‘And Arthur?’
‘He was better off where he was. He thought I was dead, and he had a good family to look after him. Better he didn’t know. I wrote to his foster-parents, and they agreed to keep him. What could I do for him? I couldn’t even look after myself. He needed to start afresh, without any memories from the past, of either his father or mother. I asked them to make sure he knew nothing of either of us. They agreed.’
‘Rouxel?’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t want to see him. His memory of what I was like was all I had left. I couldn’t bear to have him come into my hospital room and see his face change into one of sympathetic horror the way yours did. I know. There’s nothing you could do. It’s an involuntary reaction. People can’t help it. I loved him, and he loved me; I didn’t want that destroyed by his seeing me. No love could survive that.’
‘Did he not want to see you?’
‘He respected my wishes,’ she said simply.
Something unsaid there, Flavia thought. ‘But surely …’
‘He was married,’ she said. ‘Not to a woman he loved, not someone like me. But he married when he thought I was dead. After the war he discovered the truth; he wrote to me, saying that if he’d been free … But he wasn’t. It was better like that. So I accepted Harry’s offer as well.’
‘Do you know anything about Hartung’s paintings?’ Argyll asked, changing the subject somewhat dramatically.
She looked puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘All this started off with a picture which belonged to him. Called The Death of Socrates. Did your husband give it to Rouxel?’
‘Oh, that. I remember that. Yes, he did. Just after the armistice. He decided that the Germans would probably take them anyway, so he gave some pictures away to friends for safe-keeping. Jean got that, to go with one he’d already been given. A religious one, that was. Jean was quite perplexed and didn’t really want it, I think.’
‘Did Hartung know about you and Rouxel?’
She shook her head once more. ‘No. Never a murmur. I owed him that. Within his limits he was a good husband. Within mine I was a good wife. I never wanted to hurt him. He never had the slightest idea. And I was always careful with Jean as well. He was a hot-blooded, passionate man. I was terrified he might go to Jules and tell him, hoping he’d divorce.’
She’d begun to cry again, at all the memories and the lost joys of life. Flavia had to decide whether to stay and offer comfort or just leave. She wanted to know more. What did she mean, she’d been careful with Rouxel? But she seemed to have had enough, and any comfort offered was not going to do much good. Flavia stood up, and turned to face the bed. ‘Mrs Richards. I can only thank you for your time. I know we’ve made you remember things you want to forget. Please forgive us.’
‘I will forgive you. But only if you fulfil your side of the bargain. Help Jean, if he needs it. And when you do, tell him that it was my last gift of love to him. Will you do that? You promise?’
Flavia promised.
Going back out into the cool fresh air and feeling the soft warmth of the sun was like waking up after a nightmare and finding that the horrors were not real after all. Neither of them said anything as they walked to the car, got in, and Argyll started the engine and drove off.
A mile down the road, Flavia grabbed his arm and said: ‘Stop the car. Quickly.’
He did as she asked, and she got out. There was a break in a hedge near by, and she walked through it into a pasture. On the far side there were some cows grazing.
Argyll caught up, to find her staring across the field at nothing, breathing heavily.
‘You OK?’
‘Yes. I’m OK. I just wanted some air. I felt I was suffocating in there. God, that was horrible.’
There was no need either to comment or even to agree with her. Side by side they walked slowly around the field in silence.
‘You’re thoughtful,’ he said eventually. ‘Something beginning to make sense?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Not there yet, but it’s coming. I wish it wasn’t.’
‘Come on,’ he said softly after a while. ‘Let’s get going. You’ll feel better once we start doing something.’
She nodded and he led her back, then drove to the hotel where he steered her into the bar, ordered a whisky and made her drink it.
In all, it took her nearly an hour plunged in thought before she was able to lift her head and say, ‘What do you think?’
And Argyll wasn’t concentrating on anything, either. ‘I think it’s the first time I’ve ever met anyone where I could honestly say she’d be better off dead. But I suppose that’s not what you meant.’
‘I didn’t mean anything. I just wanted to hear someone talk normally. Anything. Even you seem to have lost your flippant style.’
‘All I know is that we now have another good reason for working this mess out. It’s not going to make much difference to her life, but someone owes her a little. Even if it’s just guarding her memories.’
17
Very tired and downcast, Argyll eased Edward Byrnes’s unscratched Bentley into a parking-space outside the art dealer’s house at about half-past seven, then they went and rang the doorbell.
‘Flavia!’ came a booming voice from the direction of the sitting-room as the door opened. ‘About time, too.’
Following the voice after a second or so came the body of General Bottando.
‘My dear girl,’ he said solicitously. ‘I’m so pleased to see you again.’
And, with a most unprofessional lapse into emotionalism, he wrapped his arms around her and gave her a squeeze.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said in astonishment.
‘All in due course. First, you look as though you need a drink.’
‘A big one,’ Argyll added. ‘And some food.’
‘And then you can tell us what you’ve been up to. Sir Edward here delivered your message, and I thought it was time I got on a plane to have a chat. You seem remarkably unwilling to come back home,’ Bottando said as he led the way into Byrnes’s sitting-room.
‘How about you telling me what you’ve been doing?’ asked Flavia, following him in.
Bottando said calmly, ‘Do you want some of Sir Edward’s gin?’
‘Definitely.’
Byrnes, who had been standing in the background looking on approvingly and with some pride at his ability to host reunions, duly poured the drinks, considered the possibility of discreetly retiring, rejected the idea on the grounds that he was too curious, and sat down to listen.
The pair of them sitting there, Flavia’s boss and Argyll’s former boss, had more than a passing resemblance to Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both portly, both benevolent, both wearing dark, well-cut suits, one with dark grey hair, the other with light grey hair. A very reassuring couple they were; after the events of the past few days, from murders to pursuits to distressing interviews with old ladies, they were the very embodiment of a return to the normal world, where paternal authority existed and was, on the whole, well disposed. Byrnes’s comfortable sitting-room and opulent glasses of gin confirmed the feeling slowly building up in Flavia’s mind that she could now relax a little.
Not that her delivery was smooth and well rehearsed; instead, the story came out with unusual hesitations and interruptions.
‘She’s his mother,’ she started off.
‘Who is?’
‘This woman in Gloucestershire.’
‘Whose mother?’
‘Muller’s. She sent him out of France in 1943 and stayed behind. When the Germans swooped, she was picked up. She decided he’d be better off where he was so left him in the care of those Canadians.’
‘Are you sure?’ Bottando began, then retracted when he saw her frown. ‘I mean, how interesting.’
‘And she was Hartung’s wife and Rouxel’s mistress. Isn’t it a small world?’
‘Indeed. Does this assist us in discovering why Muller was killed? Or why Ellman was killed?’
/> ‘I don’t know. Did I tell you that Ellman’s real name was Schmidt?’
‘You did. And I have badgered the Germans mercilessly for information. I asked what they had on anybody of that name and asked why he would have changed his name. To give them a hint I suggested that they should look at army records. Specifically Paris.’
‘Yes, well …’
Bottando, having something to contribute, was not prepared to be put off. ‘Seemed worth a try. I was quite proud of the idea. Anyway, it took them some time; poor people, working their way through every Franz Schmidt in the German army must have been a fair old task. However, they produced the goods. He was in Paris in 1943 and 1944.’
‘We know that.’
‘But he was no pen-pusher. The man whose name he adopted was a desk-man; Schmidt was in an Abwehr Intelligence unit. Specifically there to counter the Resistance.’
‘We know that too. Mrs Richards told us.’
Bottando looked irritated. ‘I do wish you’d tell me these things. Then maybe I could stop wasting my time on things you already know about.’
‘We only found out this afternoon.’
‘Hmmph! Did you know he was wanted for war crimes?’ he asked hopefully.
‘No.’
‘Good. Well, he was. The wheels of justice go slowly but they seem to have caught up with him in 1948. They were about to arrest him when …’
‘He vanished, went to Switzerland, changed his name and was never heard of again,’ Flavia said helpfully, earning herself another hurt look from Bottando.
‘Anyway,’ he said, a little disappointed. ‘So he knew all about Hartung.’
‘He was the one who broke the good news to the man’s wife,’ she said. ‘While he was torturing her.’
Bottando nodded. ‘I see. And, of course, he would have been well practised in the sort of techniques used on Muller. In fact, I think that we can reasonably conclude beyond much doubt that he did kill Muller. The torture and the gun. Sort of adds up.’
‘But we still don’t know who killed him.’
‘No.’
‘But do we really care?’ Argyll asked wearily, resuming his old theme of wanting to go home. ‘It sounds as though whoever it was was doing a public service. If I happened to have a gun, met this Ellman/Schmidt character and found out what he’d done, I might have shot him as well.’
‘That’s true,’ said Bottando. ‘But who did know what he’d done? Besides, I’m afraid that from an official point of view we’re not allowed to look at it like that. And, of course, there is always the problem that whoever shot Ellman might not be finished. Rouxel. Do we know if he’s been approached by anyone?’
‘No.’
‘You realize, of course, that this Europa prize presentation takes place in ten days? If Rouxel is under any threat it has to be fended off. And to do that we have to know what that threat is.’
‘But how could he possibly be under any threat? Who could be threatening him?’
Bottando cocked his head. ‘This man with the scar, for example?’
‘I’ve been thinking about him,’ Flavia replied. ‘And concluding that he may well be what he says he is. He said he was a policeman. When he was chasing us.’
‘And when he phoned Mr Argyll in Rome, assuming it was him.’
‘And the connection with Besson indicates the same. Janet says he isn’t, but somebody removed documents from that deportation centre and told the director not to help me much, and Janet was the only official who knew I was going there. And in Rome, this man rings Argyll and says he will come round at five. Argyll tells us and you ring Janet, telling him about this murder. And this man doesn’t show up. I think Janet sent him a message saying, in effect, get the hell out of there.’
‘It’s most unlike Janet, though,’ Bottando said reluctantly. ‘He’s normally quite scrupulous.’
‘And so are you. But there are times when you’ve been leant on as well. What I can’t work out is why anyone is leaning on him. But I suspect it’d be no good asking.’
Bottando thought about this for a while, not at all happy. Murders and things were all very well; but he did not see why the smooth running of his department should be disrupted by them. His easy co-operation with the French had been an important factor in his department’s limited success for years; the prospect of its being wrecked by this case was becoming extremely worrying.
‘You’re going to have to sort this out quickly,’ he said glumly. ‘I’m not having years of friendship and careful work wrecked by one stupid picture. Do you have any idea what is going on?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
Argyll was roused from his reverie by this comment. He had been staring into space most of the time, not really paying attention to the conversation. There was something in the back of his mind, and he couldn’t quite pin it down. Indeed it had been there for days; and, rather like a very small stone in the bottom of a shoe, it was causing increasing irritation. The fact that, try as he might, he couldn’t work out exactly what was bothering him made it all the worse.
‘You do?’ he said. ‘You might have told me. What is it?’
‘I said I had an idea,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t say I had proof, or that the idea was right.’
‘I’m not impressed,’ he said.
‘Nor am I. But we still don’t have enough information. General, did you, by any chance, have any luck with the Swiss over that phone call? The one to Ellman that sent him to Rome?’
‘Ah, that,’ Bottando said with a frown. ‘Indeed. You might not like the answer though.’
‘Try me.’
‘It didn’t come from Paris at all; it came from Rome. The Hotel Raphael, to be precise.’
‘The what?’
‘As I say.’
‘Whose phone?’
‘Alas, we can’t find that out. But we can conclude certain things ourselves, can we not?’
He looked at her with that faint smile that he adopted when he had reached an answer before she had. A bit unfair, really, as he’d had longer to think about it. Even so, she wasn’t that far behind.
‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘This was Monday, right?’
He nodded.
‘And that was the day I could get no work out of anyone at the Interior Ministry because there was some international delegation in town. Financial liaison and supervision, or something.’
He nodded again.
‘And Rouxel’s granddaughter told Jonathan that he was on the French delegation of some committee dealing with financial supervision.’
Bottando nodded again.
‘Rouxel was in Rome that day?’
A further nod.
‘He made that call?’ she asked, pursuing the matter with what she thought was fine logic.
Bottando shrugged. ‘No,’ he said, spoiling it. ‘It seemed a reasonable presumption. But at the time he was in a meeting, which he never left. A further snag is that when Muller was killed Rouxel was at an official dinner, and when Ellman was shot he was already on a plane back home. I checked and double-checked. There’s no doubt. He didn’t kill anyone or phone anyone.’
‘Which leaves this putative policeman with the scar.’
‘It does. And if you’re right, then we’re delving into very muddy waters indeed.’
‘Oh, God,’ she said, suddenly disgusted with the whole business. ‘What do you think?’
‘As far as evidence goes, I don’t know,’ Bottando replied.
‘Damnation,’ Flavia said crossly. ‘All our leads have gone dead. Or at least, we’ve made progress, but it hasn’t got us anywhere. All we’ve uncovered is long-dead detail that doesn’t mean much. I wish Muller had been right. If there had been something special about that last judgement, we would at least have had something to go on.’
And over in a quiet and almost forgotten corner of the room, cogs whirred. Old, rusty levers clicked over. Synapses, sluggish with disuse, flickered into hesitant life. The half-formed idea
in the back of Argyll’s mind leapt suddenly and boldly into full and well-focused shape.
‘What?’ he said.
‘This painting. If we could –’
‘You called it the last judgement.’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah,’ he said, leaning back in his armchair with an air of profound relief and satisfaction. ‘Of course. Do you know, you’ve never told me I’m brilliant as well as beautiful.’
‘And I’m not going to unless you earn it,’ she said a little testily.
‘Logic. Hartung’s letter referred to the last judgement; Muller assumed it meant The Death of Socrates, the last one to be painted.’
She nodded.
‘One of a series of four.’
She nodded again, trying to be patient.
‘The sales list of Rosier Frères listed Hartung’s purchases. One picture by Floret of Socrates. And another. Sent to an address on the Boulevard St-Germain. The street where Mrs Richards’ parents lived. And Rouxel lodged. And Mrs Richards said Hartung had given Rouxel a picture. A religious one.’
‘So?’
‘The series was the judgements of Alexander, Solomon, Socrates and Jesus. We knew where three are; The Judgement of Jesus is missing. We assumed it referred to a representation of Jesus’s trial. Before Pilate. But is that so?’
‘Jonathan, dear –’
‘Hold on. Hartung gave Rouxel the Socrates to go with the other one. Right? Mrs Richards said so. And he still has the other one,’ he went on with mounting enthusiasm. ‘I saw it. I recognized the style, not that it registered. Heavy colour, slightly wooden. Christ Enthroned with the Apostles.’
She looked at him blankly.
‘That’s the advantage of living with art dealers of the more educated variety. At the end of the world, Christ will sit enthroned with his disciples, and he will judge Man from the Book of Life. And he shall separate them one from another. Some routine like that, anyway. Also called, as you know very well, the Last Judgement. Muller hadn’t thought it through. He was after the wrong picture.’
He sat back once more looking awfully pleased with himself. ‘If there is anything at all to be found, that’s where it will be.’
Flavia considered this carefully. ‘I wish you’d thought about this before,’ she said.