‘Was this premeditated or not? I don’t know. Perhaps he only meant to give her a piece of his mind. But the insinuations of Roberts, combined with years of deep-seated jealousy sent him over the edge. She had it coming. Her own fault.
‘But he has a problem. The idea of giving himself up doesn’t appeal, and he is stuck far from his room with no way of getting back. But it’s only about five hundred metres across the canal, a few lengths of a swimming pool. Nothing that could not be handled by someone who is such a powerful and practised swimmer. He kicks off his shoes, then drops them, the knife and her bag in the canal.
‘When he reaches the Isola San Giorgio he lets himself in a side door with his key. He is soaking, and so leaves puddles of water in the corridor which are mistaken for a leaky roof. It was not raining. How else did they get there? He dries himself, goes down to the laundry room to wash out his clothes, then asks for a glass of water to establish an alibi. Any comments yet, doctor?’
No reply, yet again.
‘But Masterson wasn’t dead,’ he went on. ‘She knows she is dying and won’t get help in time. She also knows from Miller that he was put up to it by Roberts, playing Iago to Miller’s Othello. Appropriate Venetian metaphor, I think. She tries to leave some hint of what has happened.
‘She isn’t dragged to the greenhouse, as Commissario Bovolo thought. She crawls there herself, because she knows what’s inside. It contains flowers she had specifically chosen herself to decorate the table at Saturday’s banquet. She tears the crucifix off her neck and grasps a flower. A cross and a lily. The symbol of St Anthony. The flowers were meant to be a triumphant reference to her discovery in Milan, but turned into her wreath.’
A lengthy pause as everybody swivelled to look hard at the silent, white-faced Miller. ‘Well, Dr Miller. How close are we?’ Bottando asked eventually.
‘Close,’ he said with the weariness of a man who has had enough. ‘Very close.’
‘Do you want to make a formal statement? They work wonders for the sentence and help get a reduced charge. Alternatively, you can wait until we find some trace of blood on your clothes or under your fingernails. We will find something. These forensic people always do. They’re awfully good, you know.’
In fact, he was doubtful about the scientific investigation. This forensic business was never as good as the experts claimed. He’d seen too many authenticated fake paintings to have all that much faith in their prowess, but it seemed to convince Miller, who nodded in miserable agreement. Bottando sighed with relief.
‘Good,’ he said with satisfaction as he noticed the increasingly jaundiced appearance of Bovolo’s face. He was a man seeing his promotion vanish before his very eyes.
‘Hold on a second, are you telling me that Dr Miller here also killed Roberts?’ This was Kollmar, calmer now and beginning to take an active interest in the proceedings. Bottando wished he wasn’t. He felt uncomfortable about the next stage. But Flavia insisted it was tactically necessary. Before he could start talking, she took over. He had a feeling she didn’t trust him somehow.
‘No, of course he didn’t,’ she said briskly. ‘Why should he? The sequence of events is quite clear. Roberts is questioned. He tells his story; how he is upset about Masterson’s death, how he tried to do so much for her, and so on. And does a very good job. No suspicion attaches to him at all.
‘But later on I also see Van Heteren,’ who began to turn pale once more at the statement, ‘and mention the lily and crucifix motif. Because of my somewhat impressionistic method of questioning, he is the only person I told.
‘Dr Van Heteren is no fool. He realises that Masterson was indicating Roberts, but can’t believe it. Nor does he want to incriminate a colleague falsely, which was why he refused to tell us he had overheard Roberts talking to Pianta on the phone.
‘So on Tuesday evening, after I have seen him, he goes over to discuss the matter. Roberts reassures him, but knows that although the carabinieri are unlikely to realise what the symbols mean, there is a chance that we will. And if this leads to Bralle’s death being investigated more closely…’
No harm in a bit of publicity, she thought. Especially in a good cause. ‘Roberts is trapped and cannot face the idea of jail and humiliation. He has already murdered and manipulated to avoid it, but it is clear that the effort has not been worthwhile. There is no way out, so after Van Heteren has left he kills himself to avoid the inevitable. He tries hanging first, hence the red marks around his neck, but hasn’t enough courage to go through with it. So he jumps in the canal and drowns.’
Bottando looked even more uncomfortable, Argyll was wearing an expression of considerable surprise, and the rest of the audience breathed another huge sigh of relief. ‘That’s the way it was, was it not, doctor?’ she asked the Dutchman.
Van Heteren did not reply for some time. Then he glanced up from the carpet, which he had been studying with enormous interest and said quietly, ‘If you say so.’
‘And you did overhear that phone conversation?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But –’
‘Good,’ said Flavia, interrupting him. ‘Pity you didn’t tell us earlier, but I knew it was something along those lines.’
She smiled reassuringly at her boss, who frowned back. At least the worst was over. He shifted in his seat and decided to get this miserable business over as quickly as possible. Complete triumph was only a matter of minutes away. He merely wished he knew what little surprise Bovolo had in store for them.
‘Now, then,’ he said, taking control once more. ‘One last mystery. The Marchesa’s pictures. These had an ambiguous status. The Marchesa’s husband did what many aristocrats do. His estate went to his heir, Dr Lorenzo, with his wife having rights to it for as long as she lived. Nothing could be sold without Lorenzo’s permission. Which, of course, he gave for these works, because they were of no importance.
‘But the Marchesa and Signora Pianta had a suspicion that this was not the case with one picture, an anonymous portrait. Louise Masterson was keen to examine it, but would not say why. If it was valuable, and if Dr Lorenzo found out, he would undoubtedly withdraw his agreement, because of his public role as defender of the National Heritage.
‘The Marchesa loathed the idea of having to do as she was told by someone so much younger – a perfectly understandable trait, I must say. I have recently suffered similar difficulties myself. Signora Pianta was thinking of her old age, and the fact that she might well be homeless and penniless once her employer died. Again perfectly understandable.
‘Once Masterson died and there was a possibility her interest in the work would emerge, it became clear that the picture would have to be got out of the country quickly, before Lorenzo vetoed the idea. They were, of course, determined not to draw attention to themselves, which is why Signora Pianta failed to explain the appointment with Masterson just before she was murdered.
‘So at the last minute they started trying to renegotiate the deal with Argyll, to pressure him to smuggle it to Switzerland. Unfortunately for them he refused and they fell back on an alternative little plot. It is not surprising Signora Pianta was so upset when Argyll introduced her to my assistant that evening, considering what they were about to do.
‘Quite simply, they moved the pictures down to a rarely-used cellar and reported them stolen to gain time in which to find a more corrupt dealer. The picture could then be smuggled out, sold through an intermediary and Lorenzo could do little about it. So, when I realised what must have happened, I had a policeman stationed there to stop it leaving the house.’
Pianta was white-faced with horror, the Marchesa had the air of a cheeky adolescent caught stealing biscuits. She looked, in fact, rather pleased. She, at least, had thoroughly enjoyed herself in the past few days.
‘Very well done indeed, General,’ she said, beaming with delight. ‘And I take it back entirely. Not all policemen are stupid.’
Bottando inclined his head to accept the compliment.
&nbs
p; ‘My dear auntie, really,’ Lorenzo said severely. ‘How could you? There is no question of Pianta being thrown on to the streets and you know it. I always knew you were wayward, I never thought you were that bad.’ She shrugged naughtily, looking at him with twinkling eyes.
‘But what about my pictures?’ Argyll interjected, trying to get some basic information about the really important question.
‘Of course, there is no question now…’ Lorenzo began, but was interrupted by a quiet cough from the back of the room. A discreet cough. Almost modest, for Commissario Bovolo. Argyll thought it a strangely ominous noise.
‘Before you go on,’ he said, with just a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
There was a brief pause as the Venetian enjoyed the rarity of being the focal point of the evening. ‘Go on, then,’ Bottando suggested gloomily. Here it comes, he thought.
‘In accordance with General Bottando’s suggestions,’ he said somewhat stiffly, ‘when it was ascertained that the Marchesa and Signora Pianta had left the building, we entered with a warrant and searched in the cellars for the missing items. It was not easy, which is why we were late. As you know, the weather has been bad and the tides heavy…’
He was interrupted by a strangled sound coming from Lorenzo. The Marchesa’s eyes lost their twinkle and Argyll, although he had no idea what was coming, decided he didn’t want to hear it. Bovolo, however, proceeded inexorably on his way.
‘The cellar is one of those which communicates directly with the canal outside, to facilitate easy access to the building for tradesmen. It would appear that most of the paintings were placed directly on the floor, propped up to keep them from damage, but not sufficiently elevated…’
‘Oh, Pianta, you fool. Can’t you do anything properly?’ the Marchesa broke in.
‘Not sufficiently elevated, as I say,’ resumed Bovolo sententiously, ‘to stop them being dislodged by the high tides which at some stage today began to flood the room. Several of the pictures were discovered by my officers still in the cellar, floating on the surface of the water. They have suffered badly, but they have been recovered.’
‘And the portrait?’ asked Argyll weakly. Stoicism in such circumstances is all a human being has left.
‘The portrait in question,’ resumed Bovolo, now on the last lap, ‘which I was particularly requested by General Bottando to recover, appears to be one of those washed out by the tidal movements into the lagoon. We will, of course, search for it tomorrow morning…’
‘Oh, Jesus, don’t bother,’ said Lorenzo, with a light and nervous laugh. ‘After twelve hours in salt water there won’t be anything left to find. The only consolation we have is the hope that it was not really valuable after all.’
Argyll looked at them all, noticing that most were far more upset about the loss of the picture than they were about the murder of Masterson or Bralle. Pathetic, really. He also saw Flavia glaring at him in what appeared to be blind panic. It was too much to say that her eyes were popping out of her head with alarm, but clearly she wanted to tell him something.
He closed his mouth, then opened it again. Then hesitated. This was not at all how he had imagined his evening ending. What about his triumph? His great coup? Ah, the things you do for friends.
‘Well, what about it?’ Lorenzo prodded, when he decided he could stand watching Argyll’s mouth flap about no more. ‘Was it valuable?’
Argyll rubbed his face wearily in his hands, sniffed loudly and gazed around the room at the ranks of expectant faces hoping he wasn’t going to say anything too distressing.
‘I stand by my original assessment, for what it’s worth. I’ve been through all the evidence carefully. A minor work by a minor artist. Nothing that would set the sale rooms alight, of that I can assure you,’ he concluded.
Everybody but himself and Commissario Bovolo seemed more than content with this explanation. Grateful, even. He stood up morosely and, as there seemed nothing else to say, everybody else began to stand as well. Bit by bit, the meeting broke up. Little fragments of desultory conversation broke out as people got their coats and prepared to depart.
Miller was being watched by Bovolo’s assistant before being taken to make his statement. His colleagues studiously ignored him. Bottando and the magistrate were deep in a conversation from which Bovolo was ostentatiously excluded. Lorenzo eyed his aunt as though assessing the wisdom of approaching her, then evidently decided to let her stew. Kollmar and his wife walked quietly out, followed by a still beaming Marchesa with Pianta bringing up the rear.
Eventually only Van Heteren was left. He came quietly up to Flavia and opened his mouth to speak.
‘No. I don’t want to hear any more, doctor,’ she said briskly before he could even begin. ‘Go away. Go back to Holland.’
‘But I must –’
‘You must nothing of the sort. I have had more than enough. Go home and go to bed. Now.’
‘Ever thought of taking up motherhood?’ Argyll asked as he watched the abashed and chastened Dutchman scuttle out of the room to obey her command. ‘You did that like a natural.’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘But thank you for the offer. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
The rain, at least, had cleared the atmosphere. The damp, humid oppressiveness had gone, and in its place was a light, fresh breeze and crystal clear night. Even the flood tide had gone down a little. Another hour or so and the streets would be clear.
In total, and not very happy, silence, the two Italians and the Englishman were ferried back across the wide opening of the Grand Canal.
‘That was a fine piece of work,’ Bottando said eventually, patting her lightly on the shoulder. ‘My congratulations. I’m proud of you. You may well keep your job.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘I’m not sure about some of the details, though.’
‘Nor am I,’ cut in Argyll. ‘I mean, when you said…’
Flavia placed her hand on his arm and gave it a slight warning squeeze to make him shut up. He lapsed into a resentful silence.
‘I noticed you were unhappy. Did I go wrong somewhere?’ asked Bottando.
‘You got the right man,’ she said, ‘but I think you missed the point about her death. That’s because you didn’t understand her.’
‘Oh, yes? What’s wrong with my understanding?’
‘All you lot characterised her in a way which was, if I may say so, perfectly predictable. Pushy, aggressive, ambitious, vindictive. You assumed, like them, that she was going to dig her fangs in.’
‘And you’re going to tell me she wasn’t?’
‘Of course she wasn’t. It doesn’t fit. It is what Roberts thought, and that’s why he put Miller up to it. But he was wrong. I don’t think she gave a hoot about what he was up to, beyond disapproving and wanting to quit the committee before Bralle let rip. She went to St Gall because she wanted to hear about Benedetti’s Titian from Bralle. She went to Milan and Padua for the same reason. She didn’t even meet either of the men who had sold those pictures.
‘Masterson didn’t want to get involved. Why should she, when Bralle was already plotting to expose Roberts? We know she had no time for that sort of thing. She was irritated about Kollmar, no doubt, but it was only Roberts who said she’d been offensive about him. No one else heard her be anything but polite. In the committee meeting last year she merely said she wanted to work on the picture; it was Roberts who told Kollmar she was being nasty about him behind his back. OK, she was brusque, but who wouldn’t be with that pedantic little ninny?
‘With Van Heteren, Benedetti or that friar in Padua, she was charming and kind. They all said so. And on her last day she wasn’t in the library writing denunciations about academic corruption or bad references for Miller, she was reading art history. Like the good, dedicated scholar she was. She was never any sort of danger to Roberts or Miller. The poor woman was murdered simply because they all thought she was just as self-obsessed, mean and ambitious as they were themselves.’
/> ‘So what was this paper going to be about?’
‘She was going to announce one of the most sensational finds for years,’ she said simply. ‘That was what she was working on so hard. Not politics and denunciations.’
Bottando winced and held up his hand. ‘Stop there. I don’t want to know. You may be right, and perhaps I did the poor lady an injustice, but I can’t stand to hear the details. Besides, I do seem to have arrested the right man and all I care about now, frankly, is drying my feet off and getting on the next plane back to Rome,’ he said as the boat nudged against the landing stage and he levered himself heavily out.
‘I have a budget submission and a large amount of last-minute lobbying to do first thing tomorrow morning. Still,’ he said more cheerfully, ‘at least there is some ammunition to do it with now.’
So she dropped it. Bottando had set his heart on a hot bath and hurried off the moment the boat touched the quay. Argyll and she strolled off on their own, and within ten minutes had got themselves totally lost once more.
‘Now you can ask your question,’ she said after Bottando had disappeared and they’d given up trying to decide where they were.
‘Ah. Which one is that?’
‘The one about Van Heteren.’
‘Oh, that. Well, yes. He did, didn’t he?’
‘Of course he did. He went over to see Roberts, accused him of murdering his lover, half-throttled him, dragged him to the canal and threw him in. Those marks under Roberts’ house – and on his neck – prove that. Crime of Passion. Impetuous man, just the sort of thing he would do. Told you he was like that.’
‘But it was the wrong man. Roberts hadn’t killed Masterson. You didn’t feel like mentioning that? And Bottando agreed?’
She shrugged. ‘Not our murder investigation. It wouldn’t have done to have humiliated the locals totally. As it is, this splits Bovolo and the magistrate apart. Bovolo is ground in the dust a bit for being wrong about Masterson, the magistrate is so happy no one mentioned the way he leant on the pathologist that he has agreed to thank us in writing for our excellent work. And Pierre Janet, dear sweet man, will also say what heroes we are for solving Bralle’s murder. The department covered in glory just in time for Bottando’s budget submissions. What more could anybody want?’