‘How come your English is so good, Juan?’ Beth asked.
‘My mother married a Welshman, and he lost the toss. However, he still thinks the only saint is David, the only flower a daffodil, and the only game rugby.’
Beth smiled, and asked innocently, ‘If Ross does turn up in time for your meeting in the morning, does that mean William will be going back to Barcelona?’
‘What makes you think I’ve ever been to Barcelona?’ said William, grinning.
‘A plane ticket was the first clue, even more pesetas were the second, and Juan coming to stay with us finally clinched it.’
‘Ignore her,’ said William in a stage whisper.
‘If you don’t feel able to answer my question,’ said Beth, pouring her guest another glass of wine, ‘perhaps I can ask you, Juan, if you’ve actually seen Fishers of Men.’
‘A planted question,’ interrupted William. ‘Trying to draw you in without admitting how little she actually knows. Just ignore her, and she’ll eventually give up.’
‘Yes, I have seen it,’ admitted Juan. ‘But, sadly, I was distracted, and didn’t have much time to appreciate it.’
‘Distracted by its would-be owner, perhaps?’ asked Beth, still fishing.
Both men were silenced for a moment, until William said, ‘Let’s just say that Faulkner had even less chance to appreciate it than Juan. And, sadly, I doubt if any of us will ever set eyes on it again.’
‘Unless, of course, you two resourceful gentlemen manage to arrest Faulkner and put him back behind bars where he belongs. In which case, with the help of my close friend Christina, the Fitzmolean may yet get its hands on the masterpiece, and you’ll be able to return and admire it without fear of being interrupted.’ Neither Juan nor William responded, but Beth didn’t give up. ‘Which would at least make up for you two preventing the museum from being able to borrow Frans Hals’ The Flute Player, which I suspect was in the same house.’
‘Clever woman, your wife,’ was Juan’s only comment.
‘You don’t know the half,’ said William. ‘Just wait until breakfast tomorrow, when you’ll meet Artemisia.’
? ? ?
Just as William was heading upstairs to bed, the phone rang. He picked it up to hear James Buchanan’s unmistakable Boston accent on the other end of the line.
‘I took your advice, sir,’ he said, not wasting a word, ‘and reported my findings to the headmaster, who promised me he would look into the matter.’
‘And did he?’ asked William.
‘He can’t have done,’ said James, ‘because my friend has a study on the same corridor as me, at Harvard.’
‘You will, no doubt, have come up with a convincing explanation for why he ignored your findings.’
‘Yes, but it’s only circumstantial, and wouldn’t stand up in court.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said William.
‘One of my class, who should have sailed into Harvard, failed spectacularly.’
‘That’s not proof, unless he’ll admit his involvement to the headmaster, with at least two witnesses present.’
‘My friend’s father was chairman of Choate’s fundraising committee, and they had a record year.’
‘Still not proof, but adds to motive.’
‘He was also at Choate and Harvard at the same time as the headmaster.’
‘So were several other people, I suspect,’ said William, dismissively.
‘You’re sounding like my headmaster,’ said James, ‘who, when I finally asked him what decision he’d made simply said, “There was absolutely no solid evidence to back up your accusations, Buchanan.”’
‘And he’s right,’ said William wryly, ‘though I’ll be fascinated to know where your friend ends up.’
‘In prison along with your friend probably,’ said James.
‘While you’ve learnt the importance of gathering irrefutable evidence before you even consider presenting your case. A lesson that will stand you in good stead if you still want to be the Director of the FBI rather than chairman of the Pilgrim Line.’
‘My father’s now chairman of the company,’ said James, who paused before adding, ‘but he’s not my grandfather.’
After William had put the phone down, he thought about that sentence for some time.
? ? ?
Ross was already seated in his place, head buried in the New York Times, when Mr and Mrs Pugh entered the dining room and were shown to their usual table by an attentive ma?tre d’。 Pugh was still spluttering angrily to his wife about what had taken place at the bank that morning while she appeared to listen sympathetically. Ross couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t mention the fact that his credit card had been rejected when he tried to buy two boxes of Montecristo cigars.