'By the way,' Flavia continued absently. 'Who is going to keep an eye on the market in Europe for you? Now that Langton seems unlikely to be in any position to keep his finger on the pulse, so to speak?'
Thanet was getting used to her now, and could see where she was heading. So he stood, feeling resigned, and waited for it.
'You really need an agent, just to keep you informed. Nothing permanent, or full-time, simply someone to be your eyes and ears on the continent. On a retainer basis. Don't you think?'
Thanet nodded, and sighed.
'Indeed,' he said, giving way gracefully. 'And I was rather hoping that Mr. Argyll . . .'
'Eh? Oh, yes,' said he. 'Delighted. Delighted. Anything to help.'
'Drink,' Morelli said after everyone had finally gone. He'd sneaked them out of the back and into his car, over the fence and across the neighbour's garden so the waiting press didn't see them. Pity about the neighbour's cactus collection, though. It would take years before Streeter won communal forgiveness. But then he probably wouldn't be living there much longer.
'You shouldn't. Not with all that junk in your bloodstream.'
'I know. But I need one. And I owe you one.'
A dingy bar, full of dingier people. Very nice.
'Your health,' he said from behind a beer.
'Yes, interesting, that. Another example of museum politics at work.'
'How so?'
'Well,' the detective began, 'as you heard, he was Anne Moresby's lover. More than anyone he knew die Moresbys weren't a tender loving couple, and he suspected that Anne was behind the shooting somehow. Naturally, he was concerned that she not be arrested, so he did his best to keep what he assumed would be incriminating evidence under wraps.
'The trouble was that we started going after her anyway, and then all this business of the lover as accomplice came up. Streeter wasn't in the camera's view at the time of the murder, he knew that Anne Moresby had a perfect alibi and began to think that he was being set up.
'So he swapped sides. Instead of trying to protect her, he decided to incriminate her before she got him. Any indecision vanished when Argyll suggested he produce his tape. He thought Argyll had discovered it really existed. I'm not too sure who was more dimwitted, him or us.'
'If you think about it, none of them are exactly paragons, are they?' Argyll said. 'I mean, tax fiddles, murder, fraud, adultery, theft, framing each other for crimes, eavesdropping, firing people. They deserve each other, I reckon.'
There was a long pause as they considered this. Then Morelli smiled at the thought, and raised his glass once more. 'My thanks. I don't know whether we would have got him eventually without your help. Maybe we would. But your comment about the bust made Langton tell all. How did you find out where it was?'
She shrugged. 'I didn't. I haven't a clue.'
'None?'
'Not the foggiest. I made it up. I wanted to annoy him.'
'In that case it was lucky.'
'Not really. After all, not much depended on it. You could convict Moresby on the taped evidence alone.'
Morelli shook his head. 'Maybe, but every bit helps.'
'What were you grinning at when you were listening to that tape, by the way?'
The American gurgled with sheer pleasure. 'I told you we thought Thanet was carrying on with his secretary?'
Flavia nodded.
'Well, he was. In his office. Very passionate. I was just thinking how much I will enjoy myself when that tape is presented at the trial and is played to the entire courtroom.'
Argyll looked at them both with a rueful grin. 'This hasn't been a very impressive display, has it?'
'How do you mean?'
'We pointed the finger at the wrong murderer three times. We got Anne Moresby's lover wrong. Someone tried to murder me and I didn't even notice. Out of all of them Moresby was the only one I thought was basically OK. We invented a theft that didn't happen, and in the end only have a chance of getting a conviction because Streeter completely misunderstood me and Flavia told a whopping lie to Langton. And we still don't know what happened to that bust.'
Morelli nodded contentedly. 'A textbook case,' he said.
Chapter Sixteen
Hector di Souza was buried twice; once after a requiem Mass in Santa Maria sopra Minerva with full choir, dozens of attendants -including a real cardinal archbishop, the sort he'd always had a weakness for - and more cloth-of-gold vestments than you could shake a stick at. Friends, colleagues and enemies turned up in full force, dressed in their best, and the incense was burned like it was going out of fashion. Hector would have loved it. The march to the grave was appropriately solemn, the grave itself suitably verdant and the requiem dinner afterwards agreeably fine. No gravestone, yet. Enormously expensive, gravestones.
The second time he was buried in the accounts of the Moresby Museum; Argyll sent them a combined bill for transporting di Souza and his antiquities back to Italy and he heard no more of the matter. The beechwood coffin with brass trimmings got lost under the heading of post and packing for unwanted goods and the Mass went down as administrative expenses. All true, in a way, but not exactly poetic.
However sneaky they may have been in the past, the jolt of recent events seemed to reform the museum somewhat. The removal of Langton, and Streeter's decision to develop his consultancy on a more full-time basis lightened Samuel Thanet's universe to such an extent that he became almost obliging. Certainly, as far as Argyll was concerned, the director kept his word; Argyll got a cheque for his cancellation fee and a post-dated contract for the Titian within a fortnight. He and Byrnes came to an arrangement regarding future commissions and thankfully put aside any thought of his returning to England. And, within three months, the cheques for his retainer started arriving with commendable regularity. Not big, by the standards of art dealing, but more than sufficient to live off and have money left over.
There was a problem of accommodation, of course; the housing shortage in Rome has been chronic since the days of the Renaissance popes and there is no sign of that changing before the end of the next millenium. In the end, he lodged with Flavia until he got organised. But the practical solution was largely disingenuous; both were primarily concerned to see what happened. To their mutual amazement, the arrangement worked extraordinarily well and he eventually gave up even the pretence of looking for anything of his own. Domestically speaking, she was a complete pig, having developed not a single housewifely skill in her entire life, but that was OK; Argyll was not exactly houseproud either.
Domestic matters sorted out, Flavia got back to work with a vengeance and a cheery insouciance that made Bottando both relieved at the change and complacent about his original diagnosis of her ill humour. Among more routine matters, she interrogated Collins at the Borghese, took a statement from him about his involvement with Langton, got him to admit burgling Alberghi, picked up the other oddments he'd stolen from his flat, sent them back to their rightful owner - together with a stern recommendation that he look after them this time - and packed the young and foolish man off to California for a little chat with Morelli. For her own part she persuaded Bottando not to bring any charges against him. No point in being vindictive; it just created paperwork and she doubted whether he'd ever do the like again. Not in Italy, anyway; not with a passport stamped like that.
And then it was truffle season, one of the highlights of any thinking person's year. Black ones, white ones, and sported ones. Cut thin and scattered as liberally as you can afford over fresh pasta. Worth travelling several hundred miles for, so you can eat them fresh. And to one restaurant in particular, which is so good that it appears in no guides, no gazettes and is scarcely known to anyone outside the Umbrian hilltown where it has been seducing tastebuds for a generation.
Flavia was even reluctant to tell Argyll where it was, but he got the information out of her eventually, and he decided that it was time to celebrate his return to full mobility by taking her to lunch. And en route, she had the brainwave of what to get him for his birthday. He was thirty-one and beginning to feel his age. It is the time of life
