He knew he should ring Flavia immediately, but also knew that, if he did turn out to be wrong, then his constant changing his mind would make Bottando seem like a complete fool. And his confidence about his ability to be right on anything was dwindling fast. On the other hand, if he was finally right, then this whole risky subterfuge that he’d recommended was unnecessary, if not worse. What should he do? Suddenly he felt his old self again, and the thrusting and dynamic alter ego withered and vanished. Damn good thing, considering how much trouble its brief appearance had caused.
To postpone the decision as long as possible, he walked to the bedroom and examined his beloved drawing once more, no longer the neglected orphan but now revealed as a prince in disguise. Now he knew the author, he was disappointed in himself for not having recognized the style the moment he first clapped eyes on it. The broad, confident and assured strokes of the pencil, the subtle way in which light and shade were merely suggested by a stroke here and there, the completeness of the whole thing. But it wasn’t the same: he had loved it; now he also knew that it was Leonardo, and had a watertight provenance traceable back to the artist’s pencil, he was merely awed by it.
He decided to give himself another half hour. Then he would make up his mind.
Forty-five minutes later, he concluded, reluctantly, that he had no choice. Flavia would have to know the full and complete truth. He could not, in good conscience, do anything other. It would be very difficult, but not disastrous as long as she got to Bottando before he started talking to the committee.
“Jonathan, it was awful,” she burbled down the phone before he could even finish saying hello.
“He’s already done it? I thought it was at four?”
“Brought forward.”
“Oh, my God! He told them the whole thing? About Forster being Giotto? He didn’t have any qualms about it?”
“Why should he have any qualms?”
There was a long pause as Argyll digested this.
“You mean you didn’t tell him?” he asked, rocking in anguished astonishment. “He went in to deliver this story about Forster not knowing it was entirely fictitious?”
“I didn’t have time,” she said a little defensively.
“As I say, it was brought forward. And I knew he would have balked at the idea anyway. The damnable thing is that it wasn’t necessary. Bottando had already nobbled Argan. He proved that his brother-in-law was handling stolen goods and raiding archaeological sites. He didn’t need all that stuff on Forster we concocted. So I should never have listened to you in the first place.”
“Well,” said Argyll defensively. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know. I’m sorry. And there’s no harm done, I suppose.”
“You do get some pictures back. I thought that was the most important thing.”
“In theory. And I suppose it was worth it. Veronica is dead, and we couldn’t get Winterton anyway, so it’s not as if we were letting anyone off the hook.”
There was a long pause as Argyll tried to stop his head spinning. “Oh. Well. Just as well then. But what if the, um, truth ever seeps out?”
“I don’t see why it should. I’m going to be in charge of writing the reports and the current owners aren’t going to go out of their way to advertise what happened. Nor will Mary or Winterton, if they have any sense.”
“What about the other pictures?”
“Which other pictures?”
“The ones Bottando had on his list that Winterton didn’t own up to? What about them? The Vélasquez, for example?”
“Pouf! I suppose he was wrong. I can’t see that she did that one. I mean, Bottando isn’t infallible. He was only guessing, a lot of the time.”
“Ah. That’s all right, then.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I’m leaving for London in a few hours. I just have one or two details to clear up.”
“Well, hurry home. Bottando wants to take us both out for a celebration.”
By the time he’d cleaned up his room and packed his bag and made ready to go, he decided that the only person who could offer any form of useful advice was Mary Verney. If anyone was going to know what he should do, she was the one.
He found her in the sitting room, the only comfortable room in the bloody place, as she called it, curled up on a vast Victorian armchair, reading a book.
“Jonathan, dear,” she said, looking up with a smile and taking her reading glasses off. “Are you about to leave me?”
“I think so, yes.”
“What’s the matter, darling? You look dreadfully anxious.”
“A problem. I was wondering…”
“You want to ask me? How flattering. Of course. Go ahead. What is it? I can’t guarantee to be much use. though. I’m still quite flustered from yesterday. Too much excitement.”
Sweet as ever, but this time Argyll didn’t react so warmly. He was too preoccupied. “There are little anomalies, you see.” he said. “Holes in the evidence.”
“Dear me. Can you let me in on the secret! Tell me what they are?”
Despite himself. Argyll smiled at last. She was a very easy woman to like. That was part of the trouble. “Oh. yes. I think maybe you’re just the person to tell. Maybe even the only one.”
“I am fascinated.” she said. “But I’m also thirsty. Whatever it is, I’m sure it will sound better with a gin in hand. I do hope your problems are not so serious that they’ve turned you into a teetotaller.”
Argyll nodded his assent, and she poured a brace of her habitually vast drinks, then he waited while she went down to the kitchen and got some ice and lemon.
“So,” she said as she finally sat down again and turned her full attention on to him. “Your anomalies. Why do they make you so furrowed of brow?”
He took a gulp at his gin. “Because they mean you have not been entirely truthful,” he said more apologetically than was strictly warranted.
There was a long pause and she studied him with perplexed concern. “But you know that,” she said after a while.
“I mean, we end up feeling sorry for you and work out a way of retrieving the situation so you don’t have to suffer because of your relations,” he went on, following his own thoughts.
“Which was appreciated,” she replied. “And it was to Flavia’s own advantage as much as mine.”
“So I thought. But then I find out you’re lying again.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
He shook his head almost angrily. “No, I haven’t. You’ve never been lost. And the fact that it’s all my fault just makes it worse.”
“Meaning?”
“I liked you. So I wasn’t paying attention. And Flavia was in a hurry and allowed me to push her against her instincts and better judgement. So it’s all my fault, you see.”
She looked at him oddly, and suggested he got to the point.
“If your story is true, then cousin Veronica must have stolen all the pictures in the list Winterton handed over. Otherwise, how would he have known where they were now?”
“True. Have an olive?”
“No, thank you. Now. If there were pictures on the list which she didn’t steal, couldn’t possibly have stolen, then your explanation yesterday becomes inadequate.”
“I’m still not with you, my love, but go on anyway. I’m sure you’ll make sense soon.”
“Two pictures she couldn’t possibly have stolen were very much on the list.”
“Extraordinary.”
The Uccello, to start with. Supposedly stolen by her while she was at that finishing school. Except she wasn’t. She never went anywhere near della Quercia’s. Of course she didn’t.”