'Yes.'

'Why?'

'What do you mean, why? Why do you think?'

'Well, it's just that you haven't paid for my Titian. And when I even raised the possibility, everybody was very sniffy at the idea.'

Thanet looked at him pityingly. 'And you gave way. What do you expect? The owner of this bust was evidently better at bargaining than you were.'

'You mean that song and dance about museum policy was just guff?'

'Obviously we prefer to delay payment as long as possible. But if we can't get a piece otherwise . . .'

'And what about Hector? Has his stuff been paid for?'

'Certainly not. Nor is it going to be. I had our sculpture people go over the contents of those cases. Utter garbage, the lot of it. Langton must have taken leave of his senses. This is why I get annoyed about him flouting acquisitions procedure . . .'

'Yes. Indeed. But what I'm trying to get at, is who was the legal owner of the bust when it was stolen?'

'Oh. We were. A guard met the case at the airport and signed for it and Barclay authorised transfer of the money. From that moment it became the property of the museum.'

'As I see it, then, Hector was persuaded - knowingly or not - into smuggling it out of Italy. And when you announced what it was, he saw a prosecution looming up before him. No wonder he was angry.'

Thanet continued to look discomforted.

Argyll closed his eyes and thought. 'He complained to Moresby, went back to the hotel, received a phone call and booked himself on a flight to Rome immediately. Why did he do that, I wonder? But someone got to him first. Did he see something, or was it important to make sure he didn't get back to Italy? How strange. Do you happen to know where Mr. Langton was between eleven and, say, one in the morning?'

Thanet looked startled, not so much at the question but at the implication behind it. He also seemed vaguely disappointed at the answer he felt morally obliged to give. Langton, he said, had not left the museum from the moment that the body of Moresby was discovered. He was certainly in the museum until three in the morning, and may well have been there until he left to catch a plane back to Italy. There was not the slightest possibility that he could have been responsible for either death. Had Samuel Thanet bowed his head in sorrow, he could not have made his feelings more plain. He would have been delighted to have had Langton locked in a cell.

Argyll digested this and looked at Thanet. 'What about this infernal Bernini, then? What did you think of it? Did it seem the real thing to you? None of this makes sense unless it all centres on the bust.'

Thanet shrugged again. 'I couldn't even begin to hazard a guess,' he said. Helpful today.

'Oh, go on. Educated amateur. If you had to put five dollars on it, which way would you bet? True or false?'

'Honestly, I don't know. After all, I never saw it.'

'What?'

'I never saw it. I was going to have a look, but it was an appallingly busy day preparing for Moresby's visit. If we ever get it back, I'll happily venture an opinion. Judging by the noise the Italian police are making, they clearly think it's genuine.'

'Odd way to run a museum.'

Thanet didn't even bother to reply; simply gave Argyll a look to indicate that he didn't know the half of it.

Chapter Eight

The next morning Flavia headed off for Gubbio at around ten. She was not entirely sure what purpose the visit to di Souza's sculptor-friend was supposed to serve; there was so far not a shred of evidence that the Bernini was a fake. Indeed, such small fragments as she had collected so far strongly indicated that it wasn't. On the other hand, the sculptor knew di Souza, evidently from way back, and all help was gratefully received. Whatever had been going on in 1951 was at least one starting point in this business.

It's a three hour drive from Rome to Gubbio, four and a half if you are the sort who insists on an early lunch before getting down to business. And there is also some of the most delightful scenery in the country. Not that Flavia spent too much time admiring the landscape. In about ten hours' time she'd be stuck on a plane heading for California. It was reasonable to send her, she thought. But she did rather suspect that Bottando was interfering in her private life again.

The man in charge at the local police station, where she presented herself for reasons of protocol, was agreeably welcoming, but most surprised to hear Flavia had come to interview Alceo Borunna, a veritable pillar of local society. A foreigner, of course; the commandant believed he hailed from somewhere around Florerce. But he had lived in the little town for years, and was presently working with an architect to restore the cathedral, which, believe him, needed restoration very badly. Shocking the way the government and the church neglected the national heritage.

Flavia nodded sagely and agreed. Borunna, it seemed, was a fervent churchgoer as well as restorer, was somewhere in his seventies, as hale and hearty as ever, had lived as a devoted husband for decades and had so many grandchildren only he could even begin to count them. He was also held in awe by the architect because of his enormous facility both with the stonework he was restoring and with the men in his charge. The only slight worry was either that he might retire or that the architect at Assisi might poach him. But it was well known he had already turned down one offer of a better-paid job, saying that he wasn't interested in money.

It all sounded too good to be true, but it was always possible. Saints do still walk the earth and one runs across them just often enough to restore faith in mankind. It would be sad if this trip showed that Borunna was not as perfect as his reputation.

Too late to worry about that, Flavia thought as she walked through the steep, narrow streets towards the cathedral and asked for the workyard. There was, she reckoned as she walked in, probably little difference between this sight and the workyard of the original masons and carvers who had decorated the place in the middle ages: large wooden tables set out in the open air, with a small group of large, untidy workmen gathered round them; blocks of marble, stone and wood stacked all over the place, and tools which had changed little in half a millenium. They did things properly here; no shortcuts using electric drills and sanders.

Borunna was standing on his own, chin resting in his hand, looking peaceably and with concentration at a large, half-finished madonna that was slowly emerging from a block of limestone. He came out of his reverie as Flavia introduced herself and greeted her gently with all the innocence of a child.

'That's very fine workmanship. I congratulate you,' she said, studying the madonna.

Borunna smiled and stretched himself. 'Thank you. It'll do, I suppose. It's going in one of the niches on the facade, so it doesn't have to be perfect. I must admit it's coming out better than I thought. We don't really have time to do a perfect job.'

'Nobody will be able to tell, though.'

'That's not the point, not the point at all. The old masters didn't care whether anyone could see their flaws or not. They wanted to do as well as they could, because their work was a gift to God, who deserved the best. That's all gone; now what's important is whether any German or English tourists will notice the difference, and how much it will all cost. It changes the spirit of the building for ever.'

He stopped, and shot her a half-whimsical, half-apologetic glance. 'My obsession. It makes me sound very old-fashioned. I do beg your pardon. You must be here for a more important reason than to listen to the meanderings of an old man. How can I help you?'

'Eh?' said Flavia, dragging her eyes away from the statue and back to the present. 'Oh, yes. Not so important, but I am a bit pressed for time. It's about some - ah - work you may have done.'

Borunna looked interested. 'Really? When was this?'

'Well, we're not sure,' she said, feeling a little embarrassed. 'Sometime in the last half century. For Hector di Souza.'

This made him think. 'Hector, eh? Is he still around? Goodness, that does take me back. I've not seen him for years. Let's see now . . .'

Without a doubt, the police chief was right; Borunna was not quite of this earth. His soft voice and kindly eyes were of the variety that made you feel entirely comfortable in his presence. Not one of the get-rich-quick mob who infest the world of art dealing. Saintly, indeed.

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