The Raphael Affair (11 page)

Janet glanced at it, looked noncommittally puzzled, and passed it to Bottando. He was equally blank. Then Flavia detected vague stirrings of unease, and a sudden realisation. ‘Ah,’ he said as he handed it back. Very quick on the uptake, really, she thought.

‘I don’t mean to be inquisitive…?’ Janet said.

Bottando looked flustered. ‘Indeed not,’ he said. ‘But this must be kept very quiet. The slightest hint could wreak havoc on the market.’

Flavia was again impressed. She’d had the entire walk to the restaurant to work out the implications of the discovery; Bottando had had only a few seconds and he instantly saw the problems and pitfalls. Especially the impact on the art market if the slightest breath slipped out.

‘Of course, of course,’ replied Janet. ‘But what is it, exactly, that I’m not meant to hint about?’

Flavia handed him back the notebook. ‘These sketches,’ she said casually, ‘would appear to bear a remarkably strong resemblance to the portrait of Elisabetta di Laguna in Rome. By Raphael. Or perhaps we’d better begin to say,
attributed
to Raphael.’

Janet looked again, then nodded. ‘I suppose they do. But so what? Every artist in the western world has probably made sketches of it.’

‘Before last May? Before the painting had been uncovered and before anyone could possibly have known what it looked like?’

Janet leaned back in his seat, and a broad smile slowly spread across his face. ‘How splendid,’ he commented eventually. ‘How delightful,’ he said after further thought. ‘How very awkward for you,’ he added apologetically as an afterthought.

‘When you’ve stopped enjoying yourself,’ Bottando said severely, ‘you’ll begin to see why it’s important you keep very quiet. No gossip back in the office. Not a word. Not even to your wife. Or anybody.’

‘Oh, quite. Quite. But please, I beg you. Clear this one up quickly. Every day without telling someone will be a day wasted. And, of course,’ he added, with some
attempt to return to professionalism, ‘any help you need of me, just let me know.

‘Oh dear,’ he said, his face cracking with pleasure once more, ‘I wish I could be there when you tell that awful man Tommaso.’

‘Everybody says that,’ said Bottando gloomily. ‘But I’m the one who is going to have to face him. I may not survive the blast.’

The meal ended shortly after that, Janet heading back for France in good humour and with a promise to send on the log when he’d got it out of the Swiss. Bottando’s spirits were considerably lower. Before they boarded the plane that was to fly them home from Zurich to Rome at four o’clock that afternoon, he phoned the museum and asked to speak to the director. He was in a meeting, and a secretary, clearly briefed to deflect all unforeseen calls, declined to bring him to the phone, even though Bottando insisted that it was an important matter and police business.

Bottando gave up the struggle. He’d have to go to the party after all, and catch him there. The worst of both worlds, he thought morosely.

8

Once he arrived at the museum in the Borghese gardens, Bottando handed in his coat and made his way along to the ground-floor gallery where the reception was taking place. It was a big affair, well under way by the time he got there, and the main sculpture gallery had been thrown open to accommodate the dozens of guests. He took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, noting that, as usual, Tommaso was deploying what he always claimed were scarce museum funds in a lavish fashion.

‘Not at all,’ replied a museum member who had zeroed in on the same tray of drinks and to whom Bottando made this somewhat cynical comment. ‘Tommaso calls it investment. He has a point, in fact. This bash is in honour of those gentlemen over there.’ He pointed towards a group of half a dozen men leaning on a large statue.

‘Doesn’t anyone mind them using a Canova as a drinks trolley?’ enquired Bottando. He looked at the group closely. They had all just come in to the room
with the director, and were standing around one of the giant statues in the middle of the gallery. All wore light-grey suits, blue shirts and striped ties. They were talking intensely, and Bottando suspected they were not discussing the artistic beauties which lay all around them.

‘Certainly not. You see, they’re American businessmen who are hoping to win a government defence contract.’ The man made an expansive gesture which was meant to give an impression of gigantic wealth and the machinations that go along with it. It was a broad sweep of the arm, not very well co-ordinated. Bottando decided he’d been drinking.

‘And what better way of creating the right impression than making a large donation to the national museum,’ Bottando finished for him. The young man, in his thirties with an open countenance that was currently shaded by alcoholic distress, nodded firmly.

‘Exactly. Their big white chief is currently locked in discussion with Tommaso in his office. To be followed, no doubt, by a large cheque which will cover the cost of the party and leave a considerable amount over to deal with the abominable electrical circuits in this run-down old dump. Clever, eh?’

Bottando turned towards him. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I think that you’re the first person in this place who’s ever said a positive word about Tommaso.’

The man’s face clouded. ‘Giulio Manzoni, by the way,’ he offered, holding out a hand which Bottando briefly shook. ‘Deputy restorer. I admit he’s not liked. But he’s really not as bad as he seems. And this place needed an awful good shake to knock some of the dust out. Not
that my relatively favourable opinion will do me much good, alas.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You weren’t here earlier? Evidently not. He’s gone and resigned. Said he’s decided to take early retirement and go to live in his house in Tuscany. A bit of a shock, all things considered. As you no doubt know, everything in this place is done through patronage. My job, for instance, came through the assistance of Enrico Spello and I’m seen very much as his protégé.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Bottando enquired, a little taken aback by the news. ‘I mean, Spello is next in line.’

The restorer shook his head matter of factly. ‘Not any more, he isn’t. Because Tommaso at the same time appointed Ferraro as his successor and official deputy.’

‘Goodness,’ said Bottando mildly as he considered the implications. ‘I thought he couldn’t stand Ferraro. What prompted this?’

‘Perhaps he’s sick of being disliked. Maybe he’s human after all. Besides, he’s gigantically rich, so why crack your head working? He does dislike Ferraro, but evidently he dislikes Spello more. You can never tell with him; it’s difficult to penetrate the façade. Besides, the only way people will look on his passing with regret is to make sure his successor is even more unpleasant than he is. You see why I’m heading for my fifth drink of the evening?’

Bottando nodded sagely. ‘I think so,’ he replied.

‘You think so? Well, let me show you, so there’s no mistake.’ Manzoni leant forward and poked Bottando in the chest. ‘Ferraro is a little rat, right? Spello will be his main rival. So he wants to chop Spello down
to size, whittle away at his support. He can’t attack Spello himself, as he’s got tenure. So how will he get at him? Through me, that’s how.’ He now poked himself on the chest to emphasise the point, then turned and gesticulated at the new deputy director, coming through the tall oak doors on the far side of the room.

‘Look at him. He has the air of triumph on his face, don’t you think? A man who has just conquered all. An air of vulgar triumph.’

‘Are you sure the appointment will go through? After all, it’s not in Tommaso’s personal gift.’ So far, Bottando was finding the conversation decidedly upsetting. He had, on the whole, relatively few dealings with the museum. Although he never felt entirely comfortable with Tommaso, the two had at least worked out a
modus vivendi
so that life did not become too onerous. He doubted that Ferraro would be quite so easy.

Manzoni nodded, his aggressive mood swiftly fading into one of lugubrious resignation. ‘A few months back the succession would have been close. Spello would have been the inside candidate; the reconciler, someone everybody could work with. Then, of course, Tommaso pulls off his
coup de théâtre
with that Raphael and everyone in government thinks he’s the greatest thing since sliced salami. Whoever he supports will walk it now.’

The restorer looked extremely upset, and stared at his again empty glass. Then, without a further word, he shambled off in the direction of the drinks trolley. Bottando breathed a sigh of relief; sympathetic though he felt, he had other things to worry about at the moment.

But Tommaso wasn’t around; that he realised as he surveyed the room in search of him. In one corner he saw Spello, and could tell by the man’s slightly stooped shoulders that he was feeling very disappointed, and probably angry as well. He sympathised, but wasn’t in the mood to listen to another outburst of indignation, no matter how justifiable. In another corner he spotted Jonathan Argyll and Sir Edward Byrnes. He was momentarily surprised that either should be there, and that such an evidently amiable conversation could take place, but then remembered Flavia mentioning Argyll’s fellowship. There is nothing like a little money to soothe the passions. They, at least, seemed in a good mood, but he felt disinclined to talk to anyone even remotely connected with that Raphael. So, he spent the next ten minutes being talked at by some connoisseur and critic, while mainly keeping his eyes open, waiting for Tommaso’s reappearance.

Eventually the door swung open, revealing a cameo of Tommaso shaking hands with the senior American and evidently bidding him farewell. The gracious look on his face suggested he’d got his cheque. Bottando waited for the right moment to go up and ruin his evening. He didn’t want another public explosion on his hands.

He was staring idly around him, uncertain about what to do, and the indecision lost him his chance to catch the director on his own and escape home early. Ferraro had also materialised at the doorway and had engaged the man in an earnest conversation. Even at a distance of many metres, Bottando could see the expression of benign good humour drain out of the director’s face
like water out of an unplugged bath. It would be an exaggeration to say that he turned green, but a sickly shade of off-white was well within the bounds of accuracy. Ferraro, in contrast, looked in control of himself but decidedly grim.

He was spared the trouble of having to go over and find out what was so evidently distressing to both men. Tommaso walked swiftly over to him, the air of effortless grace still present in his every step despite the look of concern on his face. Perhaps he hadn’t got the money after all?

‘General. I’m glad to see you,’ he said shortly, missing out, for once, the elaborate courtesies he habitually employed. ‘Could you come with me, please. I’ve just had a piece of shocking news.’

The director set off at a fast clip through the museum, along the entrance hall and up the stairs. Bottando puffed along to keep up. ‘What is the matter?’ he asked, but got no reply. Tommaso looked as though he had just seen a ghost. Ferraro was unusually silent as well.

There was no need for complex explanations. As they opened the door and went into one of the smaller galleries on the second floor, it was immediately clear what the matter was.

‘Mother of God,’ said Bottando quietly.

The frame of the Raphael was still there, badly charred in its upper parts, but nobody could ever have suspected that the few blackened threads and dark congealed liquid that hung loosely from it had been, until very recently, the most expensive and treasured painting in the world.

Four or five square inches of the bottom right-hand side, Bottando estimated, had been untouched by the fire, which had reduced the rest of the canvas to charred rubbish. The smell of burning oil, wood, and material, still hung in the air, and wisps of smoke rose from the few pieces of cloth that had not been entirely consumed. Above the picture, the wallpaper was badly charred, and had evidently come close to catching fire as well. Bottando found time to be thankful the museum had not decorated the room with padded silk, as they occasionally did. If they had, the whole building would have been ablaze by now.

None of the three said anything at all, but simply looked. Bottando saw very grave difficulties, Tommaso the ruin of his reputation, Ferraro the end of his ambitions. ‘No,’ said Tommaso, and that was all. For the first time, Bottando felt sorry for the man.

Memory of his occupation reasserted itself. ‘Who found it?’ he asked quietly.

‘I did,’ said Ferraro. ‘Just now. I came back down immediately to tell the director and found him by the door.’

‘What were you doing in here?’

‘I was going up to my office to get a packet of cigarettes. And I saw smoke coming from under the door. I knew something was wrong the moment I smelt it.’

‘Why?’

‘No fire alarm. It’s very sensitive. We turned it off for the rooms where the party was being held, but it should have been on for every other room.’

Bottando grunted and looked around. It required no
great genius to see what had happened. He crouched down by an aerosol tin on the floor, not touching it. Engine starter. Highgrade petrol you squirt into carburettors to start the car on cold days. Spray the picture, push a lit match against it, leave and shut the door behind you. The fuel lit up the dry but still inflammable paint on the canvas, and the whole thing was burnt away within minutes. He looked at the picture once more. Someone right-handed, he guessed. He seemed to have sprayed in an arc from bottom left to top right. Hence the relative lack of damage in the bottom right-hand corner. He lightly and cautiously touched the remains hanging in the frame. Still warm.

He sighed, and turned to Ferraro.

‘Close this door and put a guard on it. Go downstairs, tell them the party’s over but no one is to leave. Don’t say what’s happened. We’ve enough to do at the moment without worrying about the press. I will phone for reinforcements. Perhaps we can use your office, director?’