The Raphael Affair (7 page)

‘And you took it?’

Argyll paused for a moment. ‘Well, I thought, why the hell not? The picture’s out of my reach for ever, Byrnes has a lot of money thanks to me. I could have stood on my dignity and refused to touch his filthy money, how dare you insult me, sir. But he’d still be as rich, and I’d still be as poor. By rights, I suppose, he should have offered me a couple of million. But he didn’t, and it was this or nothing.’

‘What did he mean, not his picture?’

‘Just that, apparently. That’s the story he’s evidently putting around, probably because of jealousy in the trade. He was acting on commission. Someone else got him to buy it and so someone else now has the money, presumably.’

‘Who?’ asked Flavia, intrigued.

‘Didn’t say. I didn’t ask, to tell you the truth, because
it’s such obvious nonsense. Besides, I was too busy fantasising about going back to Italy.’

‘You’d never make a very good policeman,’ she observed.

‘I know. But I don’t plan to. It struck me as such a silly story, I dismissed it instantly. I mean to say, can you see any self-respecting dealer having a Raphael on his hands and tamely letting it go?’ He paused for a moment while he fished for bits of cork with his finger, dredging them out a fragment at a time.

‘Disgusting of me. Sorry about that,’ he said apologetically.

He poured, she sipped, he sat on the floor and they talked inconsequentially about her trip, his research, how he found his flat. They spoke in Italian and about Italy, and Argyll grew gently and fondly enthusiastic. He loved it in the way that only the repressed, monochromatic inhabitants of cold northern countries can fall for the colourful exuberance of the Mediterranean. But his was no goggle-eyed, blind devotion; he knew the country well, warts and all. The inefficiencies, rigidities, narrow-mindedness of Italy he understood and accepted. He also knew its art, and could talk with nostalgic delight of the long and weary trips he had made by bus and by foot to the more obscure delights that Italy likes to secrete in inaccessible places. It occurred to Flavia that he might get on well with Bottando. Then he changed the subject back and they talked about London, work and museums. He held up a finger as he poured her another glass of wine. ‘There was, by the way, another reason for taking Byrnes’s money. It struck me as a sort of victory.’

She looked at him, puzzled. ‘Some victory,’ she said.

‘Wait and see,’ he replied, kneeling down by a large cardboard box and rummaging through dozens of bits of paper. ‘Now, where did I put it? That’s the trouble when you pack. You always need the things at the bottom of the boxes. Ah. Here it is. I must show you. I think you’ll find it funny.’

Argyll explained that on his return to England, after the débâcle in the carabinieri cells, he had thrown himself back into the subject of Mantini with vigour. His motives were not any great love of art history, nor any particular devotion to resurrecting the reputation of his chosen painter – a man who by any stretch of the imagination was fairly second-rate. Rather, it had become a matter of pride that, having spent a few years on the subject, he was going to get something to show for it all, even if it was just a piece of paper and the right to be called Doctor Argyll.

He went on to say how he had made a resolute attempt to forget about Raphael and associated subjects. His painter had been fairly popular among English tourists in Rome in the early eighteenth century, and many of them had commissioned some minor work from him as a memento of their stay; the eighteenth-century equivalent of buying a postcard of the Spanish Steps. Generally speaking, he turned out somewhat derivative landscapes in the style of Claude Lorrain or Gaspard Dughet which were held in high esteem at the time. As he was compiling a
catalogue raisonné
of the artist’s work, he had written to almost every
country-house owner in England to ask whether they had any. He had also gone to visit several houses, to look through their archives for any evidence of when the works were bought, how they were acquired and at what price.

On one of these ventures he had ended up in Backlin House in Gloucestershire, a vast, chilly pile still lived in by the original family even though they could clearly no longer afford it. Had they been sensible, he said, they would have given the place away to the National Trust and gone to live in the South of France, like the Clomortons had done after the war.

The muniments room, where the family papers were kept in dusty, mouldy obscurity, had made the rest of the house seem positively jolly. One look had almost persuaded him to go straight back home.

‘A man from the Historic Manuscripts Commission came round in 1903 to catalogue the papers but died of influenza half-way through. I’m not surprised. If I hadn’t taken the precaution of bringing a pair of mittens, a woolly hat and a hip flask I might well have gone under myself. The experienced researcher is prepared for all eventualities,’ he added loftily.

Because of the poor gentleman’s untimely demise, the papers had never been sorted and a catalogue never published. And because of that, no one had been near them for years. So Argyll, when he finally made his way into the attic that contained four hundred years of miscellaneous memories, found a huge number of dust-covered rolls of documents, chests of estate vouchers, bundle upon bundle of legal materials, and a whole series of
nineteenth-century cardboard boxes labelled ‘first earl’, ‘second earl’ and so on.

On the whole, the thousands of papers were arranged randomly, or if there were any order, he failed to grasp what it was. However, a few boxes bore the traces of the old archivist, and had evidently been arranged for examination before he died. These were given rough labels. One large box was titled ‘eighteenth-century letters.’

‘This was my great discovery,’ Argyll said. ‘One sheaf was entirely of letters to the owner of the house, Sir Robert Delmé, from his sister Arabella.’

‘So?’ asked Flavia, her manners beginning to fight a battle for dominance over her impatience.

‘Arabella was a great lady, the sort that died out when the eighteenth century was through. She had four husbands in all, and outlived the lot. She was about to take on number five when she herself keeled over from excess cognac at the age of eighty-seven. The point is that husband number two was none other than our friend the Earl of Clomorton – that noted connoisseur of Raphael – and ten of the letters dated from this period.’

Argyll explained that most of the letters were of little interest - London gossip, details of the doings of the Prince of Wales, as well as scabrous comments about the innumerable inadequacies of her husband. Although wealthy, the second Earl clearly did not rate highly with his wife, was parsimonious to a fault and seemed greatly lacking in judgement.

‘He was exactly the sort of person the average Roman
art dealer could see coming a mile off. It would have been a point of honour amongst them to foist rubbish on to him at vast expense. All he really cared about deeply were his haemorrhoids, if Lady A is to be believed. He seems to have kept up a non-stop monologue on the subject for years on end. Painful, no doubt, but they ruin the atmosphere at breakfast.’

Two of the letters came from the period in which the earl died, one immediately before, the second afterwards. ‘Here,’ said Argyll, shuffling through a set of papers in a manila folder, ‘I copied them down. Have a look.’

Flavia picked up the first sheet of paper and squinted at it to decipher Argyll’s rapid and untidy scrawl.
Dearest Brother
, it began,
As I’ve no doubt you are acquainted from the
Gazette
, my Lord has returned to these shores from his travels. My! how he is changed! No more the ruddy sportsman; the soft airs of Italy have turned him into a true connoisseur of the arts! I cannot tell you how much his new occupation causes me mirth. He parades all day in his finest French lace, giving the servants orders in what he considers fine Italian. They do not understand him so do as they please, as usual. Worst of all, his fascinations have unclenched his fist. It appears he has been attempting to buy up all of Italy, and plunge his family into ruin in the process. Some of his baubles have already been brought to the house; I intend to hang them only in the darkest corners, so visitors will not easily discern how my husband has been impos’d upon by these foreign sellers. He promised me pictures by the finest Italian hands; he has brought me the merest daubs, the grossest of impositions. Only in price do his prizes rank with the fairest productions of the masters. The final blow is yet to fall, however; he has been in London with Mr Paris for the past three weeks fussing over one final consignment of ruins by those wretches of Roman scene-painters who delighted in taking his money. My Lord tells me – in his most mysterious voice – these will delight and amaze me beyond comparison. I confess, I do not see how I could be more amazed. It seems that he spent more than seven hundred pounds for one of these, which surely will turn out to be worth not more than half-a-crown.

The letter then continued with local gossip and politics, complaints about servants and news about the death of some obscure relation’s daughter. Then it got back to her husband, and the writer’s venom began to be given free rein:
I have told you many times in the past, dear brother, she continued, about my Lord’s amorous adventures. But less so of late after I threw that scene over the miserable hussy he was disgracing himself with before he left for his tour. I confess, when I told him then that I would cut his throat should he ever humiliate me thus again, the colour drained straight out of his cheeks! My dear brother, I was so convincing even I believed I would indeed do so. But the threat restored him to the way of fidelity. A scrub is ever thus, however. He seems still determined to humiliate our family name. My Lord arrives from London in two days’ time. I leave you to think of the welcome he will receive from, your most affectionate sister, Arabella.

‘There,’ said Argyll, triumphantly. ‘What do you think of that, eh?’

Flavia shrugged. ‘So he was a dirty old sod. What should I think of it?’

‘Weren’t paying attention, were you? Look again. “Wretched scene painter” – Mantini. “Air of mystery”,
that fits it well. “Seven hundred pounds” – a vast price to pay for a picture then.’

‘So she’s talking about the imminent arrival of Elisabetta. What of it?’

‘But look at what she says. She says it is a painting of ruins – no doubt in a classical landscape – that is coming.’

‘So?’

‘The painting of Elisabetta was found under a Repose on the Flight to Egypt. Odd, eh?’ He leaned back in triumph after delivering a statement he evidently considered stunning.

‘Well, frankly, no. It isn’t,’ said an unimpressed Flavia. ‘Maybe she was referring to the quality of the picture, not its subject. Besides, we all know it was the wrong one.’

Argyll had the look of someone who had been expecting dutiful admiration rather than counter-arguments. ‘Oh. Didn’t think of that,’ he said.

‘But,’ he said with renewed enthusiasm, lighting another of Flavia’s cigarettes and tossing the match into his empty wineglass. ‘Listen. The common link here is the dealer, Sam Paris. He watched Mantini at work in Rome, and he saw the picture unpacked in London. If a different one had arrived on the boat, he would have noticed. But he evidently didn’t, as Clomorton was still under the impression that everything was going to plan.’

Flavia nodded thoughtfully, but without conviction. ‘Well, I’ll give you that much.’

‘And it seems that no one noticed anything wrong
until the painting was cleaned. Therefore Mantini must have painted a picture of ruins over the Raphael. Still OK?’

Flavia pursed her lips. ‘Well, maybe. But maybe Paris was in it as well, and agreed to send off a different picture. He was an art dealer after all, and if I remember rightly he disappeared afterwards. To any self-respecting policeman that would count as suspicious behaviour. And there is an internationally acclaimed Raphael hanging in the Museo Nazionale, which doesn’t do your argument any good at all. Although I must confess I’m still not sure what your argument is.’

‘I don’t really have one, yet. I don’t suppose it’s important. But it will make a nice footnote. Wouldn’t it be splendid if they’d got the wrong Raphael? The very thought has kept me in good humour for weeks.’

The idea had fully restored Argyll’s good spirits, and he walked along the wet, shiny pavements with a light step, skipping nimbly out of the way of the showers of water thrown up by buses and cars plunging through the deep puddles caused by blocked-up drains. He opened a vast black umbrella, the sort used by professional walkers in the rain, and stuck his elbow out.

Almost without thinking, Flavia rested her hand gently on the proffered arm. She couldn’t remember that anyone had ever done such a quaint thing to her before. Furtive arms sliding round the waist before moving northwards, yes, in abundance; a cold and deliberate distance from her, which had been her last boyfriend’s way of communicating displeasure, she was used to. But
this had a quiet gentleness about it, giving her the opportunity delicately not to notice and shun the offer if she chose. Extraordinarily old-fashioned. But practical, and sweetly charming; it kept them close enough together so that both could keep dry under the awning of the huge umbrella.

‘I thought we could go to a Thai restaurant,’ he said. ‘Roman food is very good, but when I was there I found myself craving something with spice in.’

Flavia made no reply, and barely even heard him as he kept up a steady flow of chatter on inconsequential subjects. At the restaurant, she nodded absent-mindedly as he asked if she wanted anything to drink, and nodded again when he suggested trying some sake, which she had never heard of. Then she applied herself to reading the menu.

‘Why do you think it would be nice if the picture was the wrong one? I think it would be dreadful – the department is paying for this, by the way,’ she said, once the waiter had taken the order, delivered a bottle in a vase of hot water, and vanished. It occurred to her that it was the first time she had asked him a question and been properly interested in the reply. His new-found buoyancy had transformed his character into something much more agreeable, although he showed signs of tipping over the edge into smugness. He was, certainly, not quite as dimwitted as he seemed.