The Last Judgement

Cutting off further opportunity for dissent, she wheeled around and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. After waiting awhile and pressing it again, and tapping her foot with impatience, she decided that in the circumstances the social niceties could be disregarded. She turned the handle, found it open and pushed. Walking into other people’s houses seemed to be becoming a habit.

There was a light on in the hallway, which gave on to three rooms, each with the door firmly closed. Under one, there was a faint chink of light. She picked this one to start off, and went in.

It was empty. But evidently someone had been there recently: there was a book open on the carpet and a half-empty glass of brandy by the hearth.

‘I can hear something,’ Argyll said quietly. There was no great need to whisper, but it seemed appropriate.

‘Well?’ she asked, as they stood outside the room that the noise was coming from.

Although it was an absurdly fastidious piece of courtesy on the part of someone who, after all, had just barged uninvited into someone’s house, Flavia knocked softly. There was no answer. So she again reached for the handle and pushed the door open.

‘Who’s that?’ came a quiet voice from the corner as she opened the door and looked in. Rouxel was by a veritable forest of house plants, spraying the leaves with some unguent. Argyll had said he was keen on plants, Flavia thought unnecessarily.

The room was dark except for two pools of light, one by the desk, the other by a nearby armchair which contained Jeanne Armand. It was the study where Argyll had interviewed — or been interviewed by — Rouxel a few days previously. Dark wooden bookshelves lined with leather-bound books filled one wall. Heavy and comfortable armchairs were on either side of the fireplace.

Flavia looked around the room to try and gain a few moments to think. She was becoming confused about how to proceed. On the one hand was her certainty that she finally understood. On the other was a sudden and burning hatred for it all.

‘Who are you?’ Rouxel said again.

‘My name is Flavia di Stefano. I’m with the Rome police.’

He didn’t seem very interested.

‘I’ve been investigating the theft of your picture.’

‘That has been returned.’

‘And the two murders associated with it.’

‘Yes. I was kept informed. But it’s all over now, I think.’

‘I’m afraid you’re wrong. It’s not at all over.’

She walked over to the far wall, on the side of the room opposite the glass doors leading on to the garden. ‘Where is the picture?’

‘Which picture?’

‘The Death of Socrates. The one given to you by your mentor, Jules Hartung.’

‘Ah. Well, you know, it was so much trouble, I had it destroyed.’

‘You what?’

‘It was Jeanne’s idea. She burnt it.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t think I have to explain to you what I do with my own property.’

‘Still, you have others left,’ she said. ‘Like this one.’ She pointed at the small painting hanging beside a mahogany bookcase. It was about the same size as all the others. Argyll’s sort of thing. Christ sat in the centre of the Apostles, in a fashion derived from Leonardo’s Last Supper; they all looked serious, but some of the Apostles had an air of sympathy, even sadness on their faces. Below them was a queue of people, with one kneeling and awaiting his verdict.

Again, there was no answer. Rouxel was not resisting her questions, not even resenting them or trying to stop them. Nor did he seem worried. He just wasn’t very interested.

‘“And they were judged every man according to their works,”’ she quoted. ‘Are you prepared for that, monsieur?’

At last she gained a response. Rouxel gave a bleak smile and stirred slightly. ‘Is anybody?’

‘I wonder how long it will take for the cavalry to get here,’ she said, looking at her watch.

‘Who?’ Argyll asked.

‘Montaillou and his friends. They should have arrived by now.’

‘And then what?’

Now it was her turn to look indifferent. ‘I don’t really care. What do you think, Monsieur Rouxel? Should I explain?’

‘You seem like a young woman who believes things can be explained. Accounted for, understood and made comprehensible. At my age, I’m not so sure. What people do and why they do it is often incomprehensible.’

‘Not always.’

‘I think they’re here,’ Argyll said, moving to the window and peering through the curtain. ‘Yes. Montaillou and a few others. One looks as though he’s being told to guard the gate. Another is on the front door. The other two are coming in.’

Montaillou and the other man, whom Argyll had never seen before, came through the front door and into the study. While the Intelligence officer had been polite at their last meeting, now he abandoned even a nominal attempt at courtesy.

The other man seemed more detached. In his late fifties, with close-cropped grey hair and a sharp nose, he had a look of alertness that was now masked by resigned concern.