He looked a bit sheepish. ‘Well,’ he said reluctantly, ‘I was also concerned that Mr Argyll shouldn’t be unfairly suspected of any crime, you know. Especially because you are such good friends. That connection might not be too healthy in the wrong hands. Still,’ he said airily, ‘if we manage this one as well, I would not be loath to draw it to the attention of the appropriate authorities.’
‘I’m ashamed of you.’
‘Why? What would you do in my position? We have little time at our disposal. So, please, tell me how you’ve been spending it, my dear.’
He was the only person in the world who could ‘my dear’ Flavia and get away with it. It was so obviously devoid of any lack of respect – and so much his style – that Flavia would have been worried now if he’d stopped. She wiped her mouth on her napkin and recited.
Lorenzo, she said, having disposed of Kollmar, was not at all what she expected. He was evidently from an old Venetian family and combined all the airs and graces with a surprisingly sharp mind. He had received her in his apartment which faced on to one of the more crumbly parts of the rio Nuovo. The building was run down, with the sort of tattiness that only the very secure could manage. For all that, he was no decadent. In his mid-forties and very suave.
‘A very handsome man, I must say,’ she added parenthetically. ‘Fair hair, deep set, hazel eyes, finely chiselled features…’
‘All right, all right,’ said Argyll a little impatiently. Bottando smiled gently at him. ‘Get on with it.’
Flavia frowned at him. ‘It’s important,’ she said. ‘I was trying to give you an idea of what he’s like. No matter,’ she continued, getting back to her narrative flow. ‘He was very courteous. A bit of an entrepreneur. Power-broker type, you know. On lots of committees, editorial boards, advisory councils. Constantly whizzing around, fixing things. Levered himself on to the Titian committee by being a second cousin twice removed of the Arts Minister’s wife. Also happens to be the nephew of your Marchesa. Clearly knows his stuff, but sees himself as more of an administrator. Leaves the scholarly end to everyone else.
‘For all that, I must say I rather liked him. He’s awfully enthusiastic, has a good sense of humour – which seems singularly lacking in most of the others – and was suitably upset about all these deaths. Although in the case of Roberts I think he was much more concerned about the effects on the committee and his own career. Not much love lost between them, I think.’
‘Do you know why he and Roberts didn’t get on?’ Argyll interrupted.
‘Essentially it was what the others hinted at: a good old-fashioned power struggle. This man Bralle founded the thing, and leaves when Roberts organises the state grant. Bralle didn’t like the idea much but the others supported it as they were all short of cash. Roberts expects to be the king pin, but shortly after the money arrives, along comes Lorenzo as well. They’ve been at loggerheads ever since.’
‘Any solid reason behind it? Apart from power, that is?’
‘According to Lorenzo – and there’s only his word for it – he wants two things. Firstly, speedier results, because otherwise they might take the subsidy away. More importantly, he wants to go methodically, starting on pictures in Italian museums, then working out. He casts himself as a bit of a patriot. You know, defender of the national heritage.’
‘That’s perfectly sound, isn’t it?’ said Bottando, who rather liked to see himself in a similar fashion.
‘Yes. But it is not the way they were used to doing it. Previously it was more random, going after easily accessible stuff all over the place and mainly in private hands. Nothing wrong with that either. But that, ostensibly at least, is what the struggle is about. If you study pictures in Italy, you need people to work in Italy. Which the rest of the committee can’t do. So you get new people, who will be buddies of Lorenzo…’
‘Ah. I see. How’s his alibi stand up?’ Bottando asked.
‘Very nicely.’
‘Oh. Pity.’
‘He was with his mistress, girlfriend, call her what you will, at the time. I spoke to her alone and she gave more than sufficiently graphic details of his every move to convince me Lorenzo was being straight on this one.’
Argyll, who brightened up quite considerably when he heard of Lorenzo’s emotional entanglements, now began taking a more constructive part in the conversation.
‘If Masterson was a protégée of Roberts, why was she about to sink her fangs into Kollmar, another Roberts groupie?’
‘Maybe she was interested in scholarship and just wanted to find out the truth?’ Bottando commented drily, in a way which suggested he thought this the least likely explanation.
‘Maybe,’ Flavia replied, equally unconvinced despite her willingness to give the dead woman the benefit of the doubt. ‘If so, she was prepared to become very unpopular. Roberts wasn’t pleased, nor was Kollmar. Miller disapproved and Van Heteren thought she was being silly. On top of that, even old Bralle had told her to lay off, according to one of the letters that Bovolo found in her papers.’
She got it out of her folder and flattened it on the table. ‘It’s in French,’ she said. ‘Thanking her for her letter, with a lot of scholarly guff to start off with. But the basic line is that Bralle reckons she is probably wrong in assuming Kollmar has made a mistake about this picture and will explain why when they next meet in Europe.
‘In fact,’ she concluded, ‘the only person pleased was Lorenzo, who seems to be eyeing Kollmar up for the old heave-ho, although he basically confessed that he would much rather have got rid of Roberts.’
Bottando eyed his empty plate nostalgically. ‘Which, of course, he now has. Or someone else has for him. Charming or not, your Dr Lorenzo seems to be marching up towards the top of the likelies’ list. He now has two vacant slots ready to be filled with his supporters.’
‘But,’ Argyll objected, ‘you would have thought he would have waited until after Masterson delivered her promised knock-out blow to Kollmar. Then he would have had three slots free. Besides, it’s rather an extreme way of winning votes, isn’t it?’
Bottando sighed heavily at the ways of the world. ‘Ah, dear me. It always amazes me that people can use up so much energy fighting over so little. It sounds very much like the polizia.
‘Now,’ he said, turning towards Argyll with a pleasant smile. ‘Mr Argyll. I trust you occupied yourself profitably this morning rather than brooding?’
Argyll gave a lengthy account of his activities in the library which produced a sort of glazed expression on Bottando’s face.
‘But what exactly have you found out?’ he asked with a little impatience as Argyll clearly began to flounder.
‘Well, firstly, the lovely Violante did leave Giorgione, probably for Pietro Luzzi, although not for long. She was buried the same year. And Titian and her brother Alfonso were clearly on very good terms. What I don’t know is why Masterson was so concerned.’
‘Yes. Yes. Most interesting,’ Bottando said uncertainly when the recitation came to a halt. ‘No great leap forward there, I see. So tell me about this committee instead. Does anybody pay much attention to these people? Is it worth all the sound and fury?’
‘Of course it is,’ he replied in some surprise. ‘It’s a high prestige project. As you know very well, most pictures are accepted as being by Raphael, or Titian, or Rembrandt because experts say they are. Very few pictures have solid documentary evidence behind them. So, if some reputable bunch weighs in with an opinion, then it’s taken seriously. Especially if it’s got the official stamp of approval from a government and vast amounts of money to prove their accuracy. You know how easily impressed some people are. So, museums eventually relabel their pictures. Happily if a work is upgraded, with much gnashing of the teeth and foaming at the mouth if it’s downgraded. I believe the catchword in America these days is de-attribution.’
Bottando winced. He was something of a purist over language, even other people’s.
‘And, of course, what the
se people say can make an enormous difference to the price of the pictures if they come up for sale,’ Argyll concluded.
‘So, a proud owner who heard that his picture was being de-attributed, if one must use that word, might react with some considerable anger. Even violence, one might guess?’ Bottando asked, jumping at the chance of a simple, straightforward motive.
‘I suppose so,’ Flavia said reluctantly, rather regretting she had not thought of this. ‘Better go and see the owner of Kollmar’s picture. Although in that case it should have been Kollmar found with the knife in his back, yet again. He was the one calling the picture a fake.’
‘We shall see,’ said Bottando with an air of finality. ‘Time to go. I have to visit the Marchesa. It’s what I’m here for, after all.’
8
Although obviously coming from one of those families which had hung on by their fingernails to social respectability since Napoleon invaded and destroyed the Venetian republic at the end of the eighteenth century, the Marchesa di Mulino still lived in some considerable state.
Old and battered her palazzo might have been, like its owner, but it was still worth a considerable amount of money. Most of the family pictures had long been dispersed, but Bottando’s expert eye noted that what was left was of quite good quality. A little Tintoretto in the hallway surrounded by family portraits, a couple of what looked like Watteau drawings at the base of the staircase. Interesting point, that, he noted. And the usual tapestries, statuettes, and heavy sixteenth-century Venetian furniture. All in need of restoration but genuine stuff nonetheless.
She received him in bed. An old-fashioned touch, excused by her advanced age and the fact that she now rarely left the floor where the room was situated. The bed was gigantic, big enough for an entire family with room to spare, and the occupant was tiny, propped up by half a dozen embroidered pillows and looking like a neglected little doll. The old woman had a face that once upon a time had been beautiful; not handsome, or merely attractive, but ravishing. Even the lines and frailness of age could not conceal what once had been there.
And she had the manners of someone who was used to being deferred to and obeyed. She waved Bottando to a seat, as small for his bulk as the bed was big for hers, and looked him over carefully. No welcome, no thank you for coming. None of that. It was an honour for him to be allowed to see her, and he was not to forget it.
When she did finally speak, the impression of frailness was proven to be just that – an impression. Ancient though she was, there was nothing to suggest that her mind was anything but well-turned. Nor had advanced years softened her view of the world.
‘Come to find my little pictures, eh? All the way from Rome? And a full General as well? My goodness, what service we get from our police these days,’ she said with a little smile after the policeman had performed his introductory remarks.
‘We try to please,’ he replied cautiously.
‘Nonsense,’ she snorted. ‘Why else are you here?’
Bottando shook his head with indignation and a bit of surprise that she could apparently read his mind so well. ‘That’s all,’ he said. ‘Just to find your stolen pictures. It’s our speciality, you know.’
She glanced at him slyly in a way which indicated she didn’t believe a word of it, but let it go. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ she said firmly. ‘If that’s all you’ve come for, go back to Rome.’
‘We do have considerable expertise in matters of this kind,’ Bottando said pompously. ‘We often pick up pictures when they are put up for sale.’
‘Nonsense,’ she repeated firmly. ‘Go home.’
Bottando shifted uncomfortably on the seat, conscious of large portions of his anatomy hanging off the edges and wondering whether it could support him for long. He decided not to find out, and walked to the window clasping his hands behind his back.
‘Oh, do stop wandering about, man,’ she said acidly. ‘If you’re too fat for that seat, come and sit on the bed. Here,’ she patted the bed firmly.
Bottando had not been loosely attached to the army for nearly forty years without learning to obey commands. He did as he was told, conscious that this interview was not proceeding along orthodox lines.
‘Well done,’ she said, patting his hand and smiling encouragingly as though he was a little boy who had successfully blown his own nose for the first time. ‘I suppose you need to ask lots of silly questions. Go ahead. You have five minutes. Then I have to sleep. I must have complete quiet.’
‘Well, then,’ said Bottando, still rather alarmed at his inability to get a word in, ‘why do you think we won’t get them back?’
‘Because you’re idiots. All policemen are,’ she said confidingly, in case he might not be aware of the fact. ‘Not your fault, but there it is. Only fools want to be policemen.’
It was a view Bottando frequently expressed himself, although it was disturbing to be included in the condemnation. Especially as it came from someone he was meant to be helping.
‘But,’ he said, fighting valiantly, ‘what makes you think that the Englishman, Argyll, stole them?’
She laughed. ‘Him? Couldn’t steal a packet of sweets from a shop. Lord, he even had trouble trying to buy them.’
‘But we had a complaint –’
‘From Signora Pianta, no doubt. She would say that. She’s a fool, too. A bit odd in the head, you know?’ She squinted at him conspiratorially and dropped her voice. ‘Sees thieves, murderers and rapists everywhere. Comes of having a television in her room. Never watched one, myself. Do you have a television?’
Bottando was opening his mouth to confess that, indeed, he did have a set, although the pressure of work meant he rarely had time to watch it, when he checked himself and frowned. ‘As this theft was reported, we have to check it out, you know.’
‘She should never have reported it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Scandal. Can’t stand it. Won’t stand for it. I refuse to see my name in the papers.’
‘Being robbed is hardly scandalous. It happens to all the best people, nowadays.’
She sniffed. Evidently she thought that being robbed was a very bourgeois pastime.
‘Who is this Pianta woman?’ he asked. He had Argyll’s description, but reckoned he was perhaps a little biased. No one could be that bad.
‘My secretary, or companion, call her what you will. Hanger-on, basically. A distant relative, of the poorer variety. Dreadful woman, but useful for daily tasks. I’m used to her and I’m too old to change the people around me now. Besides, she annoys my interfering nephew even more than she does me.’
He sighed heavily. ‘With your permission, I’ll see how the pictures were taken out afterwards. Just in case. I understand from Mr Argyll that someone else was also interested in buying them.’
She looked scornful again. ‘Gibberish,’ she said firmly. ‘Utter nonsense. Sounds like one of Pianta’s little tricks again to get more money. No one has been interested in buying any of them for decades. Someone did write saying she wanted to examine one of the pictures, but there was no reason to think she was interested in buying.’
‘She?’
‘Oh, dear, you do go on,’ she said wearily. ‘Very well, then. Bring me that cabinet over there.’ She gestured at what looked like a sewing box on the desk in the corner. Bottando got up thankfully from the bed and fetched it. She fished out an envelope and handed it over.
Bottando was pleased to see his assumption proved correct. It was a letter from Louise Masterson, postmarked from New York, asking for permission to photograph an anonymous portrait in the Marchesa’s possession which she had noticed during a party thrown by Dr Lorenzo last year. She found the picture most interesting and would like to examine it under calmer circumstances. It was connected with a book she was planning to write.
‘And you replied to this,’ he said.
‘I told Pianta to write something, but I don’t know if she ever got around to it. Stupid woman. She’s not very effi
cient, you know, for all that she complains about everyone else.’
Bottando asked to keep the letter, then informed her he didn’t think it likely that the woman would be keeping the appointment. She seemed untroubled by the news.
The conversation with Maddelena Pianta was less confusing, but also much less agreeable. Whereas the first was perhaps a little scatterbrained, she was lively, intelligent and had a sense of humour. At Bottando’s expense, maybe, but she was clearly someone who had enjoyed her life and intended to have as good a time as possible in what little remained of it. Signora Pianta was the very opposite. Dour, humourless, suspicious, she did not appear to have had a good laugh since the early 1950s. And showed no signs of gearing up for another.
She answered Bottando’s comments rapidly and with no elaboration whatsoever; yes, no, with everything else dragged out of her. She had accused Argyll, she said, because he was obviously responsible. He was a foreigner, wanted the pictures and objected to the price being asked.
Clearly, Argyll had made a bit of a hit here. Had she, he asked next, replied to Masterson’s letter?
She was awkward and uncomfortable at the question, and then with obvious, although incomprehensible, reluctance admitted she had, to say that Masterson was welcome to see the picture if it had not been sold by the next time she was in Venice. She had phoned the fondazione on Friday morning to organise an appointment and had left a message with a functionary – she didn’t know who but he seemed Italian – for Masterson to visit at nine that evening. She arranged to meet her on the Zecco, opposite the Giardinetti Reali and a few minutes’ walk from the palazzo. That was because Pianta was going to the cinema and didn’t want her arriving before she got back. Masterson had never turned up.
‘I suppose you realise that while you were sipping your coffee and waiting, she was being murdered about a hundred metres away? It never occurred to you to report this?’
It had, she said, with an attempt at irritation to hide her discomfort. But she didn’t see what relevance it had. Besides, the Marchesa would have been furious at her getting involved in a scandal. No, she had seen no one acting suspiciously.