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 didnt expect to see us here.
Indeed not. But Im 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, hed 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 didnt. 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 Argylls fault as well. On the other hand, he loved listening to other peoples stories of the adventurous life, once he was awake.
Do tell me.
It was Argylls language, so he summarized the state of play to date, leaving out little details like Flavias picking peoples 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?
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.
Ive heard of Rouxel, Byrnes said meditatively. Wasnt he awarded
Yes, said Flavia wearily. Thats him.
And youve established that he wasnt telling the entire truth.
Yes. Of course, theres no reason why he should. He wasnt under oath.
And if possession of this picture leads to a nasty demise, theres 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, isnt 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 hed 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 Id wanted to kill him, I could have done it then and there.
So he doesnt know what youre after. Hes 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 didnt 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 hes meant to be? I assume he cant be both.
We dont 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 Delormes 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 didnt try to arrest him, which would have been the obvious thing to do. If he is a policeman, hes acting in a very odd way.
No need to get heated with me, Byrnes said. It was only a suggestion.
Yes. Ill bear it in mind. Meanwhile...
Meanwhile youd 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.
Were 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.
Whats that?
Its 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 cant 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.
Isnt he. He may look like a complacent, pompous old connoisseur, but hes 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 Argylls modest position in the social hierarchy?
Its all there is, Im afraid, Byrnes said. Dont worry. Im sure youll grow into it. Its an awfully useful runabout.
Some people, Argyll thought as he backed nervously out into the street a few hours later, just dont live in the real world.
Its all there is, Im afraid, Byrnes said. Dont worry. Im sure youll grow into it. Its an awfully useful runabout.
Some people, Argyll thought as he backed nervously out into the street a few hours later, just dont live in the real world.
What is this place were 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 therell be a pub or restaurant near by. Maybe in the next village. We can stop there first. Get the lie of the land.
Whats 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 were going.
But eventually the jam eased a little, and Argylls conversational powers ebbed. It was a long time since hed driven in his own country, and it frightened the life out of him. The expense of making a mistake with Byrness car made him even more nervous. The fact of being on what he now regarded as the wrong side of the road, combined with a wildly different national style of driving, caused him to grip the steering-wheel with white-knuckled hands, grit his teeth and exert all his mental faculties to resist a Roman-style flourish in his conduct that would undoubtedly have caused a major pile-up. By the time they left the motorway at Oxford he was sweating less obviously and as they drove along the road west still in heavy traffic, but at a more genteel pace he almost began to enjoy himself. Not at all like Italy, he thought, but with a rolling charm all of its own. Tranquil and safe. Apart from these damned cars all over the place.
But even these last remaining commuters were left behind eventually as they turned off to head north, Flavia navigating as best she could, Argyll beginning to remember bits and pieces of scenery from his youth.
Six miles and were there. All we have to do is find a pub.
Even that proved surprisingly easy. There is nothing like a little money especially someone elses to bring out the best in a quiet part of the English countryside; the next village along had a good but enormously expensive hotel; the sort of thing that Argylls own income would not have managed. But as Flavia had a penchant for comfort and they were both tired, it did quite nicely. It even had a restaurant where the food was edible and a bar which Flavia, a sucker for local colour, immediately visited while Argyll fretted about parking Byrness car.
As it was the sort of thing she thought she ought to do in English pubs, she perched herself on a stool by the counter, surveyed the scene with approval, ordered a pint in her best English, and beamed at the taciturn man who served her.
On oliday, are yer, miss? he asked, for want of anything better to do rather than because he felt like conversation. The tourist season was nearly over. Rotten year this year, anyway.
That was correct, she said. They were driving around, just visiting places. Yes, she thought it was very beautiful.
Thus satisfied, the barman became positively loquacious.
From abroad?
Thats right. Although her friend was English.
Ar. Dont look foreign, him.
No. English, she replied, finding that her sentences were becoming almost as short as his were. They nodded at each other, Flavia trying to think of a way to open up the conversation a little, the barman waiting for an opportunity to end it so he could go and polish his glasses down the other end of the bar.