The Bernini Bust (17 page)

Argyll was only halfway through a mental inventory and estimation of the furniture and fittings - an occupational hazard of art dealing that Flavia found profoundly irritating - when Anne Moresby came in. If she was grief-stricken she disguised it well. Nor had trauma softened her vocabulary.

“Bullshit,” she said after Argyll had performed the introductions, explained why his leg was in plaster, and Flavia got things rolling by muttering something about condolences.

“I beg your pardon?” Flavia replied a little taken aback. Seeing through one’s little ploy was one thing; mentioning it quite another.

On the other hand, vocabulary was vocabulary, and Mrs. Moresby looked like proving a rich vein.

“You’re snooping. You have no authority, so I don’t have to tell you anything. In fact I could just throw you out. Right?”

“On the nail,” said Argyll cheerfully. “No fooling you. But we would still be grateful for a brief talk. After all, you were upset about that bust, and so are we. If the museum has been indulging in any illegal activities, we want to know. Then Flavia here can take appropriate action. Against those responsible, if you see what I mean.”

What this speech did, quite neatly to Flavia’s way of thinking as she considered it afterwards, was offer a little alliance. You want to put the knife into the museum - so Argyll implied - why not let us help you? Rather acute, for him.

Mrs. Moresby was no fool. Her eyes narrowed as she thought of it, weighed the pros and cons. Then she gave him a quick and surprisingly charming half-smile and said: ‘Oh, all right. Makes a change from the police. Come and have a drink; then we can talk this over.”

She walked over to the fireplace - what possible function it served in this climate Flavia could not imagine - opened a delicate ivory box and took out a packet of cigarettes; then lit one. Took a deep breath and the pair of them saw a look of extraordinary satisfaction come over her face.

“It’s an ill-wind,” she said. “Do you realise I can now smoke in this house for the first time since I got married twelve years ago?”

“Your husband disapproved?”

“Disapproved? He threatened to divorce me. Even had it written into the marriage contract that any divorce settlement would be void if I was caught smoking in his presence.”

“Just a joke, though,” Argyll suggested.

She gave him a stern look. “Arthur Moresby did not joke. Never. Any more than he forgave, forgot or oozed the milk of human kindness. When the good Lord made him there was a temporary shortage of humour; so he was sent forth with an extra dose of self-righteousness instead. Didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t do anything except accumulate. Used to, of course, but when he stopped enjoying himself he wanted everybody else to do the same.” Here she waved her hand around the room to indicate what she had in mind. She may have had a point. “Do you realise that for the last twelve years I’ve been married to the most boring man ever to walk the face of the earth?”

“Liked art, though.”

She snorted. “You must be kidding. He bought it because he thought that’s what multi-millionaires did.”

“You weren’t keen on his museum project?”

“Damn right I wasn’t. It was all right to start off with, when it was just a straight tax write-off. Then he got the immortality bug and Thanet got his hooks into him.”

“Tax write-off?” Flavia asked. Really, this woman was a walking dictionary of idiom.

“You know, the IRS.”

She shook her head blankly, and Anne Moresby gave her a stupid-foreigner look she rather resented.

“Internal Revenue Service,” she went on. “A sort of Spanish Inquisition redesigned for the consumer society. Trying to put one over on it is a national sport rivalling baseball. Arthur regarded it as a civic duty to try and pay as little tax as possible.”

“What’s the museum got to do with it?”

“Simple. Buy a picture and hang it in your house, and you get no tax relief. Hang it in a museum and you become a public benefactor, entitled to deduct a huge chunk of the price off your income tax.”

“So what changed?”

“The little creep had a heart attack.”

“Who?”

“Arthur. It started him thinking about the future, or lack of it. Arthur’s great weakness was a desire to be remembered. It’s a fault with a lot of egomaniacs, so I’m told. Once upon a time, people built almshouses or had monks say Mass for them. In the US they found museums. I’m not sure which is the more stupid. The more money, the bigger the ego, the larger the museum. Getty, Hammer, Mellon, you name it. Arthur caught the bug.

“He was getting old. Thanet and his crew were beginning to convince him that a small museum was nowhere near enough for a man of his stature. They were touting plans for a museum the size of a football stadium and Arthur was getting hooked.”

“And Thanet knew all about this tax relief scheme?”

“Of course; nothing wrong with it. Not as far as I’ve been able to find out, anyway, and believe me I’ve looked. And even if there was, that slimy ball of fat would do anything to keep on Arthur’s right side.”

“When I met you briefly before the party you described your husband as a sweet old man,” Argyll reminded her. “That doesn’t fit too well with all this.”

“So, sometimes I exaggerate, for appearances’ sake. He was a mean old bastard. Please don’t get me wrong; I’m sorry he’s dead. But I can’t deny that life will be much more pleasant without him. And that goes for everyone who worked for him or was related to him. Not just me.”

“So what happens to the museum now? I mean, if I understand rightly, your husband died before transferring most of his money to the museum trust and you inherit the entire estate.”

She gave a stiff little smile. It seemed pretty obvious what was going to happen to the museum, if she had her way.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but if the transfer had gone ahead, you wouldn’t have been left penniless, would you? Not like your stepson.”

Anne Moresby seemed to think this a bizarre question, one which she had never considered before.

“No, not penniless,” she replied reflectively. “No, not at all. I gather that I would have inherited the residue of the estate. About five hundred million.”

“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.”

“Hmm. So, what’s the line? Ooh. How nice. More oysters.”

Morelli leant back in his chair, wiped his mouth daintily with his napkin and reeled off his reasoning. And very good it was too, to Flavia’s way of thinking. Motive was simple; Moresby probably knew his wife was having an affair, and was not the sort of person to take that lying down. He’d got through five wives already, and could easily go on to number six. Combined with setting up the trust for the museum, Anne Moresby’s financial future was crumbling before her very eyes.