The Titian Committee

The driver propelled his boat along at what seemed like an impossibly reckless speed, weaving in and out of the traffic, and aimed it at the side of the canal. He slammed the engine into reverse at the last moment, swung round and then, with a little flourish, brought it to a dainty, perfect halt at exactly the right place. The result of years of practice. Flavia paid, handed over a healthy tip and walked up the steps on to Riva Schiavoni, with the driver bringing up the rear with her bags.

Checking in at the Danieli Hotel took only a few moments. Again, she was obeying Bottando’s instructions to the letter. It was not often she was virtually ordered to stay in the most famous and expensive hotel in the north-east of Italy, and she was determined not to let the opportunity slip. Ordinarily, the Danieli was crammed with the richer sort of German and American tourists, and even the monumental gothic lobby sometimes bore a striking resemblance to a bus station, with crowds of frantic tourists milling around afraid of being left behind and piles of luggage stacked in corners. But the season was ending and, while tourists were still very much in evidence, they had been culled to more manageable proportions. The staff were consequently less harried than usual and, for Venetians, almost polite.

The room was delightful, the weather still sunny and the bed remarkably comfortable. The only other thing anyone might reasonably ask for was food, and she resolved to take care of that immediately. The trip in had taken a good hour and it was well into Flavia’s lunch break, so she changed into more suitably professional-looking clothes and headed back down the stairs. If Bottando had taught her one thing, it was that really good and reliable policework could not be done on an empty stomach. At the desk in the lobby she asked for directions to the central questura, bought a newspaper in the shop so she could see how the local press were reporting the murder, and headed off for a hefty, if solitary, meal.

She was content and only slightly indigested as she walked slowly up the steps of the questura at around three that afternoon. The building was a very Venetian affair. Evidently it had once been the palace of a nobleman of substantial wealth, but it fell so far from its original glory that it was co-opted by the state and colonised. Rooms that were once enormous and well-proportioned had been divided, then subdivided, into dingy little cubicles connected by even darker, more unkempt and depressing corridors. Whatever the budget of the local police, very little of it went on keeping their headquarters well decorated. All very economical and proper, no doubt, but a pity. Her own department in Rome occupied much smaller premises, but Bottando’s ability to delay handing back stolen works of art that were recovered (he always quoted paperwork in order to hang on for a few months to pieces he particularly liked) meant it was much more appealing to the eye. Very important for department morale, even if the best works tended to be stored for security reasons in his own office.

Her holiday mood was evaporating rapidly by the time she had wandered up and down for ten minutes hunting for her destination. It waned still further when she was shown into the office of Commissario Alessandro Bovolo and saw the small, ill-humoured man behind the desk, ostentatiously reading papers and pretending not to have noticed her arrival. But she had decided in advance to be the perfect colleague and was determined to give the man a chance. So she waited patiently, composing her face into cheery nonchalance. Silence fell, apart from the odd snuffle from Bovolo, the rustle of paper and the faint, but quite amazingly irritating, sound of Flavia humming quietly to herself. Eventually, Bovolo could stand her limited musical talents no more. He dropped the sheaf of seemingly absorbing documentation, smoothed down his lank, mousy hair and looked up with the air of an important man reluctant to be distracted.

By no stretch of the imagination could he be considered handsome, even in the best of circumstances. Late forties, he had a thin face, slightly pointy nose, blotchy skin and small colourless eyes. Apart from that, there was not much to be said for him. If one of the fishermen in the lagoon accidentally dredged up a large herring, dressed it in a crumpled grey suit and arranged it in a chair with a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles over its nose, the resemblance would have been extraordinary.

‘Signorina di Stefano,’ he said eventually, with too much emphasis on the ‘signorina’ for Flavia’s taste. ‘The elegantly-dressed young expert from Rome come to show us how to catch murderers.’ The slightly watery smile that accompanied this made her suspect he was not wildly enthused about making her acquaintance. She was quick that way.

‘From Rome, yes. Expert, no,’ she replied, deploying her sweetest and most disarming smile for the occasion. ‘Whatever the accomplishments of my department, catching murderers is scarcely one of them.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘Solely to help if you decide you want it. We do know a lot about the art world, after all. General Bottando was very much of the opinion that my assistance wouldn’t be needed. But as the minister insisted, here I am. You know how ministers are.’

‘And I suppose you’ll go away in a few days and write a report about us,’ he stated with a suggestion of suspicious sarcasm in his voice. ‘No doubt trying to save your own skin.’

Aha. The carabinieri grapevine was working with its usual efficiency. Bovolo had evidently heard Bottando’s back was against the wall, and it didn’t sound as though he was going to do much to help. She’d been afraid of that, but had prepared as best she could.

‘I was hoping to ask you for a favour there,’ she said conspiratorially. ‘As you will be the man on top of the job, knowing exactly what was going on, I wondered – I know of course how busy you must be at the moment – if perhaps you might prepare it for me. Then we could avoid unnecessary errors…’

She smiled cutely once more and could see he’d taken the point. She was giving him the chance of virtually dictating what the report contained – or did not contain. A handsome offer, to her way of thinking. If that didn’t cut the hostility level, nothing would. And, of course, she could always add on appendices and footnotes in Rome.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure I approve of my department doing your job for you, but maybe it would be the best way of making sure all those interfering bureaucrats get an accurate account.’

He nodded and brightened as he considered the choice words of praise for himself he could insert at strategic places.

‘Yes,’ he said, very much happier. ‘Probably quite wise. But I don’t want you hanging around here and getting in our way, you know. We’re busy, understaffed and have got better things to worry about than the murder of a foreigner who didn’t have enough sense to look after herself.’

Evidently not a man who could accept a gift with grace.

‘I’ve no doubt,’ said Flavia, slightly perturbed, but pleased nonetheless that she appeared to be making some progress. ‘And I’d be more than happy to help in any way you suggest.’

‘Well, now,’ he said dubiously, clearly trying to think of something suitably unimportant, ‘I gather you’re the educated type. Languages.’ He had a tone which implied this was a somewhat indecent attainment.

It was becoming a bit of an effort to keep up the vacuous smile. She hoped his manner would improve before her limited reserves of tolerance ran out entirely.

‘Maybe you could talk to some of her colleagues?’ he went on, paying no attention to the increasingly strained appearance of her facial muscles. ‘There’s no point, of course, as we’re after our man already. But it shows we’ve covered all angles. You could have a quick word with them, read over the documents, and go back to Rome tomorrow. You are going tomorrow, aren’t you?’ he added, half-suspecting a nasty complication.

‘Yes. Or the day after. And I’d be happy to talk to them. But haven’t you done that already?’ she asked with some surprise.

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Of course we have. Indeed. Detailed interviews. But it would do no harm to talk to them again, I’m sure. Keep you busy and out of our way.’

‘Well, in that case,’ she said briskly, dropping the smile on the grounds that it was doing little to advance her cause, ‘perhaps you could tell me what it’s all about? The details down in Rome were very vague. Nobody there knows what happened or how. It would be a help to know. If, that is, you can spare the time.’

Bovolo swivelled his fishy little eyes in her direction, not sure whether she was being polite or sarcastic. ‘Hmph,’ he snorted, gracious as ever. ‘Oh, well, why not? Might even help to hear the views of an outsider.’ He clearly thought nothing of the sort, but it was at least an attempt to be civil. Flavia tried to appear flattered.

‘The victim’s name,’ he began after a lengthy shuffle through the piles of papers on his desk, ‘was Louise Mary Masterson. She was thirty-eight, single, American citizen. She lived in New York and was keeper of Western Art at a museum there. One metre fifty-one high, good health. She joined the Titian committee eighteen months ago. This was to be her second session. They meet every year in Venice, at the taxpayers’ expense. She arrived last Monday, and the meeting began on Thursday afternoon. She missed the first session but was there on Friday. Her death took place at, as far as the doctors can say, around 9.30 p.m. the same evening.’

He spoke at a machine-gun pace, making it clear he had not the slightest interest in briefing her properly. Rather, he was making a valiant effort to spew out the maximum number of facts in the minimum time so he could get rid of the tiresome interloper as fast as possible. Flavia let him rattle away: so far, his recitation produced no details she felt like pursuing.

‘The body was discovered in the Giardinetti Reali. That, by the way, is between the Piazza San Marco and the Grand Canal. She worked late in the Marciana library nearby and evidently went for a walk. All public transport was on a lightning strike and she may have been waiting for a taxi to come free. She was found in a greenhouse, stabbed seven times with a knife about ten centimetres long. Penknife. Swiss Army, maybe. That sort. Once in the throat, four times in the chest, once in the shoulder and once in the arm. None was fatal if she’d got help in time, but she was clearly dragged into the greenhouse to make sure she died.’

‘So essentially she bled to death?’

‘That’s about it. Nasty way to go, I must admit. Quiet part of the world. Anywhere else, someone would have come across her in time. But that, unfortunately, is about it. None of her colleagues knows why she was there, and we’ve found no one who saw her in the garden. There weren’t many people around because of that damnable strike. Murder, obviously. But by whom and why we don’t know.’

‘Suspicions?’

‘Oh, well, now. Suspicions, of course we have. More than that. It was certainly a simple robbery that got out of hand. There was no sign of rape, and her briefcase was missing. Not a Venetian crime obviously. A Sicilian, or some other sort of foreigner, no doubt.’

Flavia decided to pass over this outrageous statement in silence. She, at least, did not consider her southern compatriots as foreigners, nor did she necessarily assume that Venetians were incapable of murder. But there was no need to ruffle feathers unnecessarily.

‘No other hints or indications of what might have taken place?’ she asked.

Bovolo shrugged in the manner of someone who has said his piece and is beginning to think further discussion unnecessary. Still, they had an understanding – she would not criticise, and he would humour her. He pushed some papers across the desk for her to examine while he continued talking.

‘Those include as much as we know of her movements before her death. There is nothing at all out of the ordinary. She didn’t know anyone in Venice apart from her colleagues; when not in the library she spent nearly all her time on the Isola San Giorgio, either in her room, eating or having meetings with the other members of the committee. These,’ he continued, just as Flavia was about to say that the details seemed very thin, ‘are photographs of the victim.’

She looked intently, more out of a wish to seem professional than because she wanted to study them. Merely glancing at them seemed almost an invasion of the woman’s privacy.

Even dead, she could see that Masterson had been a fairly striking woman. A well-formed face, make-up smudged. The clothes, dishevelled and bloodstained, were evidently of high quality and, to her eyes, a little conservative and severe. A close-up photograph of her hand showed that it was curled round a bunch of flowers, obviously grabbed hold of as she died. There was something else Flavia couldn’t make out.

‘What’s this?’

‘A lily,’ Bovolo said.

‘Not the flower. This.’ She pointed to it.

‘Crucifix,’ Bovolo said. ‘Gold. With a silver chain.’

‘That must be fairly valuable,’ she said. ‘I would have thought any robber would have taken it.’

Bovolo shrugged noncommittally. ‘Maybe, maybe not. She probably fought for it, that prompted him to kill her, he panicked and ran away. Or perhaps he really only wanted cash. It’s safer, after all.’

‘What was in her case?’

‘Professional papers, wallet, passport, that sort of thing, as far as we can work out.’ He handed over another list and a few xeroxes.

Flavia thought for a few seconds. She was very keen on instant impressions, mercurial guesses which always made Bottando adopt his long-suffering expression. He liked routine, and had tried over the years to convince her of its merits. Fair enough; he was a policeman and such procedure part of his job. She wasn’t, and preferred imagination – which was as often right as Bottando’s reliance on drudgery. Still, might as well show her devotion to method.

‘No footprints, nothing like that?’

‘It is a public garden,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Tourists tramp through all the time, treat the place like a dustbin. The shoreline was absolutely disgusting. Do you know how many empty cans and half eaten sandwiches my men had to collect?’

The last thing she wanted was to hear a long lecture on the nasty habits of tourists. Apart from the fact that Bovolo would probably want to ban all foreigners from the city, she lived in Rome and knew about the problem already.

‘I just thought that if she’d been dragged into a greenhouse there would have been some prints nearby.’

‘Well, there weren’t. Not recent ones anyway. Very dry summer, hard ground. Hasn’t rained for weeks. With a bit of luck it may any day now; we certainly need it. Of course, you can use up your time looking for yourself, if you think you can do a better job than our technical experts who have spent years examining this sort of thing…’

Flavia nodded in a way that hinted she might just do that. Not that she would, but it clearly irritated Bovolo, so was worth it.

There wasn’t much to wrap her imagination around, it had to be said. But the photos of the woman interested her strangely. How much can you tell from photographs? Not much, admittedly, but Masterson looked as though she might have been a bit complicated. She dressed in a hard, no-nonsense style that Americans often prefer; there was none of the femininity that an Italian in her position might have manifested. Her face, also, had a determined edge to it. But there was an ambiguity there. Underneath was something softer, especially around the eyes, which contradicted the firm set of the mouth. Masterson gave the impression of someone trying to be more ruthless than was natural. She might have been quite pleasant had you managed to get through to her.

Flavia smiled, thinking how Bottando would have sniffed at this exposition, built as it was on nothing whatsoever. One glance at Bovolo was enough to convince her that he was a member of the same school of policework.

‘You’ve worked out the whereabouts of all her colleagues, I imagine?’ she asked.

Bovolo again reacted as though he didn’t know whether she was being sweet or sarcastic, but suspected the worst. ‘Of course,’ he said primly, producing yet another sheaf of papers. He put his spectacles on the end of his nose and looked at the documents carefully, just in case they’d changed in the past five minutes.

‘All perfectly reasonable accounts of themselves. And before you ask, we have also checked the clothes in their rooms and not found a single stain, bloody dagger or diary containing a full confession. Professor Roberts and Dr Kollmar cancel each other out, as they were at the opera together. Dr Van Heteren was at dinner with friends near the railway station. Dr Lorenzo was at home, with servants and friends to testify to it. All of those four are staying on the main island, not at the foundation. That leaves Dr Miller.’

‘Tell me about him, then. I take it he had no witnesses?’

Bovolo nodded. ‘Yes. For a moment we also had high hopes there. However, he was on the island with no way of getting off it, because of the strike. He went into the kitchen just after ten to ask for some mineral water to wash down a sleeping pill, drank it down while talking to some of the staff, and went straight off to bed.’

‘But he is still the only one who has no one else to vouch for him at the time of the murder?’

‘True. But the gate keeper is prepared to swear no one left or arrived after about six o’clock. If he was on the island at ten, he was on it at nine. And in that case, he didn’t kill this woman. Besides, all of them are most distinguished people with no possible motive. It was a very harmonious and scholarly operation, not a branch of the Mafia.’

Flavia nodded thoughtfully. ‘So, having eliminated all her colleagues, you decide on a lone marauder.’

Bovolo nodded. ‘And we’ll stick with it, unless you have something else to suggest,’ he said with a don’t-you-dare expression on his face.

‘And what’s that?’ she asked, gesturing briefly at another envelope.

‘This? Just her mail. Delivered to her room this morning and we picked it up. We thought it might have been important, but it isn’t. Take it if you like and check it out. All art stuff.’

She read through them briefly. Circulars, notes from her museum, a letter from a photographic agency and a couple of bills. Uninspiring. She put them all down in the pile.

‘Still,’ said Flavia, not really feeling comfortable, ‘it seems odd to go to all that trouble to tear a gold crucifix off her neck and then leave it behind. Was she a Catholic, by the way?’

Bovolo shook his head. ‘Don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘You know what these Americans are like. All religious fanatics, by the sound of them.’

Another nation to cross off your list. Not a man with a broad appreciation of the varieties of human culture.

‘Take copies of these if you want,’ he said, gesturing at the police files on the case with a sudden spurt of co-operative generosity. ‘Not the photographs, obviously, but anything else. As long as you give them back and don’t show them to anyone. They are confidential, you know.’

Why did she want all that miscellaneous debris? she wondered after she’d shaken the inspector by his clammy little hand and was walking slowly back to the Danieli. Clearly Bovolo thought them useless, or he wouldn’t have allowed her to have them. She felt a slight glimmering of interest in this murder, despite Bottando’s orders that she was not to get involved in any way. It was, perhaps, the woman’s face. There was no fright on it. It was not the face of someone who’d died in the middle of a robbery. If there was any expression at all, it was determination. And indignation. That did not fit in at all with Bovolo’s notion of a mugging somehow.

3

Jonathan Argyll sat in a restaurant in the Piazza Manin, trying with mixed success to disguise both his upset at the message and his distaste for the messenger. It was not easy. He felt out of his depth, as usual, and was beginning to have a sneaking feeling that nature had not really designed him to be an art dealer, try as he might to earn an honest crust at the trade. He knew very well what he was meant to do. Ear to the ground to hear gossip in the trade, research in libraries to spot opportunities, careful approach to owners with an offer that, in theory, they leapt to accept. Easy. And he could do all of it pretty well, except for the last bit. Somehow the owners of pictures never seemed quite as ready to part with their possessions as the theory suggested they should be. Perhaps he just needed more practice, as his employer suggested. On good days, this is what he liked to think. On bad days, and this was one of them, he was more inclined to think it was not for him.

‘But Signora Pianta, why?’ he asked in an Italian flawed only by the distinct tone of weary desperation. ‘If the terms weren’t satisfactory, why on earth didn’t she say so last month?’

The vulture-faced, mean-minded, vicious-looking old misery smiled in a tight and very unsympathetic fashion. She had a nose of quite alarming dimensions which curved round and down almost like a sabre, and he found himself increasingly fixated on the monstrous protuberance as the meal progressed and the quality of the conversation deteriorated. He had not especially noticed her singularly unappealing appearance before she demanded more money from him, but the shock had stimulated his senses. On the other hand, he had never liked dealing with her, and found the act of enforced gallantry increasingly difficult to sustain.

Very irritating. Especially as Argyll and the old Marchesa had hit it off well. She was a feisty, cunning woman with eyes still bright in her old and lined face, a bizarre sense of humour and a very satisfactory desire to unload some pictures. All was going nicely, more or less. Then she’d fallen ill, and it evidently made her cranky. Since her side-kick – companion, she liked to call herself – had taken over, the negotiations had lurched and sputtered. Now it appeared they were going to grind to a final halt.

‘And I’ve already told you it is quite unnecessary. We are very experienced at this sort of thing.’

Tiresome woman. She had spent the evening elliptically dropping bizarre hints, and eventually he had asked outright what on earth she wanted, apart from switching the deal to a percentage of the sale price rather than a lump sum. That he could deal with, although it would have been nice had she thought of it earlier.

It was the other little detail that upset him. Smuggle the pictures out, she said. Don’t bother with export permits, official regulations and all that nonsense. Stick them in the back of the car, drive to Switzerland and sell them. Get on with it.

It was, of course, not that unusual. Thousands of pictures leave like that from Italy every year, and some of his less respectable colleagues in Rome made a tidy living as couriers. But, as he said firmly, Byrnes Galleries did not work like that. They went by the book, and were good at hurrying officialdom along. Besides, the pictures were relatively unimportant – family pictures, second-rate landscapes, anonymous portraits and the like – and there was no likelihood of any hitches. The price he had offered was not great, admittedly, but as much as they were worth. By the time they were paid for, transported to England, cleaned, prepared and sold, he and his employer would show a respectable profit. Worked out as a rate per hour for the amount of time he’d put in, he could probably earn more selling hamburgers in a fast food chain.

She was upset by his adamant refusal. In that case, she said, he must agree to pay all export taxes and registration fees. Whether she was serious or whether this was all a ploy to get him to agree to her request he did not know, but here he put his foot down.

‘I’ve been through all the figures. We couldn’t possibly sell the pictures, pay all the expenses and make a profit on this percentage. It’s tantamount to calling the entire deal off.’