The Last Judgement

‘No. Your secretary screens all your mail. She saw the letters, and answered them for you. Initially, I imagine she thought Muller was potty; he had good reason for not being entirely frank and saying why he wanted to look at the picture. Whatever, she blocked all his approaches.’

‘You’ll have a hard job proving that,’ Jeanne said.

‘I know. When you killed Ellman, you made sure you took and destroyed the file of correspondence he’d taken from Muller’s apartment. I imagine that contained all your letters to him.’

‘And maybe not.’

‘Indeed. As I say, I’m just telling a story. When the police arrested Besson, he was interviewed and passed on to Montaillou. He rang to enquire about the painting. You talked to Madame Armand, is that right?’

Montaillou nodded.

‘So she knew the picture was heading for Muller, and she now had an idea why it was so important. She wanted it stopped, so she said that Muller was a complete madman, obsessed with revealing that Rouxel had bungled the inquiry into Hartung’s guilt. It was she who pressed you to get it back before it left the country, warning of possible embarrassment.’

He nodded again.

‘And you failed. As far as she was concerned, by that time it was too late. Even if the painting was recovered from Muller, there was no guarantee that its contents had not been removed. Muller was dangerous and had to be taken care of. And before you interrupt, I will tell you why in a moment.

‘It was a delicate matter, and she needed someone she could trust. So she called Ellman. Phoned him from her hotel, and told him what to do. He agreed.

‘Ellman arrived in Rome and went to Muller. Muller denied having the painting, and was tortured to make him reveal where it was; when he said Argyll had it, he was killed and Ellman left with the documents.

‘Ellman then met Madame Armand, who had stayed behind after Rouxel left for Paris. Perhaps he tried to be too clever; I don’t know. But she shot him with his own gun, then left with all the papers he had in his room. I assume she destroyed them.

‘A couple of days later, Jonathan Argyll returns the picture, free of charge, and Madame Armand, just to be sure, burns it.’

She looked around to see how the audience was taking what was, after all, a pretty weak account. Much supposition, little substance. She could almost hear Bottando grumbling in the background.

The reactions fitted well with her expectations. Argyll looked faintly disappointed; Janet surprised that he had been dragged out late at night for such stuff; Montaillou was contemptuous, and Jeanne Armand seemed almost amused. Only Rouxel himself was unmoved, sitting quietly in his chair as though he had just heard some junior but enthusiastic manager expound something truly outlandish.

‘You must forgive me if I say that this is very thin, young lady,’ he said after it became clear that no one else was going to break the silence. And he smiled, almost apologetically, at her.

‘There is more,’ she said. ‘Except that I don’t know whether you want to hear it.’

‘If it’s as feeble as the first part, I imagine we’ll survive,’ commented Montaillou.

‘Monsieur Rouxel?’ she asked with considerable reluctance. ‘What about you?’

He shook his head. ‘You are committed. You can’t stop now. You know that as well as I do. You have to say what you think, however foolish it may be. My opinion scarcely matters.’

She nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Very well. Now we turn to motive. Both of them. Montaillou for wanting to get hold of that painting so urgently. Jeanne Armand as well.

‘Madame Armand first. A cultivated, intelligent woman. Who went to university, began a promising career then, gave it up to help her grandfather temporarily. Except that he could never do without her again, and persuaded her to stay when she wanted to get on with her own life rather than looking after his. Despite her abilities, she was treated as little more than his secretary.

‘Monsieur Rouxel married in 1945, his wife died young and he never married again. His daughter died in childbirth. Madame Armand was his nearest relative, and was extremely solicitous of his welfare. Although how she managed it, considering the way she was treated I, for one, do not fully understand. But she worked for him, looked after him, kept the troubles of the world at bay. Is that correct?’

Rouxel nodded. ‘She’s everything an old man could want. Entirely selfless. She’s been wonderful to me, and I must say, if you are going to attack that, I shall begin to get angry...’

‘I presume she is also your heir.’

He shrugged. ‘Of course. That’s no secret. She’s my only family. Who else could possibly be?’

‘How about your son?’ Flavia asked quietly.

A silence so profound followed the question that she wondered if it could ever break. There was not even the slightest sound of breathing to disturb the quiet.