The Last Judgement

The General had a problem which had surfaced almost the moment he had put the finishing touches to his carefully considered scheme to keep Flavia and this investigation at arm’s length from each other. It was a linguistic problem, in essence, and surfaced when Helen Mackenzie arrived on the plane direct from Toronto. Mrs Mackenzie spoke English and a little French. Giulio Fabriano, who was meant to be conducting the interview, spoke neither — a handicap he had been told more than once might hinder his career in this age of European integration. Try as he might with cassettes and books and lists of words, however, nothing could make any of it stick. According to researchers, about 6 per cent of any population is incapable of learning a new language, however proficient they may be in their own. Fabriano was, unfortunately for himself, a member of that small and increasingly persecuted minority.

Bottando himself had more aptitude, but scarcely any more proficiency, although at his age and rank it scarcely mattered. He could scrape along in French, had a word or so of German, and for anything more demanding could call on the services of Flavia, who was disgustingly good at this sort of thing.

Hence his phone call, breaking his self-imposed rule within five minutes of its dawning that the interview could take weeks and be completely inaccurate unless help arrived soon. Flavia staggered in about half an hour after he called, bleary-eyed, crumpled and far from ready to conduct searching interrogations.

So matters were delayed awhile as Bottando, using his very own hands (something of a rarity but his secretary was late), made the thickest coffee he could manage, stumped off to the nearest bar for food and cigarettes, and encouraged her at least to try and stay awake. It did her stomach no good at all, but the shock treatment did at least stop the compulsive yawning.

After the twelve-hour flight from Canada Mrs Mackenzie was scarcely in better shape, and the proceedings, when they finally began, were punctuated by yawning fits as one set off the other. She was quite a nice lady, Flavia decided. Very trim and attractive, obviously deeply upset at the death of her brother but one of the practical sort who had decided that her grieving should take place in private. For the moment, she wanted to provide as much information as possible; catching the person responsible was her first obligation now.

She was somewhat surprised when Flavia staggered in, notebook and tape recorder in one hand, coffee-pot in the other. It was not her idea of a proper police inquiry. Far too young, far too attractive, far too tired. But the young Italian, she decided, had the most charming smile and won at least the chance to prove herself by a practical account of the inquiry so far. There had been, she said, another murder, almost certainly linked to the death of Muller. She was sorry to start asking questions so quickly after the plane arrived, she went on, but they were obviously in something of a hurry.

‘I quite understand,’ Helen Mackenzie said. ‘In fact I find your speed reassuring. Could you tell me, though, how Arthur died?’

Ah, Flavia thought. The last thing she wanted was to give details. Maybe the woman had a right to know. For her part, if the roles were reversed, she would rather be kept in the dark.

‘He was shot,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid he was badly beaten beforehand.’ Leave it at that, she reckoned.

‘Oh, poor Arthur. And do you know why?’

‘We don’t know,’ she said frankly. ‘One possibility concerns a painting. He had just bought — or almost bought one. The day before, someone tried to steal it as it was leaving Paris, and the thief was seen outside his apartment the day he died. As you may have noticed, there is rather a lot we don’t know at the moment. I’m afraid that all we have are hazy ideas that need looking into. His accounts show nothing unusual, his work, his friends and his colleagues are all models of ordinariness.’

Mrs Mackenzie nodded in agreement. ‘That sounds like him. He lived an odd life. Very little amusement or pleasure in it. A sort of flat existence, really. He had few friends, few interests. That’s why he didn’t mind travelling and being posted from one country to the next year after year. He never had much to leave behind him.’

‘So,’ Flavia resumed, ‘this picture. He said, apparently, that it belonged to his father. We can find no trace of this. Who was his — your — father?’

She smiled. ‘That’s two separate questions. My father was Doctor John Muller, who died eight years ago. Arthur was adopted. His father was a Frenchman called Jules Hartung.’

Flavia noted this down. ‘When did he die?’

‘In 1945. He hanged himself. Shortly before he was due to go on trial as a war criminal.’

She looked up and paused for thought. ‘Really? I see. Perhaps you’d better tell me in greater detail. A potted history, so to speak. I don’t know that it’ll be relevant—’