Death and Restoration (10 page)

“Father Paul …”

“Is, as you may have noticed, from Africa. And a very fine young man. The Third World is the only place we get vocations now. Unless we do something, I wouldn’t be at all surprised … still, this is not what you want to ask me about.”

“I suppose not. Tell me about Father Xavier. Is he popular? Well-liked?”’

Father Jean hesitated. “I’m not so sure what you’re asking.”

“Does he have enemies?”’

“You mean …?”’ The old man looked pale with horror as it dawned on him what Flavia was asking. “Surely, he was trying to prevent a burglary. This was nothing to do with him personally.”

“We do have to cover all options. Of course, it was almost certainly a burglary. But please answer the question anyway.”

“This is terribly distressing, in the circumstances.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Father Jean nodded and sighed heavily. “I suppose I must. As far as I know he has no family; none close, anyway. And virtually no friends, inside or outside the order.”

“Enemies?”’

“He is not a popular leader, and has been controversial ever since he took over, although it would have been difficult for anyone to fill the shoes of Father Charles.”

“In what way, controversial?”’

“We are at a difficult stage,” he began eventually, after a long search for the best way to phrase it. “And Father Xavier was the man forced to confront that. I am convinced he was on entirely the wrong track, but I suppose I must give him credit for trying. Many others would merely have swept all our problems under the carpet, and left them until they became too difficult to solve.”

“What precisely?”’

“We have to decide what we are for, if you see what I mean. It is no longer enough to pray, and other people, it seems, can do good works better than us. So what are we doing? We have some money and we have good people. Are we doing God’s work with either?”’

“Some of you wanted to give it away?”’

“Oh, no. Hardly that.” Father Jean permitted himself a faint, ironic smile. “It was more a question of how best to use what we had. And for some of us, how to get more. For the best possible reasons, of course.”

“Of course.”

“The church as a whole is in a certain amount of turmoil; you may have noticed. And being the church, it goes on for a long time. We think in centuries, so a convulsion lasting fifty years is a mere nothing. But that essentially is the problem. Do we guard the old ways or alter completely our approach? Do we try to change the world, or allow the world to change us? That is the basic problem facing all traditional religions, it seems.”

Flavia nodded. “I still don’t see …”

“We have no new vocations,” Father Jean continued. “Except from the Third World, as I said. Thirty priests under the age of thirty-five, and all but five come from Africa or South America. Yet all our officers are Italian or French—mainly French—most are over sixty, our headquarters are in Rome and most of our expenditure is in Europe. A significant number want to recognize the changes; an equally significant number want to keep things as they are. That, if you like, is the problem in a nutshell. The debate has caused much bitterness in our ranks.”

“What were Father Xavier’s proposals?”’

“They don’t have much relevance …”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Father Xavier, and those who supported him, wanted to rebuild us into an aid and teaching order. Raise money, and pour it all into development and missionary projects in Africa. And to raise money, he wanted to sell off assets. I was totally opposed to the scheme but was not certain that my views would prevail.”

“I see. And which assets are we talking about here? Wouldn’t be the Caravaggio, would it?”’

“Unfortunately, it would. Although that was only a start. We had a meeting to discuss the principle a few days ago. Fortunately the proposal was defeated.”

“Meaning what?”’

“Meaning that we decided as a body to refuse permission for anything to be sold at all.”

“Are you short of money?”’

“I don’t know. We are not a rich order, but two years ago, when I was in a position to know such things, we were not desperately poor.”

“Was this proposal caused by any offers? Had someone said they wanted to buy the Caravaggio?”’

“Not that I am aware of, no.”

There was a pause, as Father Jean realized that perhaps he had allowed the outside world too much of an insight into private business.

“So who runs things now?”’

“Until such time as the situation becomes clear—whether Xavier will be returning to his post or not—then we are in limbo. And, as far as I understand it, the most senior available member takes charge.”

“You?”’

He nodded. “It is a burden I do not wish to fall on my aged shoulders. But I have given my life to this order and now, in the time of its crisis, is not the moment to shirk my responsibilities.”

Flavia nodded. He wouldn’t have much trouble becoming a politician, she thought. He already speaks like one. And she thought she saw the bright glint of opportunity in his eye. “OK. Let’s leave that. What were your movements last night and this morning?”’

Father Jean said he had had an unexceptional evening. He had worked in the library until six, attended the evening service, had dinner, read for an hour, gone to chapel again then gone to bed at ten.

“In the morning I got up, attended chapel, spent an hour in prayer, ate and began work at seven. I stayed in the library until Father Paul came to say that there had been a terrible tragedy.”

“You sleep well?”’

He shrugged. “Well enough, I think. I need little sleep; we old men don’t, you know. I normally wake at about three and read.”

“And you did that last night?”’

“Yes.”

“What were you reading?”’

Father Jean looked a little sheepish. “Adventure stories,” he said. Flavia kept a straight face. “They are very entertaining, in the small hours. My nephew sends me them. Then I pass them on to all the other people here. We read them avidly.”

“Is that … ah …?”’ Flavia knew she shouldn’t ask, but the vision of this community of old priests, up late at night reading varieties of bodice-rippers was too irresistible to let go.

“Allowed?”’ Father Jean asked with a smile. “You think we should spend all our time reading St John of the Cross or a light Vatican encyclical? Oh, yes. It used not to be permitted, of course, but we are now allowed to keep in touch with the outside world. Even encouraged, as long as it doesn’t go too far.”

“Yes. Right.” Flavia paused a while to remember what line she had been pursuing before this unlikely diversion had cropped up. “Now,” she continued, when it came back to her. “Where is your, ah, cell? Is that what you call them?”’

“It faces the main courtyard. Opposite the church. Where I would have been in a good position to hear any shouting or screaming had any occurred.”

“And it didn’t?”’

He shook his head. “Nothing. And as I’m such a light sleeper, I feel certain I would have heard anything at all during the night. A bird singing is often enough to wake me up.”

Flavia paused. Why was it that she did not believe him? He was sitting quietly, hands folded in his lap as though he was attending a long church service. There was nothing suspicious or hesitant about him at all, and yet she knew, as sure as anything, that at the very least he was concealing something.

“Tell me, Father, how did Mr Menzies get the commission to clean the paintings?”’

“He didn’t,” the old man replied. “He offered. We weren’t paying him. That was the only reason we accepted.”

“He was working for nothing?”’

“Yes. I believe there was a grant from some American charity. We had to pay only the expenses, although that amounted to a substantial sum.”

“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”’

“I suppose. He said he wanted to clean the pictures and was prepared to do it for nothing. Who were we to question his generosity?”’

Flavia thanked him, and let him go, then turned to Alberto. “Well?”’

“What?”’

“You have a look on your face. Crazed monks beating each other’s heads in.”

“No, I don’t,” he protested lazily, wondering whether you were allowed to smoke in monasteries. “I’m just sitting here quietly taking it all in, that’s all. I never prejudge things, not even when priests are concerned. My look of scepticism was merely to indicate my feeling that we aren’t getting anywhere. That’s all.”

“Oh. That’s all right, then. Shall we see Signora Graziani next? And stop for lunch?”’

Alberto agreed that an early lunch was by far the most professional way of proceeding. Signora Graziani was ushered in and sat down nervously. Flavia looked at her with satisfaction. No likelihood that this one would keep anything back, she thought. And as she discovered the attack, had a key and also seemed to have something of an obsession with the icon, she had a certain amount of convincing to do.

She said that she had arrived and was just beginning to clean the church as usual when she saw Father Xavier. And screamed. There wasn’t much else to add, really. She lapsed readily back into a shocked silence.

So Flavia established that she had been at home until leaving for the church, saw and heard nothing suspicious. Her daughter and granddaughter, who lived with her ever since that beast of a husband had left the poor dears destitute by running off with some floozy—may God forgive him, although she, Signora Graziani, wasn’t going to—would vouch for that.

“You must remember, signora, that anything which can help might be of enormous importance here.”

But she shook her head. She’d come into the church, collected her bucket of water and cleaning equipment, and walked down the aisle to close the main door when she saw …

“To close the what?”’

The main door, she said, which was slightly ajar. Surely they must have noticed that it was unlocked? She’d closed it and locked it just before she noticed …

“Jesus,” Flavia swore under her breath.

“Fine, great,” she said hurriedly. “I think that will do. Thank you so much, signora.”

“Is there anything else?”’ asked Alberto, speaking for almost the first time. “I believe there is. What is it, signora? Do you know who attacked him or something?”’

She nodded again. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

There was a slight clunk as the front two legs of his chair came back to earth, and he leant forward on the table.

“Well?”’

“She did,” Signora Graziani said. Alberto, who thought for a moment the woman was referring to Flavia, looked surprised.

“What?”’

“My Lady. She did.”

“Ah …”

“She is as harsh in her punishments of sin as she is gracious and forgiving with those who make amends. The Father was wicked, and turned from her. So he was punished.”

“Well …”

“He stopped her receiving supplicants, and took her away from the people who loved her. And he was going to hurt her.”

“Just a minute,” Flavia said, suddenly realizing what the woman was talking about. “Do you mean that painting?”’

Signora Graziani looked puzzled for a moment. “Of course,” she said simply.

“And you think Father Xavier was attacked by a painting?”’

“My Lady,” she corrected gravely, “punished him. A priest without belief is no man of God.”

“Yes. Right. Thank you very much,” Alberto said. “That’s very illuminating. So kind of you to spare the time to talk to us.”

“Will you want a statement?”’ she asked placidly.

“Not just yet, I think. Maybe in a day or so,” he replied, holding open the door.

Signora Graziani bowed slightly as she left. “You don’t believe me,” she said. “But you’ll see I’m right.”

“Damnation,” he said when he’d shut the door on her. “I thought for a moment …”

Flavia laughed. “You should have seen the look on your face when you realized what she was talking about.”

He snorted. “I suppose we’d better check that door. Quite a big thing to have missed, don’t you think?”’

She nodded. “I imagine she will have wiped any fingerprints off, mind you.”

“Probably. But we do have the problem of finding out who unlocked it in the first place.”

Argyll’s lecture, a moronically simple canter through the more ostentatious church commissions of the seventeenth century, had gone tolerably well, so he thought. That is to say, there had been forty people in the room when he started, and still more than twenty when he’d ended. Such wastage would have alarmed him, but his head of department assured him that it was pretty good, considering. Considering what? he’d asked. Considering that it was a morning lecture, was the reply. Not early risers, these people. As they, or their parents, were paying a fortune, they generally imagined that lectures should be scheduled for their convenience. Just as they seemed to think that the level of grade should vary in direct proportion to the size of the fees.

“And,” this wiseacre continued. “You didn’t show many pictures. Risky. They like looking at pictures. You don’t show pictures, they’ve not got anything to do. Except listen, and think. And lectures. Dear me. A bit authoritarian, you know? Don’t you think a group interaction module might be better?”’

“What’s that?”’

“It’s where you break down hierarchy. They teach themselves.”

“But they don’t know anything,” Argyll protested. “How can you teach yourself if you don’t know anything to start off with?”’

“Ah. You’ve spotted the snag. However, that one is easily solved. You are confusing knowledge with creativity. You are meant to be encouraging their self-expression. Not stifling it by the imposition of factualities over which you deny them control.”

“Factualities?”’

The other man sighed. “I’m afraid so. Don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault.”

“I don’t have to do that, do I?”’ asked a newly anxious Argyll.

“I exaggerate greatly. Just for the pleasure of watching the blood drain from your head. But you do have to watch it. Do you want to have lunch?”’ he asked. Amazing how a bit of idle chat can make some people friendly. The man had scarcely talked to him before, although as almost no one in the entire department had acknowledged his existence as yet this hardly marked him out.