Death and Restoration (14 page)

“Hard.”

“Staggering. Father Xavier’s idea, you know. To shut the church. But none of us realized she was held in such affection. Anyway, the flowers and baskets of fruit are to woo her back. If it goes on, we’re going to be visited.”

“Who by?”’

“The parish overseer, and our Cardinal supervisor. This could cause trouble for us, you know. We will get criticized for shutting the church, and criticized for encouraging superstition. I know it. Signorina, you know, I’m too old for this.” Flavia looked at his old and lined face, and the slump in his shoulders and couldn’t do anything but agree. Fortunately, it was outside her province, although she thought Bottando would probably give useful, worldly advice. But he was fat and sixty, and could do things like that. She had her work cut out doing her own job, let alone telling other people how to do theirs.

“It’s about keys,” she said, to get the subject back on to more comfortable territory. Then paused for a long while. Father Jean sat patiently, waiting for her to elaborate.

“A man was seen coming out of the door of the church at six-thirty. Somebody on the inside must have opened it. How many keys are there? Who has them?”’

“To the big door? The one on to the street?”’

She nodded.

“There is only one,” Father Jean said.

“Can I see it?”’

“By all means. It hangs on a hook just inside the door.”

“I’d better check it’s there.”

He smiled. “There is no need, although you are more than welcome to do so if you wish. I saw it myself this morning. Have you arrested this man? It may be uncharitable, but if he attacked Father Xavier I will find it very hard to forgive him.”

She grimaced. Evidently no one had yet told them. “I’m afraid that this case is becoming rather complicated,” she said. “Mr Burckhardt was found in the Tiber this morning. He had been shot.”

“Oh, my goodness. The poor soul.”

“Indeed.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what all this is about.”

She looked at him sadly. “You are not the only one, Father, believe me. This is becoming very much more than the theft of a not very important work of art. It’s a nightmare. I hope that Father Xavier will help. Assuming we’re allowed to talk to him tomorrow.”

“You don’t think that he is in any danger?”’

She shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t think anybody was. I was evidently wrong. I’ve had a guard put over him.”

“For some reason, I am not as reassured as I might be.”

“No,” she agreed flatly. “Nor am I.”

“I would like to send one of our more muscular brothers down to sit by him.”

“I’m sure that would be fine. What is it?”’

Father Jean was looking suddenly ill at ease, very much like someone who felt the need to say something but was too delicate to begin.

“Come on, you can’t surprise me. Nothing can surprise me today.”

“I was wondering when we would be seeing the General. I’m sure, of course, that you are more than experienced enough. Please don’t think that. But as General Bottando knows us from the last time … I like to think he and I struck up a rapport, you see, and I was looking forward to seeing him.”

“I’m afraid that’s unlikely,” she said. “I have been put in charge of the case. General Bottando is too—ah—preoccupied at the moment.” She did her best to avoid being irritated, and just about managed. It was, after all, something she was going to have to get used to.

“I am sorry. I mean, I didn’t wish to imply for a moment …”

“I know. But there it is. So if there is anything to say, you’ll have to tell me, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, dear. I don’t wish to seem doubtful. It’s not about you, but simply because I don’t know you, you see.”

Flavia gave him an exasperated look. So much dithering. It was obvious he’d disgorge eventually. Why couldn’t he just get on with it?

“I’m afraid that in the last day or so I have discovered certain things which I find deeply distressing.”

“And which you don’t want anyone else to know about?”’

He nodded sadly.

“I’m quite able to forget something if it is not directly relevant,” she said. “My job is to find a thief and a murderer. Not to spread other people’s dirty laundry around the world.”

He grunted, took a deep breath, then began. Or almost began. A few circumlocutions to warm up first.

“You’ve gathered, perhaps, that Father Xavier and I did not always see eye to eye on many matters?”’

She nodded. “Something like that.”

“Not very long ago, I was effectively the second in command here to the superior general, Father Charles. He was probably the best leader this order ever had. That’s not just loyalty on my part; he kept us going through the rough times of Vatican Two and its aftermath, and had a way of quelling arguments and gently persuading people. It is a rare skill. I’d known him all my life, virtually. He was a few years older than me, and I loved him like a brother. A real brother, you understand.”

She nodded.

“And he got ill. He was old, had a good life and got ill and could no longer discharge his duties. We elected Father Xavier to replace him. You may think it unfair of me, but I think he is a weak man; he has little certainty in his soul, so borrows the appearance of it, if you see what I mean.”

He glanced at her, and she shook her head. Not a clue.

“When he decides to do something he doesn’t feel he is right, in the way that Charles did. He persuades himself, and because he is so doubtful, he presents his ideas with much more dogmatism and fervour than if he was really convinced. When he has an idea, he is determined to stick to it, for fear of revealing his own weakness to himself. He confronts rather than persuades, and angers rather than conciliates.

“He wishes to rebuild the order from top to bottom. He is probably right; we can’t go on like this. Something has to change. But, you see, I hated him, and even though I knew it was wicked of me, I could do nothing about it. He is an easy person to dislike. He was not Father Charles, and his urgency was an implicit criticism of what Charles did. He had replaced the irreplaceable. He was not as wise, or as kind or as saintly.

“So every time he has proposed something, I have found myself opposing it. He wanted to raise money, to build up our teaching in the Third World, and I voted against simply because it was not his place to propose changes to what Father Charles had done. And when he proposed selling some of our possessions, I was the one who led the opposition again, and had the sale voted down. Do you understand what I am saying?”’

Flavia nodded.

“You may think it is simply the silly games of a group of old men, but it is more than this. We have the opportunity of doing good work, and I stopped it. And it ended in disaster.”

“Well, hardly …”

“I see. But I don’t understand …”

“As I’ve been running this place for the past few days, I have had occasion to go through the files. And what I have found shocks me. And concerns me deeply. A moment.”

He got up and walked over to the desk, where he fumbled with a key ring and opened a drawer. “Here,” he said, handing Flavia a thin manila file. “The first letter arrived yesterday morning.”

Flavia opened it and looked at the letter. It was from a firm of stockbrokers in Milan. She frowned as she read. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to her.

“I phoned them, of course, to ask exactly what it meant.”

“So why not tell me?”’

“Xavier always had this notion of being modern; using the techniques and opportunities of the real world—he always called it that—to help us in our work. I fear he was terribly naive about it, and convinced himself that making money was easy. So he used these people—without ever mentioning it to anyone—and, as far as I can see, gambled with what money we had. That’s not the phrase these people use. Exploiting investment opportunities, I believe is how they phrased it.”

“And?”’

“And like an innocent lamb to the slaughter, he has lost us a fortune. I don’t understand the process at all, but I do understand the result. Instead of having a reasonable sum in assets, we now owe these people a quarter of a million dollars. Xavier has gambled the rest away.”

“Which presumably is why he wanted to get on with selling things.”

“I imagine. And I suspect we will have to do so now, barring a miracle. We will have to pay his debts. Our debts. It came as a great shock.”

“I can believe it. How long has this been going on?”’

He shrugged. “More or less from the moment he took over from Charles, I believe. I don’t know. I do very much wish it hadn’t fallen to me to discover this.”

“Why?”’

“Because it confirms my worst fears about him. And I find myself deriving too much satisfaction from being correct. I should now institute proceedings against him as our rule provides, but I doubt my motives too much. And because it is partly my fault. Had I not opposed him so much and so unreasonably, he might not have felt obliged to resort to such measures. I led the opposition. Why? Because I think bringing health care and education to the Third World is a bad idea? Not at all; I am a fervent admirer of Father Paul, and that is his whole existence, and why he is pining away here in Rome when he should be back in his own country doing what he does best. No; it was because Father Xavier was in favour. That was all. You see what I mean? My foolishness made a bad situation worse, until it ended in disaster. I thank the Lord that Xavier was not killed, although I grieve for Signor Burckhardt.”

She nodded. “I see. So what do you do now?”’

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Where do you get money from in a hurry? That is not an area where I have a great deal of experience.”

Flavia stood up and smiled faintly. “Nor me.”

He nodded as she got up to go, and rose to open the door for her.

“Good day so far?”’

Which just showed how sensitive he could be on occasions.

“Hardly.”

Flavia had arrived at Jonathan’s little cubbyhole, taken a chocolate biscuit from the secret hoard, specially imported from England, he kept behind the reference books and then decided she didn’t feel all that hungry.

“Just asking. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? You’ve been looking as cheerful as a funeral ever since you got here.”

“Rough day.”

“Go on. Tell me.”

“Later,” she said brusquely, impatient at his cheerful unconcern for once.

“Please yourself. What are you here for, if not to unburden the troubles of the world?”’

“Why should I be here for anything?”’

“You don’t often turn up for no reason.”

True enough. What was she here for? Reluctantly, she made herself concentrate on the practicalities of the case, and forced its complications into the background.

“You said you might be able to find out something about the icon. Have you?”’

“Not yet. It’s been a busy day.”

“Listen, Jonathan. I don’t have time for your busy days. This is important.”

He frowned. “And it’s police business, not mine. I’ve been working since I got here. You never said it was so very urgent.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Look, what is the matter with you? What did you come here for? Did you just want to snap my head off?”’

“I said I’m sorry. I know you’re busy, but I need to find out about that picture. I’ve been up since five, this man Burckhardt has been murdered …”

“What?”’

“He was shot. There is evidently much more to that picture than we thought. I need to know what. And for obvious reasons it’s becoming pressing.”

Argyll gaped at her in astonishment for a second, then shook himself, got up and walked out of the room. He came back a few moments later with a bearded man in his mid-forties.

“This is Mario di Angelo. He’s the head of the department. Tell him about Burckhardt.”

So she did. Di Angelo’s face registered firstly astonishment, then genuine shock and distress. “And I had dinner with him only a few days ago. Who would have thought?”’ he said, shaking his head sadly. “Poor man. Poor, poor man. A really nice, companionable fellow. Very learned as well. He’ll be badly missed, you know.”

Flavia nodded. “At this dinner, he didn’t mention being in Rome to buy an icon, did he?”’

A shaken head. “No. I assumed that he was here for some such reason, of course. We knew each other as scholars, and never talked about his business.”

“Nothing at all?”’

“No. He said he was going to finish off some research and had this wonderful idea. Such as he told me was quite interesting. All about the theological aspects of icons. Their changing role in the liturgy of the early church. The connection between the uses of icons and the uses of statues to local gods before Christianity.”

“Eh?”’

“You know, ancient Greek cities had their protecting deity, with Athens and Athena, and so on. Christian Greek cities and towns had their own saint or particular representation of Christ or the Virgin or whoever, which also had a protecting role. Now, was this a mere transference of old patterns of worship and belief on to new forms, or was it more complicated than that? Fascinating subject, really. He published a small note in the Journal of Byzantine Studies a year or so ago. He sent me a copy. I’d be happy to let you have it, if it would help.”

He was beginning to get into second gear here, and Flavia had this feeling that he might go on for a long time unless diverted. Not that she didn’t find it interesting, but …

“Thank you. Jonathan? Could you look through this stuff? Try and find out what Burckhardt was after?”’

“Apart from icons?”’

She nodded.

Argyll cocked his head and put his hand to his ear.

“Please?”’ she said.

“My pleasure.”

It was half past four, it had been a long day and it was far from over. Flavia had to see Mrs Verney at six and somehow she felt it wasn’t going to be an easy meeting. At the moment there wasn’t anything urgent to do, and she felt suddenly exhausted again. Once back in her office, she considered doing some paperwork, then the call of the sofa became loud and insistent. She lay down for a few seconds, curled up, and fell fast asleep.

One of those deep, drugged sleeps as well, where you are aware of being all but dead, know you should wake up but can’t do anything about it. And where you wake up sluggish and disoriented, especially if it is sudden and unexpected. Such as when you are brought round by someone shouting loudly and furiously in your ear.

“Go away,” she murmured, wanting nothing in the entire world except to be left alone to sleep some more.

“I will not,” she heard. “I want some answers and I want them damn fast. And as there’s no real policeman here, you’ll have to do.”

She forced open an eye, focused vaguely and after her brain had clanked ineffectually for a few seconds not only recognized Dan Menzies, but even recalled something about him.

Waking herself and pulling herself upright was one of the bravest things she had ever done.

“Now listen …” Menzies said, pointing aggressively at her. She couldn’t even feel annoyed yet. Instead, she waved her hand vaguely and staggered out into the corridor and to the coffee machine where she downed an espresso in a gulp. Then she went and stole one of the strong cigarettes Paolo habitually smoked, lit it, hacked away at the sudden shock to her throat, and felt human again.

“Now,” she said when she got back to her office. “What can I do for you, Mr Menzies?”’

Oddly, she had behaved perfectly. Menzies had worked himself into a fit of indignation before he arrived, but being treated so dismissively by someone who seemed not at all alarmed by his rage threw him off his stride. In truth, Flavia would, in other circumstances, have been a little more sympathetic. She took it for granted that Alberto had found him. It is not pleasant, if you are quietly restoring away, to be hauled off for questioning about a murder. A less volatile person than Menzies might well be annoyed.

He thrust a copy of the latest paper at her, and waggled it under her nose. She dutifully took it and read. It was another attack, containing details of the robbery in San Giovanni and vaguely suggesting that if you let American restorers into your house then naturally you’d expect to find bits of cutlery missing from the cabinet. Bartolo at it again. She’d phoned him to complain about what he was doing, but he had denied all knowledge of it. Lying through his teeth. She half considered dusting off his file to dig out one or two little matters to confront him with. A warning shot to indicate her displeasure. But she didn’t have time. He would have to wait until this was cleared up.

She did wish Bottando was around. He’d been spending his time on the phone and sloping around embassies seeing what, if any, real support there was for this project he’d been put in charge of. Normally he would have dealt with someone like Menzies. One of the aspects of his job she didn’t welcome taking on. Perhaps she should go with him after all. There are advantages to being subordinate.

“Hmm,” she said usefully. What else was she meant to say?

“And what do you imagine will be in there tomorrow, eh? Once you’ve rung them up? They’ll accuse me of murder next. I know it.”

“Well …”

They wouldn’t, of course. All they’d do was link the various bits together. Menzies has a reputation for assaulting people. Menzies sees Burckhardt two days before the murder. Burckhardt dies. No other suspects. Leave it to the reader to decide. Bartolo would make sure all the right people at the Beni Artistici saw it.

Menzies was not impressed. “I’ve spent the last three hours being asked stupid questions. Did I shoot Peter Burckhardt? Good God, it’s disgraceful. What are you going to do about it?”’

She blinked a couple of times and yawned. “What am I meant to do?”’

“Stop it, of course. I tell you, if you don’t …”

“Free press, Mr Menzies,” she said wearily. “I can’t stop anything. You should see what they say about us on occasion.”

“You can stop feeding them the information.”

“Oh, not again …”

“Look,” he said, jabbing his finger at the article. ““Police sources say …” That’s you, isn’t it? How else could they know all these details? They must have come from you.”

“I’m sorry, but …”

“They didn’t come from me, and Father Jean assures me no one in San Giovanni has talked to the press. That leaves you. And I’m telling you to stop.”

“I can assure you as well, if you like. I have not said a word to any journalist, about this or anything else. And I’d be very surprised if anyone else has either.”

“You think they got all this detail by inspired guesswork?”’ he shouted, getting redder in the face and beginning to work himself into his old frenzy again. “Don’t give me that. I’m not a complete fool. I’m going to complain—”’

“To your old friend the ambassador. I know. If you must, you must. I can’t stop you. But it won’t do any good. We never give details of a case to the press if we can help it. And we haven’t in this case either.”

“Who did, then?”’

“I’ve no idea, and frankly, at the moment, I couldn’t care less. I would suggest someone from the carabinieri; they’re talkative, but …”

“There you are then.”

“But,” she continued. “If I remember rightly the first story appeared before the carabinieri had anything to do with the place. So it can’t be them.”

“So what are you going to do?”’

“Nothing,” she said. “You’re on your own, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you very much.”

“What do you expect? The only thing I can do is find out what’s been going on. And to help with that I might as well ask you a few questions, as you’re here. Sit down.”

“I’ll do no such thing …”

“Sit down!” she shouted suddenly, her patience snapping. Menzies, completely taken by surprise, did as he was told.

“Thank you,” she said. Then summoned Giulia from next door.

“What’s she here for?”’

“To take notes. Now, let’s go through this stage by stage, shall we? Why didn’t you mention Burckhardt when we interviewed you the day before.”

He squirmed a little. “Why should I have done?”’

“Icon dealer in a church the day before an icon is stolen? That didn’t strike you as being important?”’

“At the time, no.”

“Why not?”’

“Because I didn’t know who he was.”

Flavia looked scornful. “You beat him up in Toronto.”

“I did not. I simply threw a little water at him.”

“It was still in the glass.”

“I didn’t mean to. I got carried away.”

“Exactly my point. And, no doubt, the point the papers will be making.”

“I saw him for five minutes. And I didn’t remember who he was until later.”

“Come now.”

“It’s true. I don’t know anything about icons or icon dealers. I didn’t know who Burckhardt was. In Toronto, all I knew was that some little squirt in the audience dared to criticize me from a standpoint of total ignorance, and renewed his attack afterwards. Maybe I had had a little too much to drink. But it was such a minor incident, I forgot all about it. I vaguely recognized him in the church. But I only remembered when the carabinieri told me he was dead and showed me a photograph.”

Flavia grunted. There was such a combination of injury, anger and embarrassment coming from the man she doubted anyone could fake such a cocktail. She didn’t necessarily believe him, but there was nothing to be done about it at the moment.

“When Burckhardt appeared in the church, did he walk straight up to you?”’

“I don’t know. I was concentrating. I only noticed him when I heard him behind me.”

“He didn’t look at anything in particular?”’

He shook his head. “I wasn’t paying attention. I think he was down at the far end of the church, by the main door, but I’m not sure.”

“Did he seem in a good mood?”’

Menzies thought. “It’s difficult to say with someone you don’t know. But, yes, he seemed OK. Seemed quite happy.”

“Had you examined the picture? The icon. You were going to clean it.”

“I’d looked it over.”

“And?”’

“And decided it would take longer to clean than it probably merited. As far as I could see it was very old, hadn’t been looked after well and was in terrible condition. It had had woodworm at some stage and had been treated, by immersion. A long time ago. The treatment had put a thick brown coating over the painting so you could barely see it. It would have been phenomenally difficult to get that off without destroying the painting entirely. Some of it had gone anyway. For all my reputation, I don’t believe in doing things unnecessarily or unless I’m sure I can do it safely. In this case I was simply going to clean the surface, treat it again for rot and reinforce it. It would have been something of a risk just taking it out of the frame.”

“Which someone has now done.”

“Hmm? Oh no. I mean the inner frame. There were two. The outer one of gold and silver laid on wood, and an inner supporting frame. The second one was taken as well.”

“Does that surprise you?”’

“Not at all. The outer frame came off easily. The inner one was fixed much more securely. It would have been difficult to remove it, and much safer not to.”

“I see. Now, how did Burckhardt get in? Was the main door open?”’

“No. It never is. He must have come in through the usual entrance.”

“Which means ringing the bell and someone letting him in?”’

“I suppose. Unless he arrived with someone who has a key. Everyone in the place has a key.”

“No one we’ve talked to let him in or heard him ring.”

Menzies shrugged. “Must have pole-vaulted over the wall, then.”

“Thank you, Mr Menzies.” She stood up and showed him to the door before he could begin to move the conversation back to newspapers and journalists. “I may very well need to talk to you again in the next few days. I’ll come and see you at the monastery if need be.”

Surprisingly, he walked out quite meekly, and left her alone. She sighed heavily, shook her head, then glanced at her watch. Her heart sank. Menzies had distracted her from her real business. It was ten to six. Time for Mrs Verney. She was not looking forward to it.

Flavia had persuaded Paolo to pick Mary Verney up from her hotel and bring her in, then had her kept in a small room in the, basement for a couple of hours to meditate on her sins, whatever they were. She did not think Mrs Verney had stolen the picture. She didn’t know what Mrs Verney had done. She merely knew that she had done something, and hoped that a spot of peace and quiet in a dank and airless room would persuade her to explain. Somehow, though, she doubted it.

For all that she was on the verge of panic, Mrs Verney seemed perfectly unconcerned on the surface. She did not relish the idea of jail; she resented the fact that pressure from others had landed her in this position and, above all, she was terrified that unless she delivered the goods, her granddaughter would suffer. And at the moment, she was completely at a loss. The picture had gone, and all she had to show for it was a hefty stash of money found in a left-luggage box. While Flavia wanted the interview to bring some enlightenment, Mrs Verney awaited the conversation with very similar hopes.

Like a good prisoner, though, she sat quietly as Flavia came in and waited for her to begin the questioning.

“Now then, I have to tell you that you are in serious trouble.”

“Really? Why is that?”’

“Let me summarize. Yesterday morning, a painting was stolen from the monastery of San Giovanni on the Aventino. Do you know the building?”’

A smile of the sort that indicated that she thought setting such an easy trap was, well, a bit insulting, really.

“Of course I do. Which painting was stolen? The Caravaggio, or the little icon in the corner? I saw them for the first time some twenty years ago. I lived in Rome briefly and was a very assiduous tourist.”

“The icon.”

“Goodness,” she said, then offered no more.

“Do you know anything about it?”’

“Should I?”’

“I’m asking you.”

“So you are.”

“Are early-morning walks a speciality?”’

Mrs Verney gave a brief twitch of a smile as she spotted the clue she’d been waiting for. She now had a measure of how much the police had found out.

“When I can’t sleep, they are. To be up at six o’clock is a privilege of age. Especially in Rome. And, since that is what you seem to be getting at, yes, I was walking on the Aventino. Do you want the whole story?”’

“What do you think?”’

“As I say, I went for an early-morning walk. And—just by chance—found myself walking past the monastery.”

“Oh, come now,” Flavia said. “You expect me to believe that?”’

“It’s true,” she said with a fine mixture of surprise and indignation at being doubted. “Anyway, I saw a man come down the steps from the church. The door was open, so I thought that maybe they had early-morning services, or something like that.”

“And you felt a burst of piety come over you?”’

“More like nostalgia, I think. As I say, I’d visited the place many years ago, when I was young and fancy-free. And what could be more natural than to revisit it?”’

“What indeed?”’

“So I did. And found this poor man lying on the ground, with blood streaming out of his head. Now, I’m a good citizen, most of the time. I did what I could for the poor soul, then went straight away to phone the police for assistance. How is he, by the way?”’

“He’ll recover, we think.”

“There you are then. And rather than being thanked, here I am being interrogated as some sort of suspect. I must say, I am not happy about it.”

“Dear me. I suppose you can explain why you were so modest about receiving thanks for your considerate act?”’