The Last Judgement

Oh-ho. Must be a regular, he thought as he followed. Then his thoughts stopped in their tracks as the waiter pulled out a chair at a table opposite a woman sitting quietly smoking a cigarette.

Jeanne Armand was not little, she was not old, she was not spinsterish and, though technically she might have had nephews and nieces, she was not in the slightest bit auntie-ish either. And if Argyll spent the rest of the evening doing his best to be charming and gallant, his efforts were not forced; he couldn’t help it.

Some people are blessed — or cursed, depending on how you look at it — with being beautiful beyond the ordinary. Flavia, now, had very definite opinions on this. She was very attractive herself, even though she put little real effort into it. But not devastating in the way that can cut off conversation and reduce grown and articulate men to gibbering wrecks. She counted this as good fortune; people instinctively liked her because of her appearance, but they did not ruin her life because they could not take their eyes off her. Even in Italy, she could get people to listen to what she said. Except, of course, Fabriano, but this was a basic defect in his make-up.

Jeanne Armand, however, was one of those who makes even the well-balanced and mature type act a bit oddly. Women often make very sneering comments about male responses in this area, but it is most unfair. Many men are, for the most part, quite good at keeping control and conducting themselves with decorum in strained circumstances. But sometimes, in very exceptional cases, there is nothing to be done; it is as simple as that. A sort of hormonal autopilot takes over which causes hot flushes, trembling hands and a tendency to stare with all the intelligence and sophistication of a rabbit hypnotized by car headlights.

This woman, or more particularly her Raphael face, her beautiful brown hair, delicate hands, perfect figure, soft smile, green eyes, exquisitely chosen clothes — and so on, and so on — was one of those people who triggers such a reaction that the continuance of even moderately civilized behaviour is an almost superhuman triumph of the will, for which those who manage it should be complimented for their strength rather than criticized for their weakness. Somehow or other she managed to combine a gentle tranquillity with just a hint of wildness. Madonna and Magdalen all in one, gift-wrapped in Yves Saint-Laurent. Potent stuff.

The element that pushed him over the edge was that the woman spoke to him in English, having discerned instantly that his French, while serviceable, was hardly up to the Racine level of eloquence. It was the accent; the woman even sounded beautiful.

‘What?’ he said hazily after a while.

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Oh. Yes. Gosh. Super.’

‘What would you like?’ she continued patiently. It may well be that she was used to this sort of thing.

By the time that Argyll’s pastis had been ordered, he had totally lost control of the proceedings. While he had complacently anticipated an evening of gentle probing, careful pumping and subtle interrogation on his part, instead he was the one who was probed, pumped and interrogated. And loved every minute of it.

Unusually for someone who much preferred to listen to others, he told her about life in Rome, and the difficulties of selling pictures, and his recent tangle with this painting.

‘Let me see the picture,’ she said. ‘Where is it?’

‘Ah. Didn’t have time to go and get it,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

She looked displeased with that, and being who she was, Argyll would have crawled on his hands and knees all the way to the hotel and back if it would have made her forgive him. A small, very small part of him was still conscious enough to be profoundly grateful that Flavia was several hundred miles away. He could almost visualize the look of lofty disdain on her face.

‘Could you describe it, then?’

He obliged.

‘That’s the one. It disappeared about three weeks ago.’

‘Why didn’t Monsieur Rouxel report it to the police?’

‘He did, initially. But then decided not to pursue the matter. It wasn’t insured, there was no hope of getting it back and there seemed little point in wasting everybody’s time. He decided to treat it as the cost of not locking his house up properly and forgot about it.’

‘Still—’

‘And now you’ve not only recovered it, you’ve found out whose it is and you’ve brought it back. Monsieur Rouxel will be so grateful...’

She smiled at him in the sort of fashion that melts pig-iron. He looked down his nose modestly, and felt a bit like St George after he has successfully sliced up a dragon or two.

‘That is, if you’re willing to let him have it back.’

‘Of course. Why not?’

‘You might insist on some form of remuneration for your time and effort.’

Well, he might. But in the interests of chivalry he was prepared to waive the matter.

‘So,’ she went on as he adopted the pose of someone with so much money that any reward would be a trivial matter, ‘tell me how you got hold of this painting.’