Death and Restoration (19 page)

The last stage was easier, though not because of the nurses in charge; rather, the priest Father Jean had sent down to watch over the superior came forward and offered his protection; he held very much greater authority than a mere member of the police could ever have.

“Thank you,” Flavia said gratefully when the last nurse had pulled in her fangs and retreated.

“They are very protective, I find,” he said mildly. “And you are the third visitor today. They are concerned he may be tired out too easily.”

“Who else has been?”’

“Father Paul, to see how he is doing. And another man from the police. That is why the nurses were cross, I think. They expect you to coordinate things better …”

“Somebody else from the police …? Who?”’

“I don’t know. A very kind gentleman, very gentle indeed with Father Xavier.”

Flavia’s irritation was growing apace. It must have been one of Alberto’s minions-probably his sidekick called Francesco and she thought she had a clear agreement that questioning the old priest would be her job. Alberto hadn’t even wanted to send anyone. He was quite within his rights to change his mind, of course, but he could have told her in advance. That was only fair.

“Late forties, stout, balding, permanent sweat, slightly smelly?”’ she said, knowing that her description of her colleague would be recognized.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Not at all. He was in his thirties, I’d say. Very well-dressed, but a lot of stubble. But a very assured air about him, you know. Looked unusually chic for a policeman, in my view. But, of course, I’m not Italian myself …”

Flavia handed him a photograph of Mikis Charanis.

“Yes. That’s him.”

Flavia closed her eyes in despair as the details sank in. “When was he here?”’

“About fifteen minutes ago. That’s when he left. He was only here for ten minutes.”

“And have you seen Father Xavier since?”’

“No. I just sat out here …”

Flavia walked quickly to the door, brushed aside the remaining nurse guarding it and walked straight into the room, hoping desperately that her worst nightmares were not about to come true.

Father Xavier peered at her with mild interest from his bed. “Good morning, signorina,” he said, as alive and as well as could be expected in the circumstances. Certainly, he had not acquired a bullet in the brain recently. And for that, Flavia was profoundly grateful. The fact that it was mere luck, that Charanis could quite easily have killed the man had he been minded to do so, did not make her feel any better at all. Damn it, wasn’t Alberto meant to have put a man on the door?

She sat down heavily on the only chair available, and breathed deeply as she recovered herself. No point, she decided, in causing unnecessary alarm, or advertising your incompetence.

“I understand you have just had a visit from a colleague in a rival department,” she said with as much of a smile as she could manage. “I’m with the Art Squad, investigating the theft of your icon. Perhaps you could just tell me what you told him? That way I can stop bothering you.”

“By all means. All he wanted to know was what happened, and where the icon was. Which, alas, I could not tell him.”

Flavia frowned. “He asked you where it was?”’

“Yes.” Father Xavier smiled. “I see you feel that is your job, not his. Not that it matters. I can’t tell either of you. I was in the church, to pray, and that was the last I remember.”

“You didn’t see your attacker?”’

He shook his head. “No. He must have come up from behind.”

“And was the icon in its place? Did you notice it?”’ He shook his head. “I didn’t look. I’m afraid I’m not much of a help to either of you.”

“And you were in the church to pray.”

“Yes.”

“Is that usual? I mean, do you do that often?”’

“I am a priest. Of course.”

“At six in the morning?”’

“When I was a mere novice, signorina, we had to get up at three as well as at five. I like to continue that old way, even though I don’t think it right any more to impose it on anyone else.”

“I see. And while you were praying, did you hear anyone? See anyone? Speak to anyone?”’

“No.”

“Nothing unusual at all?”’

“No.”

Flavia nodded. “Father, it pains me to say so, but I’m afraid you are not only a liar, you are a bad one.”

“Your colleague did not have the effrontery to say so.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But I do, I’m afraid. You were in that church to meet Burckhardt. Even though your order had voted not to sell anything, you decided to go ahead anyway because you were desperate to raise money to cover your losses at your stockbrokers. You rang him, and agreed to meet him at six in the morning. You went to the church, took the key, and unlocked the main door so he could come in. Then you waited for him to turn up. That is perfectly clear; so much so that you needn’t even bother to confirm it. There can be no other explanation.”

She stopped and looked at him, to see whether she had hit home. His total silence convinced her she was absolutely right. It had been perfectly obvious, anyway. She let him stew for a while before continuing with a new idea that had just popped into her head.

“And to avoid trouble with your order, you tried to organize things so that it looked like a robbery. You were the person who left the anonymous tip-off saying there was going to be a theft.

“Now,” she said, before he could waste his breath with a denial, “your relations with your order are not my concern, thank goodness. I don’t have a clue whether you had the right to do it or not. And for the sake of simplicity, I might even be prepared to forget about the way you wasted our time with false reports. I could file a charge on that. But we have more important things at the moment. And I want whatever help you can offer me.”

“Or else?”’

“Or else. That’s right. You note that I do you the credit of assuming that you wanted the money for the good of the order, and not to keep for yourself.”

“Of course not,” he said, almost angrily. “I have spent my entire adult life in it. I would never hurt it. Do you think I want money? For myself? I have never had any and wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway. But the order needed it. There is so much to do, and it costs a fortune. And I have been blocked time and again by that band of recalcitrant, obstructive old fools.”

“Fine. So if you care about your order that much, you had better tell me everything. Otherwise, I will make sure it is embroiled in so much distasteful scandal that they will rue the day they ever let you through their doors.”

She peered at him, to see how this went down. To her alarm, when she craned her head to look at his face, she saw a large tear running down his cheek.

“Come on,” she said softly. “Get it over with. You’ll feel better.”

She stood up and fetched some tissue, then handed them brusquely to him and waited while he dabbed his eyes, pretending not to see just as much as he pretended there was nothing wrong.

“I suppose I have to,” he began eventually. “God knows I have reproached myself enough; I can hardly pretend I have been anything but a stupid old man. About two years ago, soon after I became the head of the order, I received a letter from a company in Milan, making an extraordinary offer. That is, if we gave them the equivalent of a quarter of a million dollars, they would guarantee to double it within five years.”

Flavia nodded absent-mindedly, then paused, thought, and stared at him.

“You didn’t give them it, did you?”’ she asked incredulously.

Father Xavier nodded. “It seemed too good an opportunity. You see, with the money, I would be able to fund the new mission in Africa without disturbing anything else. Even Father Jean would not have been able to disapprove.”

“It didn’t occur to you that there might be something fishy with anyone who offers such a thing? Risky?”’

He shook his head sadly. “They gave absolute guarantees. And said it was an offer they were only making to a few select investors.”

Flavia shook her head sadly. One born every minute.

“Last month I got a letter saying that, due to unforeseen circumstances, the progress of the investment had been slower than anticipated. I made enquiries, of course, and discovered that according to the contract I could not get back even the money that remained.”

“Who knew about this?”’

“No one.”

“You didn’t put it before the council, ask their permission, check with any outside advisors?”’

He shook his head. “No. And before you say it, I know now I was a complete fool.”

“In that case I won’t say it. So, you gave these people a quarter of a million dollars. Exactly how much have they lost?”’

He sighed heavily. “Nearly all. They are reluctant to tell me.”

“I bet they are.”

“And about then I got a letter from Signor Burckhardt, offering to buy the icon. For nearly enough to make good the loss.”

“Good Lord! That’s an absurd amount. Why was he prepared to pay that much?”’

“He said he wanted to make sure we would accept, and didn’t want to waste time in foolish negotiations. Of course, he didn’t bank on Father Jean.”

Flavia thought. What dealer would offer nearly a quarter of a million when there was a reasonable chance it could be had for a fraction of that amount?

Answer, obviously, one who was working to commission. Five per cent of a quarter of a million is more than five per cent of fifty thousand. Burckhardt must have had a client lined up.

“Go on.”

“So we had a meeting to discuss the possibility of selling some of our possessions, and Jean made sure it was turned down flat.”

He paused to see whether this was being heard sympathetically. “I was desperate, you see. I had to get hold of some money.”

“So you decided to sell the thing anyway.”

“Yes. I believe it was within my competence as head of the order. I arranged for him to come to the church to pick it up. He was going to bring the money, take the icon and go. And then, I suppose, I would have reported a burglary.”

“Just a second. What do you mean, he was going to bring the money with him? In cash?”’

“I said I wanted the money. In cash. I’d had enough of being made a fool of.”

It got worse and worse. Flavia by now could barely believe what she was hearing. She had heard of some stupid operations in her time, but this set new standards.

“And then?”’ she asked. “What went wrong?”’

“I don’t know. I went to the church just after six, unlocked the door and took the Virgin off the wall, and put it in a bag. Then I waited. And someone hit me. That’s almost the last I remember.”

“And that was when someone took the Virgin?”’

“No,” he said definitely.

“How do you know?”’

“Because she was still there. I know.”

“How? You were unconscious.”

“She talked to me.”

“What?”’

“I was dying, I know I was. And she saved me through her grace. She came to me and said, “Don’t struggle, don’t worry, it’ll be all right. I’ll make sure.” Such a soft and gentle voice; full of compassion and care. Immediately I felt suffused with a warm glow of peace.”

The old Catholic in Flavia fought a momentary battle with the equally venerable old cynic, and decided to call it a draw. It had made Xavier cooperative; that in itself was truly something of a miracle. That didn’t mean she was prepared to accept that the icon wasn’t stolen by the man who hit him.

“It was a miracle,” Xavier went on. “My skin goes cold just to think of it. I have acted badly, and deserve little favour, yet I am blessed with her forgiveness. Tell me, what are you going to do with me?”’

She shook her head. “I have no idea at all. Fortunately, other people decide that. I merely find out what happened. But you are in big trouble, believe me.”

Flavia walked from the Gemelli to the office; a long walk, right across the centre of town, taking her across the river and through the medieval quarters. By all reasonable standards it was absurd and a waste of time that could be much better spent. Stopping for twenty minutes at a quiet, back-street bar for a coffee and a glass of water was even more foolish. But she reckoned she needed time to think things through.

And besides, she thought she needed a little celebration. Not because of any achievement on her part, certainly. She realized she had come perilously close to having another murder on her hands. But she knew that Charanis had gone into the hospital, talked to Father Xavier and left. It established that Charanis was not only still in Rome, but also, it seemed, did not have the picture. He must have thought Burckhardt had it; then killed him when he refused—or couldn’t—say where it was. And he’s still trying. What makes him think there is any chance of getting hold of it now?

And there was the obvious point that if he didn’t have it, who the hell did? That perhaps was the central problem, and, consequently, one that had to be put aside and forgotten about for a while. Mary Verney was the prime suspect, of course, except for the fact that she was still here.

Flavia sipped her drink, and watched the office workers and occasional tourist who had been lured down the street thinking they were on the way to somewhere, stopping frequently and looking with puzzlement at their maps, turning them upside down and then doing an about turn before heading back the way they came. Know how you feel, she thought as she paid her bill and stood up.

One final detail awaited her on her desk which clinched it. A note from Fostiropoulos, admirably swift. The director of the Athens museum negotiating for Charanis’s pictures was concerned about one picture in particular. A Tintoretto with very dubious origins. Naturally the man hadn’t mentioned it to anyone before because he didn’t want to offend a vastly rich potential donor unfairly, but he was keen to know where it came from.

It took Flavia only twenty minutes to find out. The picture had vanished twenty-six years ago from a castle in Austria. Just like that, no warning, no clues and never seen again. Exactly the style of Mary Verney when she was on top form. One of the ones they hadn’t found out about last year. Got her.

Half an hour later, she had Mary Verney arrested. No politeness, no personal touch this time. Just three large policemen with a car. She told them to bundle her in the back and bring her to a cell in the basement. Don’t talk, don’t say a word. No explanations. Make it seem as grim and intimidating as possible. Frighten the life out of her.