The Raphael Affair (20 page)

He shook his head and smiled at her reassuringly. ‘No reason. Just wondering. This painting has been unlucky.’

Getting back to a more comfortable topic, Flavia announced that they had more than enough time for lunch, and that, speaking personally, she needed some. Then they examined the local church, slowly and in a relaxing fashion, and walked, equally gently, in to the centre. Striding up the hill was a little tiring, Argyll not having had much in the way of exercise for months, and his enjoyment of the stroll was spoiled by his trying to seem not too much out of breath. Flavia seemed not at all affected by the incline.

They reached the Campo at four, after a brief pause
while Flavia did some shopping. How she could think of shopping at a time like this was beyond him, but he put it all down to cultural relativism. Some people do odd things to work off tension, and despite their relaxing start, he could tell that both of them were starting to feel just a little nervous.

The square they were heading for is a bizarre shape, like the outline of a cup, which runs downhill from the curved portion to a flat plane at the end. The straight side is almost entirely taken up by the palace; the centre of administration back in the days when Siena was a major city-state whose power, briefly, rivalled that of Florence itself.

The days of greatness had long since gone, however. A couple of unfortunate sixteenth-century decisions concerning the choice of enemies, a rapid war, and Siena settled into the role of minor provincial backwater. Since the seventeenth century, when some wise burgher had the bright idea of inventing the Palio – the annual horse race round the Campo – it had survived mainly on tourist income.

This year’s contingent was beginning to flow in nicely. All the numerous cafés along the curved sides at the top of the Campo had laid out their chairs, tables and umbrellas and waiters were flitting to and fro, delivering glasses of pastis, coffees, bottles of mineral water and the inevitable Coca-Colas. Little posses of tourists stood around gaping at the sight, or heading for the entrance to the palace.

There was not a lot of time to admire the view. Flavia led Argyll rapidly to the palazzo entrance, paid the two
thousand five hundred lire entrance fee and wasted a few minutes complaining to the ticket seller about the disgraceful expense. This preliminary over, they crossed the courtyard and set about being sightseers. They had timed it quite well. Most Italian museums stop admitting new visitors at about twenty-five minutes before closing time; they had bought their tickets with five minutes to spare.

In the lower hall, where the great frescos by Sodoma are displayed, they split up, Flavia to examine the doors and windows, Argyll to locate the Mantini. An unpleasant shock awaited him when he arrived in the upper saloon. According to the picture in his guide book, 1975 edition, the picture should have been in a dark corner at the back, above a glass case of miscellaneous Renaissance silverware and just to the left of a vast nineteenth-century painting of Vittorio Emanuele, unifier of Italy, striking a heroic pose on a horse.

It wasn’t. Instead, there was a group of early twentieth-century town councillors, done in the degenerate style of portraiture that proved that Italy was long since past its best in the picture department. Argyll’s heart sank. After his enormous confidence that his plan would go off smoothly, he was now going to have to explain himself. This would be a little hard for Flavia to swallow. He could almost see the stern look of disapproval on her face, and her opinion of him dwindling into nothing as he told her.

He walked over to the guardian of the room, took out his guide book and jabbed his finger at the photograph. ‘You see this picture? Where is it? I’ve come
all the way from England just to see it, and it’s not there.’

The guardian looked at him pityingly. ‘You came from England to see
that?
Listen: take my advice. Go downstairs to the
Mappamondo
. It’s much better, one of the finest things in all Siena.’

‘I know that,’ Argyll retorted testily, feeling his aesthetic integrity was being impugned, ‘but I want to see this. Where has it gone to?’

The guard shrugged. ‘How should I know? I’ve only been working here a few weeks. I only know what’s in here. Go next door and ask Enrico.’

He did as he was told and found Enrico, a man of at least sixty, sitting lifelessly on a wooden chair by the door, staring without any sort of interest at the tourists coming and going. He did not look like a man who enjoyed his work overmuch. Argyll explained that Giulio had sent him, and did he know where this was?

Enrico looked at the picture. ‘Oh. That. Yes, that went years ago. The curator reckoned it was cluttering up the room. They took it down when the room was restored. He didn’t want anything before 1850 in there.’

Argyll was annoyed. ‘They took this down and left that monstrosity of Vittorio Emanuele up? That’s a disgrace.’

‘That’s different. It’s after 1850. Besides, it’s so big it won’t go anywhere else.’ The guard shrugged again. The little fads of curators was evidently not a subject that enlivened him.

‘Where’s it now, then?’

The guard looked at the picture again and frowned.
‘Tower room,’ he said. ‘Don’t know why everyone’s so interested in that, all of a sudden. No one’s shown the slightest concern about it for years. Listen, why don’t you go downstairs and look at the
Mappamondo
. It’s one of the finest…’

‘Everyone? What do you mean? Someone else asked about it? When?’ Argyll interrupted the sales pitch in panic.

‘About an hour ago. Man came in here and asked the same question as you did. Sent him up to the tower room, too.’

‘Who was he?’

‘You think I’m on first name terms with every visitor who comes here? How should I know?’ The guard turned to bellow at some Germans on the other side of the room, and moved away. They weren’t doing anything wrong, but Italian museum guards don’t seem to like Germans overmuch. Besides, it ended a conversation he clearly found tedious.

Jesus, why the hell didn’t he tell me that in the first place, Argyll thought as he ran desperately up the two flights of twisting stone stairs to the tower room. It was a long way up, and the last room
en route
to the great Campanile that dominates both the Campo and all of Siena. He arrived breathless, in a small bare room, crowded with faded and dirty prints and a jumble of pictures. There was a small table of inlaid wood in the centre. It was evidently where the museum stored the pictures it thought no one wanted to see. Most people probably walked straight through on their way to the platform at the top, three hundred feet above the square below.

His anxieties faded a little. It was still there, at least. He had not been out-manoeuvred yet. There, in one corner, surrounded by old maps of Siena in glass frames, was an undoubted, genuine piece of the
oeuvre
of Carlo Mantini. It was a landscape, which was a little awkward. Typical stuff: a stream in the middle background, and a few blobs of paint signifying peasants tending sheep or goats. Speaking personally, he wouldn’t have called it a landscape with ruins. But, a small hill on the right had a ruined castle on it, which revived his flagging confidence a little. The sky was clear and, had it not been so dirty, would have been a light blue. All of Mantini’s skies were light blue. He couldn’t paint them any other way.

Argyll stared at it with adoration. There it was. What a beautiful piece. What a gem. What a masterwork. He squinted at it. Looked a little smaller than it should, but that might be the effect of the frame. A pity it would have to be a touch damaged, but he was sure Mantini wouldn’t mind if he knew what it would do for his only biographer’s career. And it was going to be famous, if all went well.

He was still staring when a deafening alarm went off. ‘Christ, please, not a fire,’ was his initial reaction. Then it occurred to him it must be the bell to warn visitors that the museum was closing. He ran down the stairs again, a much easier task, and went searching for Flavia. She was standing in the main council room.

‘Where have you been? I’ve been standing here for hours.’

‘Nonsense. We only arrived twenty minutes ago. I was looking for the picture. They moved it upstairs. Listen,
he’s here. He followed us. The guard told me someone was asking about the picture. What do we do now?’

She looked very alarmed at his urgent tone. ‘Who’s here?’

‘Byrnes.’

‘The picture’s not been touched?’ He shook his head. ‘Good.’ She walked around in little circles and rubbed her chin thoughtfully. ‘We’ve no choice,’ she said decisively after a few moments. ‘We’ll have to go ahead now. It’s too risky to go outside and wait until tomorrow. Come on.’

She headed off. ‘Where are you going?’ he called after her.

‘Just to the toilet. Don’t worry.’

Argyll’s leg was long since dead of any sensation. He moved awkwardly, trying to get comfortable. ‘Was this the best you could think of?’ he asked peevishly.

Flavia was sitting on his knee. ‘Keep quiet. I think it’s perfect. They’ve inspected the place already. They won’t come again. Now we just have to sit tight for another three hours or so.’

‘Three hours? We’ve been here for days already. It’s all right for you. You’ve got my warm comfortable knee to sit on. I’m the one wedged into this damned lavatory seat. And you might have said, then I could’ve eaten more lunch. I’m starving.’

‘Stop complaining. You were all secretive so why couldn’t I be? Besides, I told you to eat up. Here, I bought this in the shop.’

She reached down by the side of the toilet bowl,
picked up her handbag and fished out a bar of chocolate.

‘Why are you so certain the alarms won’t go off? We’re going to be very unpopular if we’re arrested. Wouldn’t it have been easier to flash your ID card and ask to examine it?’

‘And have everybody know within hours? You know as well as I do that people in the art world are incapable of keeping their mouths shut. Besides, if we wait, it might not be here tomorrow. Anyway, we won’t be caught. The guards will only be round once more; I checked the rota in the entrance. And the alarms are only on the entrances and exits. Obviously they think that any robber will try and get away. We won’t. We just examine the picture, wait until morning, go out with the first visitors, phone Bottando, and finish. There won’t be anything missing, so no one will notice.’

‘We’ve got to spend all night here?’ he hissed in horror. ‘In a women’s toilet? Why not the men’s, at least?’

‘Eucht. What a dreadful idea. Dirty beasts, men.’

Argyll ate his chocolate morosely. ‘Couldn’t we just forget the Mantini?’ he asked hopefully, trying to get his plan back on course. ‘After all, with Byrnes here, that’s enough. I think we should just nip off to the hotel, call Bottando, have Byrnes arrested and come back in the morning.’ He finished the chocolate and remembered he’d omitted to offer her any.

‘What makes you think it’s Byrnes? The guard didn’t describe him or anything like that.’

‘Well,’ said Argyll dubiously. ‘It must be, mustn’t it? I mean, it stands to reason…’

‘Not at all. All we know is that someone asked about that picture. Byrnes is the last person it could be. There’s no way he could have found out where we are.’

Argyll shifted uncomfortably on the toilet seat as she spoke. She took a hard look at him, an uneasy feeling coming over her.

‘Jonathan? What have you done, damn you?’

‘It’s just that I thought, that, well…I told him, that’s all.’

Flavia didn’t reply, but leant her forehead against the cool white tiles of the cubicle. ‘What did you do that for?’ she asked faintly when she’d recovered herself.

‘It seemed a good idea,’ he explained feebly. ‘You see, even if we found the picture, it wouldn’t get us any further in finding who was responsible. So I thought, if I told Byrnes, he’d have to do something about it. He’d come trotting out to Siena, and the police could arrest him as he entered the city.’

‘And you didn’t think it worth mentioning this before? Perhaps it just slipped your memory? One of those little details, of no significance, that you just forgot about? You great dolt.’

‘Of course I didn’t forget,’ he protested, his voice rising in pitch as he realised that his masterstroke wasn’t getting the appreciation it deserved.

‘Don’t squeak at me like that.’

‘Well, why not? I’m getting tired of this,’ he continued – might as well let off steam now – ‘everything I’ve done so far you’ve taken as evidence of my guilt. You’re rude, objectionable and too clever for your own
good. Obviously I couldn’t tell you what I planned. You would have locked me up. And if we’re now in a mess, it’s just as much your fault as mine. If you hadn’t known best all the time, and maybe trusted me a little more, I would have been more forthcoming. Besides which…’

‘Oh, no. Don’t say that. I hate it when you say that. Besides what?’

Argyll positively squirmed, as much as any man can when sandwiched between a lavatory seat and a semi-official member of the Italian police. He shouldn’t have said it. His burst of wounded indignation had been very impressively delivered, and now he’d gone and spoiled the effect.

‘Besides which,’ he went on reluctantly, ‘I’m not entirely convinced I’ve got the right picture. I think I have,’ he hurried on before she could say anything, ‘but I did say I had to cut a few corners.’

‘God preserve me,’ Flavia said quietly, to no one in particular. ‘We’re up here, possibly on a fool’s errand. Bottando is fast asleep in Rome and knows nothing about it. You appear to have successfully lured a murderer here without bothering to get any protection at all either for us or the picture. Well done. A fine achievement.’

‘I’ll protect you,’ Argyll said gallantly, hoping to make some form of amends.

‘Gee. Thanks, mister. That makes me feel a lot better.’ She would have continued in this vein, but felt it hardly worth wasting her breath.

∗  ∗  ∗

Argyll had lapsed into a sullen, morose silence and ate his way steadily through the contents of Flavia’s handbag. She had stocked it with enough food to withstand a siege. He desperately craved a cigarette.