The Last Judgement

Argyll shrugged. ‘I suppose it does. I mean, until I came into contact with it, my life was very routine and straightforward. Nothing untoward at all, except the usual business of paying the bills.’

‘Business bad, is it?’

‘Very.’

‘Do you want a job?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We can talk about it later, if you like. One thing at a time. Tell me, what would happen if you went back home and forgot all about this?’

‘Nothing at all. But Flavia here is in one of her stubborn moods.’

‘I’ve heard of Rouxel,’ Byrnes said meditatively. ‘Wasn’t he awarded—’

‘Yes,’ said Flavia wearily. ‘That’s him.’

‘And you’ve established that he wasn’t telling the entire truth.’

‘Yes. Of course, there’s no reason why he should. He wasn’t under oath.’

‘And if possession of this picture leads to a nasty demise, there’s every reason why he might think that a small falsehood would be excusable,’ Byrnes went on. ‘After all, if my wife took Argyll here for a miscreant, isn’t it likely that Rouxel might think the same? If I had a painting stolen, and all of a sudden some total stranger turned up asking if I wanted it back, my first reaction would be to wonder whether he’d stolen it himself. And if he then came out with some story about murders, I might wonder whether he was delivering some oblique threat.’

Argyll was not impressed by this. ‘And if I’d wanted to kill him, I could have done it then and there.’

‘So he doesn’t know what you’re after. He’s confused, and perhaps a little alarmed. Somebody is behaving threateningly, it seems to be something to do with him and his picture, so the best course is to deny it. After that—’

‘After that any sane and sensible person calls the police,’ Flavia said. ‘Which he didn’t do.’

‘But you do get a visit from this man with the scar, and you tell me he may be a policeman after all. Or is it a murderer he’s meant to be? I assume he can’t be both.’

‘We don’t know,’ said Argyll miserably. ‘But there was this man Besson, you see, who was arrested, and a couple of days later this man turns up at Delorme’s gallery in the Rue Bonaparte. That sort of indicates—’

‘That he was a policeman after all,’ Flavia said reluctantly. ‘But.’

‘But what?’

‘But he was in Italy without asking permission; Janet denied all knowledge of him...’

‘Different branch?’ Byrnes suggested.

‘When he approached Argyll at the Gare de Lyon he didn’t try to arrest him, which would have been the obvious thing to do. If he is a policeman, he’s acting in a very odd way.’

‘No need to get heated with me,’ Byrnes said. ‘It was only a suggestion.’

‘Yes. I’ll bear it in mind. Meanwhile...’

‘Meanwhile you’d better tell me to what I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit. Nice as it is to discuss such exciting matters with you.’

‘I was hoping to ask you a favour,’ Argyll said.

‘Obviously.’

‘We’re a bit short of money. A loan, you understand, to be replaced when Flavia can fill in an expenses form.’

Byrnes nodded.

‘And a car. I was going to rent one, but neither of us brought our driving licences.’ He smiled wanly.

‘Oh, very well. But on one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a clean car. Before you get into it, you have a bath, go and buy some fresh clothes. Then you eat and rest. Otherwise, you can’t have it.’

They agreed to this. Byrnes bustled off in search of keys and cash, and the pair of them sat and finished off their coffee.

‘What an obliging man,’ she remarked, after Byrnes had returned and also agreed to phone Bottando and tell him where they were.

‘Isn’t he. He may look like a complacent, pompous old connoisseur, but he’s got a heart of gold really.’

He also, unfortunately, had a Bentley, a vast, shiny thing which he showed them as they went out with some of the Byrnes fortune clutched in their hands to buy some clean clothes. It made Argyll decidedly nervous. A scratched door would probably cost more to repair than his annual earnings. How about a Mini? A Fiat Uno? A Volkswagen? he suggested. Something a bit less ostentatious? More in keeping with Argyll’s modest position in the social hierarchy?

‘It’s all there is, I’m afraid,’ Byrnes said. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll grow into it. It’s an awfully useful runabout.’

Some people, Argyll thought as he backed nervously out into the street a few hours later, just don’t live in the real world.

‘What is this place we’re going to, anyway?’ Flavia asked once Argyll was calm enough to resume conversation.

‘Upper Slaughter? Just a cute little Cotswold village.’

He translated into Italian. ‘How appropriate,’ she said. ‘Is it big?’

‘Tiny. I just hope there’ll be a pub or restaurant near by. Maybe in the next village. We can stop there first. Get the lie of the land.’

‘What’s the next village?’

‘Lower Slaughter, of course.’

‘Silly me. How far is it?’

‘About eighty miles. A hundred and twenty kilometres. About five days, at the rate we’re going.’