The Bernini Bust

'That's quite enough to make ends meet, isn't it?'

Evidently, she didn't follow Flavia's line of reasoning. 'Well, yes. So what?'

'So why battle for all the rest?'

'Oh. Because it's mine. As the woman who put up with him and his meanness for all these years. You're right - it's far more money than I can spend. But that's not the point. If the museum continues, it'll enshrine his name in perpetuity. The great art lover, the great philanthropist. The great man. Phooey. And all those leeches, hanging around him, just to get their hands on his wallet, to aggrandise themselves. Phooey again. All conceit and fraud and dishonesty. That's why I want to stop it. Because, dammit, I married that man because I loved him, once upon a time. And nobody believed me. Not Arthur, or his son, or Thanet, or Langton. I hated them all for that. And eventually I stopped believing it myself. If they insisted I married him for money, then so be it. But in that case, I want it all, and I'm damn well going to get it.'

An awkward pause followed this. Argyll, never comfortable with other people's outbursts, frowned heavily and pretended not to be there. Flavia, less typically, was also thrown off-balance and temporarily forgot what her line of questioning was. Eventually she retreated back to safer, less complex ground.

'I see,' she said. 'Yes. Well, about this bust, then. I don't understand. I mean, you turned up and shouted at Thanet about it, but how did you know it was coming, and why did you reckon it was stolen or something?'

'Oh, hell. There's no secret about that. I overheard Arthur talking to Langton about it. Arthur was exultant, punching his fist into his palm with those childish gestures businessmen have.'

'He said it was stolen?'

'Oh, no. But it wouldn't have been the first time things turned up in unorthodox circumstances, and it was obvious something fishy was going on.'

'Why?'

'Because Arthur had that gleeful look on his face that he only got when he'd shafted someone.'

'And when was this, exactly?'

'Christ, I don't know. Couple of months back. I was drunk at the time. I often am, you know.'

'And what did they say?'

She shook her head. 'I didn't hear. Just that Langton was to get that bust and was to use someone or other. That man whose body they found. The one at the museum.'

'Use him for what?'

She shrugged to indicate that she hadn't heard.

'You knew about the trust for the museum?'

She nodded.

'And you knew it was unbreakable once it was set up?'

'No such thing as an unbreakable trust.'

'But if Thanet was a trustee and could veto . . .'

'The director of the museum is a trustee,' she corrected. 'A new director might see differently.'

'Like Langton, for example?'

'Oh, no. Not him. He's as bad as Thanet in his way.'

She smiled as sweetly as she could manage.

'How do you know all these details?'

'David Barclay told me.'

'That was kind of him,' Flavia said. The comment got no reaction. 'When was this?'

'Oh, last Wednesday, I reckon. Typical of Arthur; intimate family business and I get filled in by a lawyer.'

So to speak, Flavia thought. 'And you protested about it,' she went on.

'Christ, no. That wasn't the way to get anywhere with him. No, I told him it was a wonderful idea; but I did want to undermine Thanet, and the museum, to make Arthur disenchanted with the whole scheme.'

'Who did have a reason to bean him?' Argyll asked.

She shrugged again, as though the murder of her husband was a minor detail in the overall scheme of things. 'Dunno. If you wondered who would like to kill him, then the list is endless. I can't think of anyone who liked him at all, and an enormous list of people who didn't. But I suppose you mean who had a good reason to do it. No idea. That slug of a son was at the party, wasn't he?'

Argyll nodded.

'A bum,' she said with a sneer that indicated that she had almost as low an opinion of junior as she had of senior. 'Pure and simple. Beer, checked shirts and bar-room brawls. And the traditional Moresby knowledge of the value of money. I'd put my money on him.'

She saw Flavia calculating dates. 'Oh, he's nothing to do with me. Arthur's third wife. The third of five. Anabel, her name. Wilting ninny. She died, typically. Junior has the worst characteristics of both of them. The only thing going for him was the simple fact that Arthur loathed the very sight of him.'

'Happy family,' Argyll said.

'That's us. The all American nightmare.'

'Were you, ah, happily married?'

She looked at him suspiciously. 'And what does that mean?'

'Well . . .'he began.

'Listen. I'll tell you once, and once only. I'm sick to death of people prying into my life. That unshaven creep from the police department has been insinuating nonsense as well. My private life is none of your business, and it certainly isn't connected in any way with the death of my husband. Got that?'

'Oh, right-ho,' he said, wishing he hadn't asked.

She stubbed out her cigarette with ferocity. 'I reckon I've spent enough time talking to you. See yourself out.' And with that she rose uncertainly from the sofa and ostentatiously opened the door for them to go.

'Well done, Jonathan. Soul of tact and discretion as usual,' Flavia said as they emerged into the sunlight once more.

'Sorry.'

'Oh well, it doesn't matter. I don't suppose she would have told us anything useful, anyway. Besides, we're late for lunch.'

Chapter Eleven

As far as Argyll was concerned, lunch epitomised why he preferred the company of detective Joe Morelli to that of someone like Samuel Thanet. The latter would have opted for some tastefully constituted French affair, all candles, expensive wine list and a somewhat unctuous atmosphere, but Morelli, coming from a very different background, had a very different notion of food. He took Argyll and Flavia to a run-down shack called Leo's Place.

It looked a bit like a truck stop, and most of the clientele were as big as their trucks. The sort of people who, if they had ever heard of chloresterol, dedicated their lives to ingesting as much of the stuff as possible. Not a candle in sight, except when the power failed. A wine list commendable in its brevity, waiters who neither introduced themselves nor sneered at you during the entire meal, and some of the best food Flavia had ever tasted. Oysters and ribs, washed down with martinis, perhaps make up America's greatest contribution to western civilisation. Martinis certainly do. Argyll's enthusiasm made Morelli warm to him a little. Not many people drank martinis anymore, he said gloomily. Country was going to hell.

While Argyll dug his beak into a second and beamed happily, Flavia ate and questioned. What were the police going to do now?

'Looks as though we're going to arrest Barclay and Anne Moresby, I guess,' he said.

'But will you manage to convict them?'

'I hope so. Of course, I would prefer to wait a bit . . .'

'Why?'

'Because I'm not convinced we have enough. Persuading a jury is going to require more work. But those above me are getting alarmed. They want something to hand to the press. Did you know we live in a pressocracy in this country?'

'Pardon?'

'Pressocracy. Everything is run by, and organised for the convenience of, the press. Television, rather. They need an arrest to keep interest up, so I'm put under pressure to give them one.'