The Last Judgement

Nor, for that matter, is your wife, who gave the new arrivals a very frosty reception when, after Flavia had leant on the doorbell for several minutes, she finally opened up. First impressions were of vagabonds or worse: while both Argyll and Flavia thought of themselves as being moderately presentable with honest, open faces, the sort you trust instantly, Lady Byrnes saw two very scruffy, haggard people in need of a damned good wash. What was more, there was a distinctly furtive look about both of them; and the woman, who might have been attractive had she combed her hair and changed her clothes, had that unfocused, hazy look that Lady Byrnes, like all right-thinking folk who lament declining social standards, instantly associated with drugs or worse. Whoever they were, they looked the sort who were going to ask for money. Here, of course, she was quite correct.

‘Hello,’ Argyll said in a tone which suggested he was expected for tea. ‘You must be Lady Byrnes.’

Drawing her dressing-gown more closely around her for protection against sudden attack, she cautiously admitted this was the case.

‘We’ve never met,’ said Argyll, stating the obvious. ‘I used to work for your husband until about a year ago.’

‘Really?’ she said coolly. As far as she was concerned, even had he been her husband’s fairy godmother that was no excuse for turning up at such an hour.

‘Is he in?’

‘Of course he’s in. Where do you expect him to be at this time of day?’

‘It is a bit early, I know,’ Argyll persisted. ‘And I know he likes his sleep, but we would like to see him. This, by the way, is Flavia di Stefano of the Rome art police. She nearly arrested your husband once.’

Why he thought this piece of information would convert a frosty reception into a warm embrace was unclear, but having delivered the partial anecdote, he stood back like someone waiting to be welcomed into the bosom of the Byrnes household. And Elizabeth Byrnes, well-brought-up lady that she was, who had always done what was expected, stood back and said:

‘You’d better wait inside while I wake Edward, then.’

All was serenity. They had been ushered into a small sitting room with velvet curtains, chintz sofas and loudly ticking clocks. The weak morning sun shone through the French windows, the paintings on the walls and the statues on their plinths looked well established and secure. The air was full of the scent of flowers and pot-pourri. It all seemed awfully safe, an entire universe away from the past couple of days.

‘Dear God. Just look at you two,’ came a quiet, cultivated but somewhat sardonic voice from the door. Sir Edward Byrnes, swathed in his silk dressing-gown, yawned mightily, blinked several times and looked puzzled.

‘Hello,’ Argyll replied, more cheerfully than he felt. ‘I bet you didn’t expect to see us here.’

‘Indeed not. But I’m sure you have an entertaining explanation. Could you drink some coffee?’

That was the good thing about Byrnes. Imperturbable. In the years Argyll had known him, he’d never seen him bat an eyelid at anything. Not even a vague tremor round the eyebrows. They followed as he slid into the kitchen then watched him fuss away. Here his weak spot emerged: whatever his eminence and however sophisticated his connoisseurship, culinary matters were not his strong point. After he had puzzled for a few moments about how to switch on the coffee-pot, fretted about where his wife might keep the milk — Argyll suggested the fridge — and asked whether icing sugar would do, Flavia took control. She hated such incompetence and ordinarily would have left him to get on with it, but she was feeling desperate. She liked sleep, and became a touch short-tempered when deprived of a reasonable supply. The sight of a tubby art dealer, whether or not swathed in silk, displaying his inadequacies for all to see could well have made her brusque. And considering that they wanted to touch him for some money, that would not have been such a good idea.

‘Oh, splendid,’ said Byrnes, lost in admiration over the way she poured the coffee into the machine.

‘Just a question of practice,’ she said sharply.

‘We, ah, have a favour to ask you,’ Argyll put in rapidly. ‘We seem to be in a bit of a pickle. You know how it is.’

Byrnes didn’t. In his entire life he had never been engaged in anything remotely exciting, except for that brief moment when Flavia had thought of arresting him. That, of course, had been Argyll’s fault as well. On the other hand, he loved listening to other people’s stories of the adventurous life, once he was awake.

‘Do tell me.’

It was Argyll’s language, so he summarized the state of play to date, leaving out little details like Flavia’s picking people’s pockets. You can never tell when people are going to go all moralistic on you.

‘How dreadfully complicated,’ Byrnes said when the tale was finished. ‘Someone seems awfully keen to head you off at the pass, so to speak. I wonder why? Are you sure it has something to do with this picture?’