LITMIR.BIZ

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seen something she had not, so she craned round to examine it again.

      ‘What’s wrong with it?’

      ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Perfectly nice letter. A model, no doubt. It’s good to know the epistolary mode is still with us in these days of mobile phones and electronics.’

      ‘Jonathan,’ she said with a warning tone in her voice. He had a distressing tendency to head off into conversational cul-de-sacs when distracted or upset.

      ‘She is asking for a photograph of a painting.’

      ‘Which they say they don’t have. I know that.’

      ‘A portrait,’ he went on methodically, ‘belonging to the Marchesa di Mulino. Of no interest to anyone at all for nearly half a century. Except to me, and I have spent the last few months wasting my time trying to buy it. And just as I think all is going well, that Pianta horror says someone else is interested in buying. And now it appears that this other person is a woman who has been neatly knifed.’

      Flavia thought about that. She could see his concern, but didn’t think it had much foundation. ‘It cuts down the competition,’ she said brightly.

      He gave her a severe look. ‘A bit too literally, though.’

      ‘Who is this picture by?’ she asked.

      ‘No one.’

      ‘Someone must have done it.’

      ‘No doubt. But neither I nor anybody else knows who. Just Venetian school, circa 1500, or thereabouts. Very mediocre.’

      ‘Who is it a portrait of, then?’

      ‘I don’t know that, either,’ he said. ‘But it’s probably a self-portrait.’

      ‘Not by Titian, I suppose?’

      ‘Not a chance in ten billion. Titian could paint.’

      ‘What’s it like?’

      ‘Straightforward. Man with a big nose in robes, mirror, easel and palette in the background. Nothing exciting, really.’

      Flavia frowned mightily. ‘It does seem a bit of a coincidence, I must say,’ she said with the clear reluctance of someone who sees her life being complicated unnecessarily.

      ‘That struck me as well,’ he said moodily, reading the letter again just to make sure he’d understood it properly. He had. ‘Very odd, in fact. It makes me fret.’ He leant back in his chair, crossed his arms defensively and frowned at her.

      ‘Maybe you should ask some of her colleagues,’ he went on after a while. ‘Find out what she was up to. Maybe they could help. Has anyone talked to them?’

      ‘Of course. The carabinieri here aren’t total idiots. Not quite, anyway. But they mainly checked out alibis. Six members of the committee, one dead, five reasonable alibis.’

      ‘Hmph. Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, but I think a chat with all of these people is called for. For my sake, at least.’

      ‘I’m going to. Not for your sake, though. And I don’t have much time and I do have to be fairly discreet. After all, I was sent here specifically to be decorative, not to do anything.’

      ‘You are always decorative,’ said Argyll gauchely. ‘But I can’t imagine you ever not doing anything. I couldn’t come with you, could I, by any chance, perhaps?’ He did his best to look winsome and the sort of person who could sit in an interview room without being noticed.

      ‘You could not. Most improper. Relations with Bovolo are strained already and he’d blow his top. Besides, it’s none of your business.’

      It was getting late, Flavia was tired and becoming irritable. She had a feeling she was going to need more time than she would be allowed on this case and, somewhat irrationally, she was beginning to resent Argyll for complicating matters with his infernal picture. Not that it was his fault, and it was unfair to snap at him. But she needed a good sleep urgently. So she called for the bill, paid and ushered him out into the chilly night air as fast as possible.

      She stood outside the restaurant, hands in pockets, admiring the view and wondering which of the many little alleys would take her back to her hotel. She had a good sense of direction and was always distressed when it let her down. It always collapsed in a heap in Venice. Argyll stood opposite her, shifting his balance, as he usually did when considering matters.

      ‘Right then,’ he ventured at last. ‘I’d better be off to my hotel. Unless you want me to guide you to yours…’

      She sighed and smiled back at him. ‘I’d never get there,’ she said, missing the point. ‘It’s quite all right, I’ll manage. Come round tomorrow sometime and I’ll fill you in.’ And she marched off, leaving a slightly aggrieved Argyll to wander around in circles until chance brought him to his own hotel.

       4

      The next morning, Argyll was sitting in Flavia’s bedroom armchair reading the newspaper. Knowing full well that her brusqueness of the night before would have vanished after eight hours of unconsciousness, he came round for breakfast to remind her to ask about his picture. He’d spent some time thinking about it and was still a little worried.

      He was in no great hurry to go about his own business. At the moment he didn’t really have any. Instead, he was going to play a waiting game, he explained with what he hoped was the sly air of the seasoned professional. If they could be silly with him, the very least he could do was reply in kind.

      ‘I want those pictures, but they’re becoming complicated. My dearly beloved employer would never forgive me if I embroiled him in another little scandal,’ he said thoughtfully as he poured the last of the coffee.

      In that he was undoubtedly correct. Sir Edward Byrnes was an easy-going man in many ways, but placed great store by his impeccable reputation as an honest prince of the international art business. Argyll’s small but significant role in causing him to sell a fake Raphael to Italy’s national museum nearly wrecked his career. Not that it was Argyll’s fault – and he had sorted the mess out later, after a fashion – but it was a close run thing and a repetition would not go down at all well.

      ‘How did you hear about these pictures, anyway? Another example of your art historical detective work?’

      This was said with a light touch of sarcasm. Argyll’s endeavours in this department had been painfully erratic in the past. He treated the comment with the disdain it deserved.

      ‘Not exactly. The old lady wrote to Byrnes about six months ago. I think she reckoned the pictures were more valuable than they are. I was sent up to disabuse her of her notions and arrange the deal. Not my fault, you see.’

      He sighed at the troubles of life and drained his cup. ‘Want to spend some time looking at a few churches today? Or are you going off to be dutiful?’ he asked as she pushed back her chair. She nodded.

      ‘’Fraid so. Committee member number one. Might as well get a move on. It’s going to be a long day.’

      She looked, so the Englishman thought fondly, particularly gorgeous this morning. Loose hair, shining in the morning sunlight streaming through the window, open face, striking blue eyes. Hmph. He repressed his admiration, which he felt would not be appreciated at this time of the day. Alas, it seemed not to be appreciated at any time of day.

      ‘And who’s the lucky man?’

      ‘Tony Roberts. I’m meeting him on the island. I thought I’d knock off the Anglo-Saxons first. Do you know anything about him?’

      ‘Enough to know that he is not the sort of person to be called Tony. Anthony, please. Much too dignified for diminutives. Like referring to Leonardo da Vinci as Lenny.’

      ‘What’s

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