The references to Titian were incidental, and unfortunately were strikingly lacking in any proof that he had painted the Marchesa’s portrait or, indeed, was connected with it in any way. There were extracts from old accounts of how he had gone to Padua to paint scenes from the life of the town’s patron saint. A book of Venice city records containing a petition from Alfonso di Modena – that surname again, Argyll thought – requesting that the artist be allowed to return because of the great services he had performed. This with a footnote that the authorities disliked artisans leaving town without permission, as Titian evidently had when he rushed off to Padua. Descriptions of the three Padua pictures themselves wrapped the reading up.
All very edifying, no doubt, but not what you might call full of significant hints that would lead inevitably to the door of a murderer.
He was beginning to get frustrated with all this nonsense. So, being a practical soul, he funnelled the photocopies back into the envelope, returned the books, then headed off to the nearest affordable café – he was too wise to be caught out going into one of the ferociously expensive places in the Piazza San Marco – and ordered a drink.
Flavia had arranged the night before with Franz Kollmar to meet at the house he was renting on the Giudecca, the long strip of a rather unfashionable island that runs along the south of Venice proper. On the boat over to the island she read the police notes to get some idea of what she was about to be meeting. It was not an impressive collection of facts. Job in Baden-Baden, specialist in sixteenth-century Italian painting, married with six children aged between one and fourteen. Six children? That seemed a little excessive. Aged forty-three, founder member of the committee, well thought of professionally.
The boat was drawing into the shore at San Eufemia. Fortunately for her already battered and humiliated sense of direction, the house that the German lived in was close to the quayside; a short walk down the rio di San Eufemia, and there was a small dwelling, beaten, neglected and sunless.
She was still breathless when she rang the bell, and was let in by an attractive but harassed woman – evidently Frau Kollmar – and shown into a small salon. Clearly, Kollmar was not a wealthy man. The house was not nearly big enough for such an evidently voluminous family, she thought as she removed a teddy bear from the sofa and sat down. It was probably not too expensive to rent either; the furniture was cheap, the paintwork peeling. All in all, it had a depressed air that not even the presence of a small army of little Kollmars did much to dispel.
In another room she could hear the high-pitched tones of a baby crying its head off. A lower pitched, man’s voice could also be distinguished, shushing the infant and assuring it – in German but the language used to calm crying babies is universally comprehensible – not to worry, everything was fine and just be a good girl.
Flavia sat with a doll on her knee and a patient expression on her face. Gradually the screaming faded and came to an abrupt stop with a throaty gurgle and congratulatory noises from the relieved parent. A few seconds later, the relieved parent himself appeared through the door. Kollmar was evidently a right-thinking father who tried to do his bit with the children but who found the experience a harrowing one. He did not look at all happy; movements nervous, voice abrupt, although whether that was due to anxiety over her presence or combat fatigue from battling with the feeding bottle was not immediately clear.
Certainly, she thought, the members of this committee were an ill-assorted lot. Roberts the cultured connoisseur, Masterson the dour businesswoman. And this besplattered apparition, all nerves and nappies. On appearance and personality alone it was not surprising they had disagreements.
They talked in Italian; Kollmar’s diction made him sound like something out of an old war movie, but he was fearfully accurate. His main fault was that he spoke far too well ever to pass for an Italian. If you can learn German you can learn anything, but the accomplishment does seem to breed a tendency to show off with linguistic fireworks. Flavia mentally ducked to avoid the barrage of imperfect subjunctives that flew through the air whenever he opened his mouth.
‘I’m sure you will excuse me if we keep this interview short,’ he said, somewhat to Flavia’s surprise. ‘I have a great deal of work to do and I think I have spent more than enough time talking to the police in the last few days already.’
‘I would have thought that the sudden death of two of your colleagues would merit some of your time,’ she replied sharply. That’s telling him, she thought.
Kollmar’s look of consternation was, at least, convincing. He paused, looked at her as though she was a little mad, frowned and shifted in his seat in the manner of someone who knows something fishy is going on.
‘Two?’ he said eventually, latching on to the important bit. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You haven’t been told?’
Kollmar’s bewilderment was impressive, and the way his face crumpled in horror when she told him about Roberts’ death even more so. She made it as gory as possible. Not because she was hard-hearted, although she hadn’t taken much of a liking to the man, just that she reckoned people watch their words less carefully if in a state of shock. She was inclined, on the basis of his horrified reaction alone, to lower the odds on his being responsible for the Englishman’s end. She noted that he did not appear nearly so upset about Masterson.
‘Dead?’ he asked, a little stupidly. ‘I don’t believe it. But why wasn’t I told? Good heavens, I am now the senior person on the committee. Surely I have a right to be informed of such matters?’
Flavia just managed to restrain her expression of surprise at such a bizarre statement. To stand on your dignity at such a moment struck her as being petty, if not downright callous. She imagined he hadn’t been informed probably because the police were being characteristically inefficient and just hadn’t got around to it. On the other hand, she thought, remembering Bralle’s nickname for the man, Kollmar was exactly the sort of person who you would forget to inform. Best to pass over the comment in silence.
‘You delivered some papers to Professor Roberts’ house last night, I believe,’ she said. ‘What time was that?’
‘About eight,’ he replied. ‘On my way home for dinner. He wasn’t in, so I just pushed them through the door with a note. Why?’
‘That was about the time he was killed.’
‘Oh, dear God,’ he said, considering the implications and not liking them. ‘And you think I…?’
‘Not necessarily. But I don’t know of anyone else in the area at the time. Were you alone?’
He nodded with an increasingly dismayed look on his face, the appearance of someone who has woken up from a bad dream and finds that it is all coming true.
‘But this is ridiculous,’ he resumed after shaking his head in disbelief for a bit. ‘I do not believe this tragedy could possibly be murder. I cannot accept that anyone would want to kill Roberts. Not an enemy in the world. Such a dynamic, productive and innovative man.’
Flavia snorted. ‘And Masterson?’ she asked.
‘Entirely diff…’ he began, then stopped.
‘Different? You mean she did have enemies? Like yourself, perhaps?’
‘That is also ridiculous,’ he said primly, beginning to fight back a little. ‘We had professional disagreements. Nothing more. I can’t say I liked the woman. In fact I found her most difficult. But if people went round assassinating all difficult colleagues, there’d be no one left.’
Point taken. Flavia herself could have supplied several hundred good candidates. ‘All right, then. Suppose you tell me why she was difficult?’
He considered this carefully. ‘How can I explain it?’ he began. ‘As I’m sure you know, the study of art is a very special discipline. With an enterprise like our committee, there had to be common feeling and understanding between all members for it to work properly. There had to be sympathy, and a mutual approach, if you see what I mean.’
He smiled in a way that suggested that he didn’t
really expect her to understand such fine points. Flavia leant back in her armchair, crossed her arms and tried to suppress her feelings of pique.
‘For some considerable time, such a belief in our co-operative enterprise existed. Alas, of late, I’m afraid that the meetings have been more characterised by discord than the harmony which would be more appropriate and more productive.’
Here he stopped, unwilling to go into further and unseemly detail. Flavia reckoned the time had come to give him a helping hand.
‘You mean that the arrival of Dr Masterson disrupted your cosy little brotherhood and she was causing waves?’
That didn’t go down at all well. Kollmar took on more and more the air of an injured saint. If Louise Masterson was half as direct in her conversational style, there would have been no chance the two could have co-operated.
‘That was one element. Another was the constant pressure from Dr Lorenzo for us to hurry our work. He is a man with many qualities, but I fear he is prepared to accept methods which are perhaps unduly hasty in order to impress his patrons in Rome.’
‘But tell me more about Louise Masterson.’
‘Far be it from me to criticise her, especially in the circumstances, but she was an undoubtedly forceful woman in a field which above all calls for – how can I put it? – reflection, patience and a willingness to learn.’
‘You mean she disagreed with you?’
‘I mean she disagreed with everyone. I gather, for example, that she was writing a most unfavourable reference for Dr Miller, even though she knew it might cost him his job. I find that sort of behaviour quite unforgivable.’
‘What makes you think she was doing that?’
He looked defensive all of a sudden. ‘Um, I can’t remember. I believe Roberts told me. He was unconcerned about it, on the grounds that his own reference would more than make up for it. But he was upset, no doubt about that. Quite right too.
‘In my own case, she did dispute some of my conclusions about a painting owned by a collector in Milan. Initially I was inclined to let it pass, until I discovered she was waging a campaign against me behind my back.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was warned by Professor Roberts that she was saying most unfortunate things about me. Poor man, he was clearly distressed. I do so hate that sort of thing. At the meeting, to my face, all she said was that she wanted to examine the picture a little herself. Next thing I find that she is calling my judgement and scholarship into question and saying the whole thing will have to be redone. I fear that she found a ready ear in Dr Lorenzo.’
‘But you didn’t want a fight?’
‘Certainly not. I was confident I was being appropriately cautious. It is an important business, attributing paintings. Better safe than sorry. I was undecided until Roberts himself concluded the thing was probably a dud.’
That wasn’t quite what Roberts had said, she remembered, but she let it pass. ‘And what conclusions had Dr Masterson come to?’
Kollmar pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘How should I know? I cannot say we discussed the matter. The only time we mentioned the subject I found her attitude rather offensive.’
‘Why?’
‘This was Friday afternoon, while we were leaving after the session and attempting to get off the island. It was the last time I spoke to her. I was trying to effect some reconciliation, so I suggested a drink. She refused. I must say, I thought it was a bit rude, considering that I made the approach. I had no need to, after all. Roberts and Miller heard her. I could tell they were a bit taken aback as well.
‘But that was what she was like, I’m afraid. You see,’ he said earnestly, ‘she always wanted to win. She wasn’t really into the exchange of ideas; she wanted to beat anyone who disagreed with her. That I have always found insupportable. Especially in a woman.’
She let that one pass as well and congratulated herself on her remarkable forbearance that morning. So you slipped out of the opera, lured her into the gardens and knifed her seven times, she thought in a speculative sort of fashion. Still didn’t sound right somehow, however desirable a solution it was.
‘And do you have any theories about these deaths?’
‘For poor Roberts I can only assume it was a most tragic accident. As for Masterson, I understand she was robbed and then murdered in the struggle. She was a very forceful woman who would always have fought back. No robber would have taken her briefcase without having to fight for it. She was always combative. I’m sorry it turned out to be a quality that cost her her life.’
‘And at the time Dr Masterson was murdered you were at the theatre with your wife and Professor Roberts?’
‘Indeed. It was our first night out together for months. We got a babysitter from next door and went out around eight and came back well after midnight.’
‘And you went by taxi?’
‘Oh, yes. We had to. No choice. We were lucky. Because of the strike we nearly didn’t get there at all. It took hours to get back as well. I’m afraid that took some of the pleasure out of an otherwise splendidly generous gesture on Roberts’ part. He got some late returns and rang to invite us. Most kind, especially as he is no great fan of Donizetti. He even bought champagne for us to drink during the interval. As I say, a most generous man.’
There then followed a long silence; Flavia had run out of things to ask and already had quite enough to think about. There seemed little point in asking more about Roberts: no enemies, no one who could possibly want to kill such a good, distinguished man, etc. His answers were obvious. So she ran through the usual parting patter about how he mustn’t be disturbed, very distressing but all routine and necessary, she said with her most winning smile. He seemed scarcely reassured.
The three of them met, as arranged, in a restaurant near Santa Maria Formosa for lunch. It was one of those delightful lunches that happen only on rare occasions, when the food is perfect and all the company in a harmonious mood. Only the weather was being unco-operative, but it was at least still restraining itself in the matter of rain.
Considering that there were two murders, one theft, a threatened coup against the department and the likely displeasure of Edward Byrnes to deal with, it occurred to Argyll that the jolly mood was a little carefree, if not irresponsible. But Bottando was too much of a professional to let such matters disturb his enjoyment of a good feed and he, by virtue of his seniority and the fact that he was paying, set the tone. His good humour was even more remarkable as he had spent most of the morning in the company of Roberts and Bovolo, the one dead, the other a little pale and colourless.
‘Smug, he was,’ he said, referring to the latter. ‘Reckons he’ll get a good deal of praise for wrapping this one up so fast. So much so that he didn’t even object when I said you’d be staying on to help me with this theft. As long as you keep your nose out of matters which are none of your business, so he said with what I gather is his normal charm.
‘Anyway, his report will be finished by this evening, all squared with the investigating magistrate by tomorrow. Sicilian and Roberts’ own carelessness. Apparently they’re on an efficiency drive to cut costs. He kept on talking about throughput and case solution ratios. Accompanied by a subtle warning about how interference from Rome makes for inefficiency. I’m sure he couldn’t have meant us. All this taking place in the mortuary in the presence of a somewhat ominous and hostile magistrate. I have, by the way, found out why Bovolo is so opposed to us.’
‘Why?’ Flavia asked curiously.
‘Because he will head the carabinieri’s art department in Venice if it is all devolved to the provinces. Very worrying for us, but a pleasant prospect for the art thieves. I didn’t realise the carabinieri had got that far in their planning. They must be more confident than I thought.
‘Anyway, old Bovolo’s promotion rather depends on us getting it in the neck, so he will help that process along as much as possible. That’s also why he is so anxious to get this case tidied up in record time.’<
br />
‘So why did you want to see him?’
‘Oh, I don’t know really. Thought I should; know your enemy. I was glad I did. I had a brief chat with the pathologist. His report mentions a mark on Roberts’ neck.’
‘Where did that come from?’
‘Where indeed? The pathologist muttered something about tight collars, but it seems equally possible that someone grabbed him by the neck. I’m no expert of course, but the pathologist rather reluctantly agreed that it could be. He confessed that he wanted to lay out all the options in his report, but was told by the magistrate to make up his mind and stick to it. His contract is coming up for renewal. I advised him to play safe.’
‘Why did you do that?’ Flavia asked in surprise. ‘There’s every reason to believe that Roberts was killed, probably by the person who killed Masterson. A murderer is going to get off…’
Bottando held up his hands to stop the flow of indignation. ‘Your conscience does you credit, my dear, but your brains are letting the side down a bit. Think. If the murder investigation is left open, Bovolo is in charge and will do his best to keep us out of it. And remember his track record. So far he’s taken aim at a probably non-existent Sicilian and is now entranced by the prospect of Roberts’ drowning by accident. Disabuse him of that notion and he may well end up arresting Argyll here.
‘After all, it’s not my fault the man is an idiot. This way he is content and we have a free hand to do what we will. As I suspect we won’t find the pictures without finding ourselves a murderer, we can now go ahead unhindered. All we have to do is make sure we get a result before next Monday.’
‘Why next…? Oh, of course. That’s when the budget goes in, isn’t it?’
Bottando nodded conspiratorially.
‘Is that why you came up here? To see if you could grab a bit of credit and impress the minister?’