The Bernini Bust by Iain Pears

them replaced; they don’t patch the holes with old newspaper. When a tile falls off the roof they replace it, rather than leaving the rare downpour of rain to come in. Millionaires have gardens, complete with gardeners, Jack Moresby’s equivalent bore more than a passing resemblance to the depot where Argyll had hired his car. Nor, in general, do millionaires sprawl on the floor of the little deck at the back, smoking a cigarette with a most unusual aroma, drinking from a half-empty bottle.
    Moresby regarded him passively as he approached, then ha. waved a hand in casual and unenthusiastic greeting.
    “Hey,” he said, a term Argyll had learnt was the local, all-purpose way of indicating hello, goodbye, surprise, alarm, warning, interest, lack of interest, and do you want something to drink. The American looked at a seat by his side, pushed an old and mangy dog off and gestured for him to sit. Argyll eyed the clumps of dog hair warily, then reluctantly eased himself down.
    “Come to commiserate about the old man, I suppose,” he said absently, squinting up at the weak sun through the clouds.
    “When did you hear?”
    “Langton phoned me last night. And everything else I picked up from the police when they woke me up at dawn to ask me to account for my movements. I suppose it would be far too much to expect my stepmother to come a whole twenty miles to pass on the news. Too busy celebrating, I guess. What d’you want?”
    A good question. Pertinent and to the point. The trouble was Argyll didn’t really know. After all, he could hardly say he wanted to dig something up about the bust so he could get back into more amicable contact with Flavia. Wouldn’t sound right. Heartless, in fact. Besides, initial questioning made it clear that Moresby knew nothing about the Bernini - or any bust, for that matter. Nor did it seem appropriate to enquire why Jack Moresby couldn’t be bothered to drive the few miles back to the museum himself to find out what was going on. All families have their ways of going about things.
    “I thought you might want company,” he said rather lamely. “You struck me as being the only tolerably sane and normal person involved with the museum.”
    It provided no reason at all, but it seemed to do. Moresby gave him an odd look, but it seemed more prompted by surprise that anybody could act humanely than suspicion at his motives. He proffered the bottle by way of welcome. Bourbon was the last thing Argyll wanted at that time of day, but he felt it was uncivil to refuse. He took a long suck and, while he was getting his voice back, and trying to stop his eyes watering, Moresby rambled on about his old man.
    They were not close, Argyll divined. It appeared that old Moresby had cut the aspiring author out of his will a year or so ago - depriving someone of a couple of billion dollars does sometimes make relations a little frosty.
    “Why did he do that?”
    “Let’s just say he had a really weird sense of humour. He wanted me to follow him and make more money. I reckoned he’d made enough already. So he said that if money was so unimportant to me, he’d leave all of his to someone who appreciated it more.”
    “Like his wife?”
    “She adores the stuff.”
    “And the museum?”
    “A virtual money sink.”
    “And this was meant to make you mend your ways?”
    “I guess. But, here I am, penniless. Likely to stay that way, as well. Too late to change his mind now.”
    “But he didn’t really cut you out, did he?”
    “Not specifically, no. Just didn’t leave me anything. Same thing. “To my dear son I leave my very best wishes.” Or some such. No one can accuse him of inconsistency.”
    “I suppose that’s lucky, in a way,” Argyll commented.
    “Why’s that?”
    “Well, the police are looking for whoever killed him. You had a perfect motive for keeping him alive.”
    “Yup. And an alibi, too, as Langton phoned me after the body was found and I was here.”
    Argyll did some quick