The Titian Committee

Signora Pianta smiled and drank the coffee that Argyll, it seemed, was paying for. A meal designed to conclude an amicable deal was becoming an expensive waste of time. Initially, he had felt a certain sympathy for the woman, who had an unenviable position as companion to the sharp-tongued Marchesa. It was now evaporating fast.

‘I’m very sorry,’ she said, not meaning it at all. ‘But those were my instructions. And as we have now had more interest in the pictures…’

Argyll was bewildered by this last comment. Who on earth could be interested? Was he about to become involved in a bidding war for these things? If so, it certainly wasn’t worth it. If he wasn’t required occasionally to provide Edward Byrnes in London with some pictures as an exchange for his salary, he would pull out now and go back to Rome.

‘Oh, very well, then,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’ll think about it and call you tomorrow.’

Cool and professional, he thought. Don’t allow yourself to be stampeded. Keep them guessing. Probably useless, mind you.

From there until the end of the meal he did his best to remain calmly polite. He did all the right things; paid the bill with much silent gnashing of teeth, helped her on with her coat, escorted her out of the restaurant and was kissing her hand – this always seemed to go down well, even when it wasn’t deserved – when he heard a slight cough from someone standing just behind him in the Campo.

He turned round, his bad mood dissipating as he recognised the woman standing there, resting with her weight on her left leg, arms crossed and a look of amused disdain on her face.

‘What are you doing in Venice?’

‘Not having as much fun as you, it seems,’ Flavia replied.

Argyll, thrown into confusion as he was so easily by almost anything unexpected, performed a flustered and not very competent set of introductions. ‘Flavia di Stefano of the Polizia Art Squad in Rome,’ he concluded.

Pianta was not impressed. Indeed, she nodded coldly in the way of someone who did not consider the police respectable members of society, looked disapprovingly at her somewhat scruffy clothes – with particular emphasis on the unpolished brown boots – and then ignored her entirely. She thanked Argyll for the meal in a chilly sort of fashion, which bore no relation to how much it had cost, and walked off.

‘Now there’s a real charmer,’ Flavia remarked calmly as she went.

Argyll rubbed his nose in irritation and frustration. ‘Didn’t seem to like you, did she? Don’t take it personally. It may be because she’s just been asking me to break the law. Besides, she doesn’t like me either, and I’ve just paid for her dinner.’

There was a long silence as he regarded her with a look of affection, which she always interpreted as one of discomfort. It was. He never really quite knew what to do with someone who was both emotionally turbo-charged and also so calm and detached. Somehow the bits never seemed to fit together, or, to put it another way, they obviously did but he couldn’t quite figure out where the joins were.

‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ he asked eventually. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you. A friendly face, you know.’

‘Thank you,’ she said formally, deciding that he had not been changed by his period of living in Rome. If he didn’t understand her, at least it was mutual. His distant, if obvious, affection tended to confuse her. To her mind, he should either forget her or fling his arms round her. Either would do; but to manage neither seemed merely indecisive. ‘I’m here for a couple of days on a case. Of sorts. Not so interesting.’

‘Oh.’

‘What about you?’

‘Wasting my time, it seems.’

‘Oh.’

Another silence intervened. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ she said finally. ‘You look as though you need to ventilate a bit.’

He glanced sideways at her gratefully. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’d like that. You’re starving, I imagine?’

She nodded fervently. ‘Yes. How do you know?’

‘Lucky guess. Come on. I’ll sit with you and have a coffee. I love to watch a professional at work.’

They walked into the restaurant again and sat down at the same table he’d occupied before. ‘Same place, better company,’ he said with an attempt at a charming smile that was slightly more successful than the last.

While Flavia ploughed her methodical and diligent way through much of the menu, Argyll gave a potted history of his trials and tribulations. There was not much she could say. The deal, it seemed to her, was off and the only sensible thing to do was to go back to Rome. But she tried to be optimistic. He should, she counselled, hang around for a few days yet. You never knew, after all. He could always go in for a bit of smuggling.

Argyll was properly shocked. ‘And you in the police as well. I’m ashamed of you.’

‘Just an idea.’

‘No thanks. I will persevere for a few days by legal means, then give up. What I’ll do,’ he said with renewed enthusiasm, ‘is try to get hold of the Marchesa direct tomorrow. Go to the top. That might work.’

He yawned, leant back in his chair and stretched. ‘Enough of that. I’m sick of hearing about the damn things. Distract me. How’s life in Rome these days?’

It was a pointed reminder that, though they lived in the same city, they hadn’t seen much of each other recently. Argyll considered this distressing and Flavia also missed his company. But, as she explained, he’d been away, and she’d been busy. Times were tough, and the pressure was on while Bottando battled to save his department.

‘In fact,’ she concluded, ‘the only reason I’m here is that everyone in Rome is all excited and Bottando is plotting.’

‘As usual, eh?’

They had different opinions on this; for the Englishman, Bottando’s constant manoeuvrings revealed him as a consummate manipulator. Although he had enormous regard for the amiable Italian, he vaguely thought his time might more properly be spent catching criminals. Flavia, on the other hand, was of Bottando’s view that efficiency was no use at all if the entire department was politicked into oblivion. She just wished he didn’t involve her quite so often.

‘It’s serious this time,’ she said with a frown. ‘We’ve got a fight on our hands. I just hope he can get us out of trouble.’

‘I’m sure he will. He’s extraordinarily well practised, after all. I suppose you’re here on the Masterson affair that I’ve been reading about in the papers?’

Flavia nodded absently.

‘Who done her in, then?’

‘How should I know? The local police think she was mugged. Maybe she was. Not my business, anyway. I’m here simply to lend respectability, follow up anything arty and secure some tactical credit for the department at a difficult moment. You don’t, by any chance, know anything about the’ – she paused to get out the letter and check the name – ‘the Agenzia Fotografica Rossi, do you?’ she asked, switching the subject to something less distressing.

‘Eminently respectable, small business in Bologna that keeps files of photographs. Often used by art historians gathering illustrations for books. Why?’

‘No reason. Just that a letter from them for Masterson arrived this morning. I thought I’d be diligent and check it out. Something to put in the report,’ she said as Argyll plucked it from her hand and read it.

It is not often that you can definitely say that you have seen someone rock backwards in surprise, especially when they are sitting in a chair. Nor do most people have the opportunity of actually seeing someone change colour. Argyll, therefore, gave Flavia two new experiences in a matter of seconds. She thought for a moment he was about to fall off his seat. His pink complexion turned pale, and then a mottled shade of green, as he read the letter. Or, to be more accurate, as he goggled at it.

‘What,’ he began in a tone which suggested he was about to have hysterics. ‘What on earth are you doing with this?’ He had evidently 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 he like?’

‘Depends on who you listen to. On the one hand there’s the fan club. Great man, major contribution to scholarship. Gentleman and connoisseur. You know the sort of thing. Perfect manners and absolute professional integrity. A latter-day saint. On the other hand there is the view that, however charming, he is really a pompous old goat. That, admittedly, is an opinion mainly held by those who have not benefited from his vast patronage network.’

‘But is he any good?’

Argyll shrugged again. ‘Again, opinions vary. His book on Venetian art competitions is generally accepted as a revolution in methodology. The less enthusiastic add that he’s done damn all since. And twenty years is a long time to live on your reputation. As for me, I don’t know. I’ve never met him. He is an avid collector of pictures and as far as I know he pays his bills. What more could anybody want?’

The fondazione Cini is another name for the old monastery of San Giorgio Maggiore, a sixteenth-century masterpiece by Palladio taken over by the state and converted into an upmarket conference centre. It is the sort of place where you hold international summits, or conferences for people who need to be impressed. Nothing, it seemed, was too good for the historians of Venice’s most successful painter and every year a well-appointed conference room, a suite of convenient bedrooms, telephones, fax machines, photocopiers, as well as a bevy of cooks and housemaids, were set aside for the Titian committee’s exclusive use.

If anything should have focused their minds on the task at hand, quarters on the island should have done the trick. Facing San Marco, with the Salute on the left, the stone, terracotta and brick of the buildings positively glowed in the fading and ever rarer autumn sunlight, ample proof on its own that Venice was one of the great wonders of the world.

Flavia stood on the vaporetto and watched, entranced, as the island drew nearer. Her face was lightly tanned from the summer, her long, fair hair streamed backwards in the breeze. Had Argyll seen her standing like that, legs slightly apart to keep her balance, hands thrust into the pockets of her jeans, a slight frown on her forehead from the sun, he would have been even more lost in admiration than at breakfast. But he would never have found any way of telling her, and Flavia was incapable of divining what he was thinking.

‘Too late,’ said the guardian brusquely as she approached, gesturing at the timetable that announced the building was closed to tourists from noon. It was now only ten. She fished out her identification card and announced herself as a member of the police. He examined it carefully, back and front, glancing up at her suspiciously as he read.

‘From Rome, eh?’ he said, suggesting strongly that she should be ashamed of herself.

‘The Titian committee,’ she said severely. ‘Where do I find its meeting rooms?’

‘Oh,’ he said knowingly. ‘That lady that got herself killed, is it?’ He said it in a way which implied that it had been the American’s own fault. Everybody seemed to do that.

‘That’s right. Did you know her?’

‘A bit. Not much. Some people take the time to stop and talk, even know my name. Not her. She did chat to my wife, though. She says she was pleasant, not that they had much to talk about. My wife,’ he added, heading off at an apparently unrelated tangent, ‘cleans the rooms here, you know.’

‘Really?’ said Flavia, taking the hint about conversation. ‘How long has she been doing that for?’

‘Oh, years, now. The year of the flood she started.’ Flavia tried to remember. 1966? October? Something like that. Not that it mattered. ‘Eight hours a day. And she helps wash up in the evenings. And do you know how much she’s paid?’

Probably very little, but she had no time to listen to complaints, however well justified. ‘Doesn’t seem very busy now, though. There are only the historians here at the moment, aren’t there?’

He grudgingly admitted that it was pretty slack. ‘Doesn’t mean this place is easy to keep clean,’ he countered.

‘No?’

‘No. Shoddy, that’s what it is. Looks nice, I grant you. But shoddy. Can’t do anything properly round here these days.’

She was on the verge of asking if by chance he was related to an old gondolier she knew. ‘Workmanship. Hah. International conference centre, so-called. Can’t even stop the roof leaking. That’s because all the contracts – you know.’ He glanced at her slyly and put his finger to his nose to imply dirty dealings in high places. She knew what he meant. He was probably right.

‘Do you know, last week, there was water coming in? Would you credit it? Puddles of it in the corridors. Which my wife had to clean up even after her shift had ended. Faulty roofing. Lets in the rain. Lucky none of it got into the bedrooms, or this lot would have complained. They always do, you know. Never satisfied, some people.’

‘There must be some interesting people who come here,’ she ventured desperately, hoping to get him off the subject so she could find out where the meeting room was.

‘Interesting? Don’t know about that. Odd, certainly. Some funny people we’ve had here. Don’t know that I approve. They call themselves respectable, you know.’

‘Are they not?’

‘Some of them. Some I wouldn’t let into my house. Of course, I don’t want to judge them. Live and let live, I suppose, and people always do get a bit frisky in Venice, if you know what I mean.’

She had some idea.

‘Take that lady that got herself killed,’ he continued.

The twinkle in his eye told Flavia he knew quite well he was playing with her.

‘She didn’t get herself killed. Someone murdered her.’

‘That’s what I said,’ he replied, clearly thinking she was being pedantic.

Flavia sighed. ‘Take her how?’ she asked.

‘Is that for me to say? All I know was, that she was a bit of a night-owl, that one.’

‘You mean she worked late?’

The guardian snickered, and rubbed his red, drinker’s nose with the back of his hand. ‘Work, it might have been.’ He leered at her in a peculiarly repulsive fashion.

‘Perhaps she had friends in?’

This he found a great joke and looked at Flavia as though he’d found a soul-mate at long last. ‘Oh, yes,’ he gurgled. ‘Friends, eh?’ He cackled away merrily.

Flavia sighed once more. It was always hard to deal with gossips. On the one hand, they had an incurable urge to tell you what they knew, on the other there was the long-standing unwillingness to say anything to the police at all. The result was often such a series of elliptical hints, designed to satisfy both imperatives.

‘Tell me about the others,’ she began, and promptly abandoned the question when she saw the distrustful expression taking over again. ‘I assume your wife was in the kitchen with Dr Miller on Friday evening?’

This he could answer. No harm in exonerating people. ‘Yes. He came to the kitchen from the laundry-room to ask for some water at about half ten. We had a little chat. Very considerate, charming man.’

‘And he didn’t leave the island at any time?’

‘Oh, no. He was here, all right. No public transport and if he’d taken a taxi I would have seen it. And before you ask,’ he said conclusively, ‘there are no private boats here at the moment he could have taken.’

‘You have to open the door to let people in after hours?’

‘No. People are given their own keys. But, as I say, I was on duty from six to midnight and would have seen anybody coming or going. No one did.’

That seemed pretty conclusive. After a brief pause to note the conversation down, she made her way through to the second cloister in search of the committee’s rooms. Yet again, her sense of direction abandoned her and she ended up at what seemed to be a service entrance somewhere at the far end of the building. With a curse, she turned round and began again, this time finding herself in the kitchens.

Third time lucky, she hit the right floor and made her way along a corridor, with doors that were clearly the rooms of those members of the committee who wanted the free accommodation. Only Miller and Masterson did, it seemed. The rest preferred to make their own arrangements.

Whatever the quality of the workmanship in the roofs, the meeting rooms seemed more than adequate for their purpose. Lashings of oak panelling, a handsome ceiling painting of a suitably religious nature, even though the large number of naked bodies swirling around seemed scarcely designed to keep the old monks’ minds on their devotions, along with all the normal equipment of modern conference centres – comfortable armchairs, settecento tables, Venetian glassware, Flemish tapestries, that sort of thing.