Caravaggio's Angel (20 page)

I wondered how much he knew about me and Olivier. Our hillside embrace hadn’t exactly been private. If Rigaut or one of his gorillas had seen us, he certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to pass that little detail on to the police. Not that it needed much passing – Rigaut’s gorillas
were
the police, for God’s sake. I felt sure, now, that that must be what had happened. What was it Rigaut had said?
I see you
two are friends
– something of that sort.

‘Yes, I met him through his wife. I told you, I was stay-ing at their house – she does chambres d’hôte at St Front, near Meyrignac. The tourist office recommended her.’

He sighed and said, ‘You realize the predicament you are in, madame? I’m afraid that for the moment I must ask you to remain available.’

Edmunds said, ‘Perhaps you would give me your pass-port, Miss Lee. We’ll keep it quite safe.’

Perhaps. How very British, to phrase an order as though there were some choice about it. I said, ‘If you don’t mind waiting down here, I’ll call my lawyer.’

Edmunds shrugged. ‘Of course.’

I left them sitting while I went up to my study and called Caroline on my mobile. She answered at once, and it struck me she was probably in bed. However, she was still awake, and for once David was there – he was working at home for a couple of days. She passed me to him, and I explained briefly what had happened. ‘They want my passport. I can’t imagine what they thought I’d do – skip the country?’

David considered for a couple of minutes. ‘Did you have any foreign trips planned?’

‘No, not immediately.’

‘Well, if it’s not going to inconvenience you, I’d let them have it. It’ll keep them happy and we can always get it back. Have they been there long?’

‘An hour.’ I looked at my watch. ‘No, actually nearly two.’

‘It would probably have been better if we’d had some-one there.’

‘All I said was what happened.’

‘Yeah – well, it should be OK. Keep in touch. Don’t answer any more questions without someone there.’ He gave me a number to call, and rang off.

Downstairs, no one had moved. Lebrun looked as though he might be asleep. I fished the passport out of my bag and handed it over. Edmunds wrote me out a receipt, then slipped it into a plastic envelope and stowed it in his briefcase. He asked for the number of my mobile, and when I hesitated, added, ‘Otherwise I’m going to have to ask you to contact me if you’re thinking of leaving London.’

I gave him the number; he noted it down and slid it into the plastic bag alongside my passport. When I asked where I could contact him he said simply, ‘Paddington Green,’ with a note of surprise that implied, Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Lebrun stood up and held out his hand like a sleep-walker. It contained a card. I took the card and shook the hand. ‘
Au revoir, madame
. If you need to contact me, that is my number.’

I closed the front door behind them, poured myself a large slug of whisky and told myself to forget all about it. But I couldn’t, however hard I tried. Instead I spent the night wondering what French prisons were like, and hoping I wasn’t going to find out.

18

Grounded: London, September

They say that even when you think you haven’t slept you really have, more than you know. If so, the results were not discernible when I got up.

As soon as I plugged the phone back in it began ringing, so I pulled it out again and checked the voicemail. It kicked off with a message from Olivier telling me he’d done the story and would send me a copy. There was also a message from, of all people, Joe, hoping I was all right. His main concern was probably professional (though he had the grace not to actually mention our arrangement) but it was still good to hear him. Not so long ago, I’d have called him back instantly, wouldn’t have had any peace until I’d spoken to him, but now other priorities were more urgent. The other messages, as Edmunds had predicted, were from the French and English press.

I deleted them, and wondered how best to contact Olivier. His mobile seemed the best bet. But when I called the number I was switched direct to voicemail. Perhaps he was having the same problem as me. I left him a message, and asked him to call my mobile. Relatively few people knew its number, so that at least should be safe from the press.

At the office, my phone was similarly swamped. Olivier’s mobile still didn’t answer, and he hadn’t called. I tried his office extension, but there, too, I was switched direct to voicemail.

I couldn’t disconnect the office phone, so I took it off the hook and tried to concentrate on the pile of work that as usual awaited me. But that was impossible, so I called Joe.

‘Well,’ he said, as casual as though speaking on the phone was something we did all the time these days. ‘You’ve been and gone and done it this time. So what’s all this about?’

‘Are we speaking professionally or personally?’

‘Personally, of course.’ He sounded hurt. ‘What d’you take me for?’

‘A journalist. You can’t imagine what it’s like. The phone just rings all the time.’

‘Poor old Reg. The only comfort I can offer is, it won’t last. Eventually they’ll move on to the next story. Seriously, though. What’s all this about Rigaut? You aren’t seriously implying he murdered his old ma? On account of a picture?’

‘I’m not implying anything. All I told anyone is what happened. And you’ll never guess what happened after that.’

‘No, I won’t, so why don’t you just go ahead and tell me.’

‘They’re charging
me
with the murder.’

‘They’ve actually charged you?’

‘Not yet, but they’ve confiscated my passport.’

‘Fantastic. You’ve got to hand it to him.’ He sounded almost admiring. ‘This is his moment, and he isn’t going to let someone like you mess it up. If you want my professional advice I think you should get away somewhere till it’s all blown over. Go and see Caroline or something. And then when you come back we should meet up and discuss it, OK?’

OK for whom, exactly? But despite my jaunty assumption that I’d got over him I found I terribly wanted to see him. Olivier had helped me over the obsessive stage. But as soon as we actually spoke, the pull returned. ‘OK,’ But as soon as I said meekly.

‘And Reggie.’

‘Yes?’

‘Take care, all right?’

The television romance must be over, if it had ever existed. More likely it was just journalism – while a story’s in progress, everyone associated with it at once becomes interesting. Still, what he’d said made sense. No one would find me at Caroline’s.

True friend that she was, she urged me to drop every-thing and come at once. ‘Take a couple of days off,’ she advised. ‘Tell them you’re ill. Anyway, it’s true – you’ll have a nervous breakdown otherwise. It’s a shame David won’t be here – he’s had to get back to town. But perhaps it’s just as well. You need to take your mind off things.’

I agreed. All I wanted at that moment was never to think about Caravaggio or the Rigauts again. I put my head round Alice’s door, told her I thought I was in for a bout of flu and was going to take a couple of days off. By eleven o’clock I was on the road.

Even the Forest of Dean couldn’t entirely block out unwelcome snippets. The story didn’t make the English front pages – other countries’ political scandals rarely do – but it was there in the international news sections:
Mystery
Death of Minister’s Mother
.

‘What I can’t understand,’ Caroline said, as we sat sipping coffee in the silent house (the girls at school, David in London), ‘is why you told Olivier about it in the first place. You might have known something like this would happen.’

I tried to explain – how shocked I’d been to hear of Juliette’s death, how filled with pure rage at Rigaut – how I’d longed to bring it home to him, to make sure that this time at least, he wouldn’t get away with it.

She shook her head in disbelief – whether at my foolishness or the improbability of it all. ‘This time? What else is he supposed to have done?’

‘Any number of things. He’s quite ruthless. It’s obvious when you meet him.’

‘Of course he is. He’s a politician. Sounds just your type,’ Caroline observed, and I felt myself blush.

I’d been there two days, and was reluctantly thinking it was time to take a deep breath and plunge back into the hot water, when my mobile rang. We were about four miles from the house at the time, making the most of a sunny day. I’d forgotten I’d even left it on, and for a moment didn’t register the sudden bleating. Then Caroline said, ‘Is that your phone?’

The caller’s number wasn’t one I recognized. I stared at it for a moment, then pressed the green button and held it to my ear. Olivier’s voice said, ‘Régine?’

I let out my breath, not having realized I’d been holding it. ‘I thought you’d never get back to me.’

‘Sorry, things have been hectic . . . So what did you think?’ He sounded jubilant, on top of the world.

‘Of the story? I –’

But he was rushing on. ‘It’s fantastic. You’ll never guess – they’re giving me a tryout at
Le Figaro
. I’m covering the exhumation . . .’

‘They’re exhuming her?’ Despite myself it was impossible not to get drawn back into it all.

‘Yes – next week.’

‘And what does Rigaut say?’

‘Oh, all for it – insists he’s got nothing to hide.’

‘Olivier. Listen. They’re investigating me, as well.’

‘You? What – they don’t seriously think –?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t have an alibi, it’s my word against Rigaut’s.’

‘
Merde
, Régine, it never crossed my mind.’

‘Nor mine.’

There didn’t seem anything more to say on that subject, so I wished him good luck in his new job and rang off. At least somebody was happy.

When we got back to the house, David was waiting for us. Caroline had told him I was there, and he’d come back early so that we could talk before I left. I was touched: he was a busy man, and I was Caroline’s friend, not his. As we spoke I kept remembering that every minute of his time ought to be costing me several hundred pounds. Still, he could afford it.

I told him more than I’d told Caroline. It seemed import-ant that he should know everything, including my lapse with Olivier, which I hadn’t confessed to her, not feeling strong enough, at that point, for more barbed remarks about my taste in men. David, by contrast, was every middle-class mother’s dream, diligent, responsible, successful, not bad-looking behind his rimless specs, but not too devastatingly good-looking either. Altogether, a middle-of-the-road man. And middle-aged, ever since I’d known him. Now, well into the real thing, his mousy hair beginning to grey, the gravitas that had always seemed faintly absurd had begun to trans-mute into something approaching distinction. I even felt it myself, though I knew he wasn’t any wiser, just older.

He remained professionally impassive throughout, taking notes now and then. When I finished my recital he said, ‘Timing may be important. I wonder if there’s any way we can prove Madame Rigaut rang you that morning?’

I explained, as I’d explained to Lebrun, that no one had been with me when the call came. And no one had been in the house with her except Jean-Jacques: not exactly a helpful witness. He seemed abstracted, then suddenly clicked his fingers. ‘Of course, stupid of me – there’ll be a record of the call. It’ll show on her phone bill. So that’s OK. Can’t prove it was her, of course, but it’ll show someone spoke to you from that number.’ He looked at his notes. ‘Sure you’ve told me everything?’

‘Absolutely everything.’

‘Then with any luck you’ve nothing to worry about. My guess is the exhumation won’t find anything, otherwise Rigaut wouldn’t allow it. He could stop it if he wanted to. Of course he knows you didn’t do anything. If you ask me he just decided to give you a bad time. Serve you right for being so bloody stupid,’ he added feelingly. ‘What on earth did you think you were going to achieve? Honestly, Reggie, I do sometimes wonder.’

He told me to get in touch should there be any trouble retrieving my passport, and we left it at that.

I stayed on at Caroline’s till Sunday morning. When I got back to Kentish Town my voicemail, which I’d emptied, had filled up again with eager reptilian inquiries, but most of them dated from the day I’d left London, and the phone had stopped ringing. There was also an email from Lindsay Hillier saying she’d finished her analysis. If I wanted to come round she’d give me the report.

As always, I found her at her bench. Maybe she’d been there all the time since our last meeting – it seemed not impossible. She turned and greeted me with her charming, unexpected half-moon smile. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Your mystery package.’ If she’d seen my name in the papers she gave no sign of it. Perhaps she never read them. That, too, seemed not impossible.

‘Did you find anything?’ Over-eager as always.

‘All sorts of things,’ she replied reprovingly. ‘Whether they’re what you wanted or expected I’ve no idea. Generally speaking I’d hope to actually see the painting I’m working on. I warn you, all I can tell you from isolated samples like this is the most general kind of stuff.’

‘I do see that. But I really didn’t have any choice.’

‘All right, then.’ She turned back to her bench, pulled a folder from a pile, and extracted some papers from it. ‘The canvas. Linen fibres, but that’s what everyone used, so it doesn’t help with the date. But it would suggest Italian, if it’s early – they were using canvas in Venice much more commonly than north of the Alps – from the mid-sixteenth century onwards. Now the paint . . .’ She glanced through the pages, stopping at a photograph of what looked like a slice of multilayered cake. She pointed at the lower edge. ‘It’s got a brown ground, d’you see – that’s the sort of preparation they were using in Rome around the end of the seicento. And the pigments, look at this green. Some nice size particles here, not the sort of machine-ground pigment you find in the nineteenth century. Quite a subdued palette, but generally the sort of quality you’d expect in the late sixteenth century. Together with the ground, I might tentatively put it there. But the paint layers are extraordinarily complex. Can you see that this green doesn’t relate to the top layers at all? Of course, it could simply be that the painter changed his mind.’ She pulled out a graph from the file. ‘This is the most puzzling find though. It seems as if the painter has used some sort of protein for the final high-lights, though the rest is in oil as you’d expect.’

I felt as though I was back in one of Lindsay’s Materials Science classes, and failing to come up with the answers. ‘Does that mean egg tempera?’

‘Yes, that’s just what it may mean,’ she agreed approvingly, and I felt a warm flush of triumph. ‘And if it does it’s rather interesting. You thought your painting might be by Caravaggio – well, as far as I know only Caravaggio uses egg tempera in that way. For instance the white high-lights in the
Boy Bitten by a Lizard
– it’s in your Gallery, you should go and have a look next time you have a moment . . . Anyhow, you read it. My bill’s enclosed.’ She handed me the folder. ‘Is this some find you’re authenticating, or aren’t you at liberty to say?’

‘There’s no particular mystery. It’s to do with an exhibition I’m trying to get together.’ I explained about the different versions of the picture and how there seemed to be one too many.

‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘D’you have some photos?’

‘As it happens, I do. Of two of them, anyway.’ I pulled my laptop out of its case and called up pictures of the Louvre version and the ones I’d taken at La Jaubertie. We put them up side by side.

‘It’s a very exact copy, isn’t it,’ said Lindsay. ‘The only real difference is that little flower on the floor by the music – if you look, it’s a bit further over in the Louvre picture, in the other one it’s actually near the middle of the music book. Otherwise they’re pretty much identical.’

‘Pretty much,’ I said. ‘But there’s something about them I don’t quite understand. I don’t suppose you know any-one in the Louvre’s technical department, do you?’

Lindsay said, as I’d hoped she would, ‘As a matter of fact I do, yes.’

‘I don’t want to be seen to be asking for a technical examination – I’m still hoping we may be able to borrow this, and it might give exactly the wrong idea. But it would be really interesting if they could do a few tests, and perhaps an X-ray. D’you think it might be possible to ask your friend just to take a discreet look?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Lindsay said thoughtfully. ‘Leave it to me – I’ll tell you what she says. I’ll say it’s for a friend of mine at the National Gallery, shall I?’

‘I’d much rather you didn’t. Could you possibly pretend you’re interested in it yourself?’

‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘It wouldn’t be altogether pretence, either. I agree, there is something . . . It’s nice to see all our careful training being put to some use for once.’

We copied the photos to disk so that Lindsay could refer to them. When I got back to the office, I looked through her report. Of course I already knew its broad outlines, but that didn’t make it any less interesting. As she had been at such pains to emphasize, tests like these couldn’t tell you whether a picture was by one artist rather than another. But if her findings were correct – and that they
were
correct, I had no doubt – then despite its dodgy provenance, the Jaubertie picture definitely was not a nineteenth-century fake. In which case it seemed likely to be the genuine Caravaggio I’d thought it from the start.