Argyll, who normally liked nothing better than a nice misericord, found it hard to concentrate.
16
Flavia got back from talking to Manstead and the locals in a sombre and discontented mood. The essence of the discussion was that the Norfolk police were putting Forster on the backburner until such time as any actual evidence turned up. They had, so they said, quite enough thieves and murders on their hands already: there simply wasn’t time to deal with something like this.
“You see,” Manstead said with a slight tone of apology in his voice, “we can’t even prove Forster was murdered. Not convincingly, anyway. And as for his being a thief…”
“No evidence, either? The Dunkeld wedding?”
“That was our one real chance, I think. And nothing. We even got them to look at his photograph to see if that rang any bells, but nothing. I mean, I hardly expected it to after all these years, but you can’t say we haven’t tried.”
“I know,” Flavia said. “And I think I’d do the same, if I were you. I’m grateful for the effort.”
“As I say, if we had anything to go on at all…”
“Yes. Thank you. By the way, Veronica Beaumont was on the guest list, wasn’t she?”
Manstead referred the question to Inspector Wilson, who nodded. “That’s right. As was most of Burke’s Peerage, as far as I can see.”
“Ah. Did you, by any chance, reinterview George Barton?”
“Yes, we did, and thank you for that. But I’m afraid that his son-in-law was defending him quite unnecessarily. He did see Forster that evening, but it was long before Forster died. And then he went to see his daughter. Which, of course, Gordon would have known had he not been fooling around with Sally. Or if George had actually been on talking terms with him.”
“So that was a waste of time as well.”
“Yes. And Mrs. Forster has been scratched too.”
“Why?”
“We demonstrated that she wasn’t at the cinema that night.”
“Ah.”
“No. But her husband was having an affair, so she thought she’d do the same…”
“Jesus, not another one.”
“I know. Scratch the surface. But anyway, she’s off the list.”
“I see. Tell me, when she was interviewed first time round, did she know that her husband was being investigated for theft?”
Manstead handed over a few sheets of paper. “Look for yourself. It was a preliminary chat. Where were you, what were you doing? Nothing fancy like thefts at all. That came later. This morning, in fact. And she said the first she’d heard of it was from you. It may not be true, but can we prove differently? We cannot. And until we can…”
Then she came back and sat on a chair in the entrance hall to ring Bottando to report, which was where Argyll found her, listening with a pained expression on her face.
“The whole lot of them will be there,” Bottando told her after he’d monopolized the conversation by fulminating about Argan’s plan for a final showdown. “To listen to the fruits of my experience. Argan could hardly contain himself. I thought the little bastard was being unnaturally quiet. Now I know why. I’ve been going through his disks again. He’s already written another detailed memorandum on the whole thing. You can guess what’s in it.”
“Old fool, put him out to pasture?” Flavia said, a little tactlessly. There was a long silence from the Italian end.
“That’s about it.”
“You seem very calm about it.”
“No point in being anything else. I’m sure everything will be fine once I give my explanation. I’m sure I can drag a rabbit or two out of a hat for the occasion. How are you doing?”
Flavia paused to consider. “I hate to say this…”
“What?”
“Forster was a nasty bit of work. But I don’t think I’ll be able to prove he was Giotto. Certainly not by tomorrow afternoon. I’m doing my best, but the police here are shutting up shop.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because basically there’s nothing whatsoever to go on which is any more substantial than early morning mist.”
A long digestive pause from central Rome. “Ah, well. No matter. It’s not your fault. You can’t create criminals—or evidence—where none exist. If you can come back by tomorrow that would be helpful.”
She put the phone down, and sat quietly, lost in thought about the various options, all of them unsavoury, which presented themselves.
“Poor old Bottando,” Argyll commented.
“Hmm. I think he’s deluding himself about the support he’s going to get. Personally, I don’t think anyone will help him. I think he’s losing his grip on political realities, you know.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
She pursed her lips and thought. “My best, I suppose,” she said without much conviction that this was going to be good enough. “I’ll have to go back. I can’t say I relish watching the old fellow being gored to death, but at least I’ll be able to give what support I can. Come on. I think I need a chat with Mrs. Verney. And a stiff drink.”
It’s awkward to go asking pointed questions of your hostess, not least because she might take offence and render you suddenly homeless. On top of that, Flavia rather liked the woman. She was generous, lively, and very good company.
But the fact remained that the clock was ticking. Flavia still had no proof of anything, but she was fairly certain, on such knowledge as she possessed, that she knew what had been going on. The only problem was that being right was as bad as not knowing anything at all.
“Ah, you’re back,” Mary said cheerfully as they trooped into the kitchen. She gave the mixture in her pot a quick stir then replaced the lid. “I hope you’ve had a profitable day.”
She looked up at them, and scrutinized their faces carefully. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Graveyard looks. It’s serious talk time, is it?”
“If you don’t mind.”
She took off her apron, tossed it over the back of the chair, and got out a tray, some glasses and a bottle.