And the disadvantages? They’d have to call in the English police, who would be bound to make a formal protest. Flavia would certainly not come out of it well. And as for Bottando… No. She was right there, too.
And the Leonardo. Was he really prepared to see something so pretty destroyed simply because he was upset at being beaten? Wouldn’t that make things worse?
Yes. But, if he took it, he’d be compromised. That was the point of the gift, of course.
“Well?” she said. “What’s it to be?”
“Tell me one thing. You say you stole thirty-one pictures?”
“Thirty-two including the Fra Angelico. I don’t count that.”
“And the nineteen that Winterton told Flavia about?”
“Were the ones whose new owners could not identify us. The others will have to stay in hiding in case someone speaks out of turn. I’m sure Flavia realized that when she was talking to him.”
Put like that, there wasn’t a great deal to be said about it. She was right. There was nothing he could do anyway. So, feigning a certainty he was far from feeling, Argyll stood and picked up the drawing. The move was his answer to all the questions, and Mary saw that instantly.
“Good,” she said seriously. “I hope you don’t take it amiss if I say you are taking the right decision. And having leapt that hurdle, why don’t you follow up by marrying her as well?”
Argyll smiled sadly and walked silently to the door.
“Jonathan.”
He turned round and looked at her.
“I really am sorry, you know.”
He nodded, and left.
A few minutes later, Weller House was disappearing in his rear view mirror and he was driving along the road which led to the motorway, London and the airport. He pulled out into the middle of the road to avoid George Barton walking home to his cottage. He at least came out of this well. He waved, then came up to the patch of road he had pranced up and down on a few days previously to attract the attention of PC Hanson. He was deeply miserable, and could not get out of his head what had happened. Every time he tried, all that happened was that he thought of the beautiful, hateful drawing on the passenger seat. His greatest triumph, and look what had to happen before he could achieve it.
Without even suspecting himself of what he was going to do, he slowed down and turned the car down the narrow driveway, stopped and got out. OK, he thought. Flavia can lie for Bottando, then I can do the same for her. Serves me right. But I am damned if I’m going to turn into Arthur Winterton. Sod that.
There was a light on in the house, and Jessica Forster opened up when he knocked at the door. He thought he’d say hello. He sort of identified with her. Used, manipulated, exploited. The only difference was that she didn’t appear to feel sorry for herself on quite the grand scale that Argyll did.
“I’m just going,” Argyll explained. “I thought I’d see how you were doing. My name’s Argyll, by the way.”
Mrs. Forster smiled with sad pleasure and insisted he get out of the rain. “Come in, please, Mr. Argyll. It was kind of you to call. You’re the friend of that Italian woman, aren’t you?”
Argyll said he was. She had gone back to Italy in a bit of a rush, he explained, which was why she hadn’t said goodbye personally. So she’d asked him to do it instead.
Jessica Forster nodded. “Thank her for the thought. She’s a kind woman. Do you know, the only people who have shown any kindness to me since all this happened are Miss di Stefano—who I don’t know—and Mrs. Verney, whom I’d never really liked. Everyone else has been avoiding me as though I had a contagious disease. I suppose they thought that I was about to be arrested for Geoff’s murder.”
“How are you feeling now?”
She shrugged. “I’m recovering, I suppose. Trying to get my life together again. That’s what I have to concentrate on, now. At least I don’t have to worry about anything. The police tell me it was definitely just an accident. Do you know, I’m glad? Geoff had his faults, I knew that better than anyone; but it would have been a horrid way to die.”
“Yes. Well, I imagine it will take some time. Do you know what you’ll do?”
“I’ve scarcely thought. I shall probably go and live in London. See if I can find someone to give me a job, although God only knows what I’ll do. It’s not as if I’m qualified or anything. But I always hated country life, and now I have no one to look after but myself, I can get away from it. I hate cows and local gossip and village fêtes. I suppose I’ll have to stay for a while, to sort out Geoff’s things. Although there isn’t a great deal to sort out. There doesn’t seem to be anything but debts. I can still hardly believe what’s happened.”
Argyll sympathized, and said he could hardly believe it either. He thought Mrs. Verney had been a bit hard on Jessica Forster. No dynamo, certainly, but resilient, and, in her way, courageous. She deserved better treatment than she had received. “He really left a mess, did he?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said, smiling bravely. “I’m on my own, now. There’s no savings, no insurance, and a lot of debts and mortgages. Even his pictures aren’t worth much, I’m told.”
“Oh dear. In fact,” he went on, “I didn’t just come to ask how you were. I’ve got something for you.”
He produced the little packet. “It belonged to your husband. It’s something he left you.”
She grimaced. “I suppose I shall have to find its rightful owner, then.”
“No. It really did belong to him. No hanky-panky at all. He bought it; quite above board. I thought you’d like it.”
She opened it up and looked inside sceptically. “I don’t know that I do. Small, isn’t it?”
“It is small, yes. But if I were you I’d sell it. It might help your finances quite a lot. There’s a place called the Moresby Museum in Los Angeles which is always on the look-out. I’ll contact the director and send the details of what it is, if you want. I have all the information he’ll require.”
“Is it worth a little money? Can’t be, surely. It’s not even finished.”
“Let me take care of the money angle,” Argyll reassured her. “I’ll tell him what price you’ll accept and make sure you get it.”
Mrs. Forster shrugged again, perplexed at the strangeness of the world, then tucked the drawing away and put it on a shelf above the television.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said. “I appreciate the thought. I will of course pay you for your trouble…”
“No,” he said sharply, and saw her recoil a little from his vehemence. “No,” he repeated more gently. “That’s quite all right. My pleasure.”
“Well, thank you,” she said simply.
“Think nothing of it. Just don’t tell anyone about this until you contact the Moresby, OK?”
“Why?”
“Funny business, the art world. You wouldn’t want Gordon to pay you an unexpected call before you leave. Besides, if the taxmen decide it’s part of your husband’s estate, you might not be allowed to sell it for months.”
Mrs. Forster nodded.
“Listen,” Argyll went on, shaking her hand, “I’ve got to go and catch a plane. Good luck. And please don’t lose that drawing.”
And Jonathan Argyll, former art dealer, left Weller and all it contained.
As he drove, he found himself breathing more easily, and he began to compose a letter in his mind to the international university accepting their kind offer of a position. He even began to wonder how on earth he was going to teach a load of ignorant, spotty-faced adolescents to appreciate the subtlety, grace and profundity of baroque art.
But he hadn’t a clue; so he forgot all about it, and hummed to himself instead.