Death and Restoration (3 page)

“But she’s on the loose? A bit unwise, that, don’t you think?”’

“Unexpected. She’s not so young any more, and I was pretty sure she’d retired. She’s no spring chicken, you know. And hardly needs the money.”

Bottando nodded. For some reason Flavia got the idea he was only half listening.

“But here she is,” he observed. “You want to bring her in?”’

Flavia shook her head. “No. It may be a completely innocent visit, and it would be a waste of time. I don’t want to start anything official unless we have to explain our interest. But I don’t like her being in Rome. I thought it would be a good idea to let her know that we are aware she’s here. I’ll have her for a drink. It would accomplish the same thing. She’s staying in the Borgognoni hotel. With your permission, I’ll ring her up this morning. And put someone on to watch her.”

Bottando came out of his reverie long enough to frown with disapproval. “We can’t afford that. Don’t have the people. Besides, this monastery business seems a higher priority. If either of them is.”

“Well …”

“No. You can have Giulia. Time she got out of the office, and we can put the cost down to the ministry’s training budget. A bit of practice for her. But that’s all. Get her to stand outside San Giovanni all day …”

“She’s already there.”

Bottando peered at her. “Oh,” he said. “Good. You can have her follow this Verney woman afterwards, for a bit of variety, if you like. Couple of days of that and she’ll begin to realize what policing is really all about. But don’t use anyone else.”

He was right, she knew that; they couldn’t spare two people. Even sending Giulia out would mean masses of extra paperwork for everyone else. But the very presence of Mary Verney in Rome rattled her. She nodded, nonetheless.

Bottando grunted. “Good. Now, is there anything else? Thank you,” he said to his secretary as she slid into the room and deposited a vast file on his desk. He transferred it immediately to a drawer, which he closed with a satisfying slam. “Because if not, I’m going for a coffee.”

She stopped and looked carefully at him. “You all right?”’ she asked. “You don’t seem your normal self at all this morning. Did they give you food poisoning or something yesterday?”’

He grimaced, and hesitated, and then gave into the temptation. “Come back in and sit down. I need to tell you something,” he said with a sigh.

“Sounds bad,” she said as she settled back on the armchair.

“Maybe, maybe not. I haven’t figured it out yet. I’m being promoted. I think.”

Flavia blinked and looked at him as she tried to think of the right thing to say. “You sound uncertain. These things are normally clear. Am I meant to congratulate or commiserate?”’

“I don’t know. But basically I was given the option of being promoted and taking over some useless new department which seems to have been set up solely to soak up more money from the European taxpayer, or being booted out. With all the consequences for pay and pension that entails. I’ve been making some phone calls and I don’t as yet see any way out.”

She leant back in her chair and bit her thumbnail as she thought this one through.

“But you stay here?”’

He nodded. “Nominally. That brings me to you.”

“Oh, yes?”’ she said cautiously.

“Essentially, you have two choices. Stay here and take over the day-to-day running of the department, where you will have to spend much more time in administration. Or help me set up this new Euro-nonsense. Where you would have to be junior to some Englishman or Dutchman or something and still have to spend much more time in administration. The second option will be exceptionally well paid, of course. Riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Tax free, as well. And more regular hours.”

“Which do you recommend?”’

He shrugged. “I hope I have your services either way. Apart from that, you’ll have to make up your own mind on the matter.”

“When do I have to make up my mind?”’

He made an expansive, all-the-time-in-the-world gesture. “End of the week? I hate to rush you, but I have to lay my plans. You can get some practice in this week. I’m going to be busy writing memos. Consider yourself on your own. And the eyes of the ministry are on us at the moment. If you could fend off all raids on the national gallery and the Presidential art collection until this is sorted out, I’d be grateful. And it would be best if raids we’ve been told about in advance didn’t happen.”

“Looks bad, you think?”’

“Not ideal. Not ideal.”

Dan Menzies was a painstaking, methodical worker, labouring in a fashion which was totally at odds with both his bulk and his reputation. Despite the flamboyant gestures and the frequent use in his speech of dramatic metaphors—always talking about expunging this or that part in his campaigns of restoration—when engaged on a job he went slowly and extraordinarily carefully. Normally, of course, he commanded small armies of people, and it was typical of him that he talked in military terms while his more subtle colleagues headed teams. But that was for large projects, with lots of money. Then he would behave like an artistic General Patton, rushing from one place to another, shouting encouragement and advice and orders. But in this church he was on his own. He found it all strangely restful; he was restoring, he felt, more than the pictures. It was many a year now since he had worked alone, just him and the paint, trying to feel his way with his scalpel and his chemicals back to an instinctive idea of what the artist had in mind. And as he crouched there, oblivious of the hours passing by, and not even feeling the strain as his back muscles began to protest about the unfair treatment they were receiving, he realized that he was entirely happy. He must, he decided when the light had become so bad that he could work no longer, do this more often. Once a year, he thought as he stretched and washed the grime off his hands, he should do a painting on his own, with no one around. Well, maybe once every two.

Any of his colleagues in the restoring business, had they known about this tranquil, introspective mood would probably have been stunned into silence, so little did it fit his reputation or normal means of behaving. Menzies was known as something of a showman, never missing an opportunity to thrust himself into the limelight, and had earned plaudits and criticism in equal measure through the dramatic, and some said vainglorious, way in which he went about bringing pictures back to life. This he knew and accepted; it was an inevitable part of a competitive business, as far as he could see. For his own part, he thought he did his best, however much he might dress it up dramatically to please the audience. He also wanted very much to be liked, for he considered himself a likeable fellow, and never understood why his colleagues and rivals were so unfair. Dissimulation was simply an unknown skill, that was all. He had opinions, lots of opinions, and when someone asked him, he could never resist the opportunity of giving full chapter and verse. Was it his fault some of his rivals were fools?

And that was why he was here. He did not believe the best man won without working for it. There was a big project dangling there, waiting to be plucked, and he was determined to get it. If it meant spending six months in Rome in advance, that was part of the price. Restoring this dubious Caravaggio was a way of keeping himself occupied. A work of charity, just the sort of thing to arouse favourable comment. And a perfect excuse to be in the right place, talking to the right people as they made up their minds. It would be the high-point of his career, if he could get it. No one was going to stand in his way.

Suddenly, he was aware of a presence standing behind him, watching what he was doing. Bloody tourists, he thought. He tried to ignore the unpleasant sensation that tickled at his concentration, and succeeded for a while. But he ended up trying so hard not to be bothered that eventually he made a small mistake. His patience snapped.

“Piss off,” he said furiously, turning round to face the man. His eyes narrowed when he saw the figure, standing meekly there, foolish look on his face. That look of bovine stupidity on his face. Jesus.

“I’m sorry …”

“I don’t care if you’re sorry or not. Just go away. How the hell did you get in here, anyway?”’

“Well, I …”

“You have no right to be in here. It’s not a public monument. Aren’t there enough of those in this city without you having to come barging in here?”’

“I’m not …”

“Go on. Go away.”

The little man stood his ground, so Menzies, who weighed maybe twice as much as he did, lost his temper. He rose from his knees, walked over and grabbed him by the arm, then frogmarched him to the main door that led on to the street, taking the vast old key from the hook as he went. Unlocked it, pulled it open a foot or so, then ushered the man out.

“So nice to have met you,” he said sarcastically as the pathetic fellow walked blinking into the sunlight. “Do drop in again sometime. Like next century. Goodbye.”

And as he waved, Giulia, sitting on the steps of the church as she had been all that day, furtively took a photograph of Menzies waving in what seemed to be a friendly fashion. No reason to do so, but she was bored beyond endurance. Apart from spending her hours wondering whether the police was the right career for her, this was the first moment of excitement for hours. Then she scribbled down some notes, very precisely and carefully, leaving nothing out.

For the second night in a row, Argyll got back in the evening in the fond hope that this time he was going to get his quiet evening with Flavia. They didn’t seem to have had time to speak about anything at all for weeks and he was concerned that unless they got in a bit of practice, they might lose the knack entirely. He was a bit late himself this time, and walked in expecting her to be there already. She wasn’t. The apartment was occupied nonetheless.

“Oh, my God,” he said despairingly. “What the hell are you doing here?”’

A small, elegant woman in her mid-to-late fifties sat serenely on the sofa by the window. She had a lovely face, which seemed kind, and looked as though she was fond of laughing. The sort who knew how to grow old graciously, a rare talent. A bit reserved, perhaps, but good company. An honest face. The sort you instantly felt you could trust.

Which just went to show what a lot of nonsense it was to place any sort of reliance on the interpretation of physiognomy. He must remember to point that out to the students. A very important aspect of seventeenth-century artistic theory and one which, in his experience, was completely wrong. Mary Verney, sweet-faced criminal that he knew her to be, proved this pretty conclusively.

“Jonathan!” this woman said, rising from her chair and coming to meet him with a warm smile and outstretched hand. “How lovely to see you again.”

Argyll growled with annoyance. “I’m afraid I cannot say the same for you, Mrs Verney,” he replied stiffly. “How you have the nerve …”

“Oh, dear,” she said, brushing his protests aside. “I suppose I couldn’t really expect a great welcome. But that’s all water under the bridge.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Oh, Jonathan. What a fuss you make.”

“Mrs Verney, you are a liar, a thief and a murderer. You organized it so that there was nothing I could do about it. Fine. But you really don’t expect me to be pleased to see you, do you?”’

“Well,” she said doubtfully. “If you put it like that …”

“I do. Of course I do. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I take it you never mentioned that little matter to Flavia?”’

“Not exactly.”

“I wondered why she was so keen to see me,” Mrs Verney said with a slight frown. “A harmless little old lady like myself.”

Argyll snorted.

“No, really. I am. I confine myself to good works and repairs to the house.”

“Paid for by your ill-gotten gains.”

“Ill-gotten gains? Really, Jonathan, you do sound like a Victorian melodrama at times. But if you want to put it like that, indeed. By my ill-gotten gains. And it uses up all my time.”

Argyll snorted again. “So why are you here?”’

“Gin, please. And tonic, if you have it.”

“What?”’

“I thought you were asking me if I wanted a drink.”

“No.”

She smiled sweetly at him. I know this isn’t easy, dear, she seemed to be saying. Argyll, who in fact rather liked the woman, however much a monster of turpitude she really was, crumbled into abject politeness.

“With ice?”’

“Please.”

He assembled it and handed it over.

“Now,” she went on. “Let me make it clear that I am not here of my own volition. The last thing in my mind when I came to Rome was seeing either of you. I hardly expected a warm welcome from you, at least.” She held up her hand as he was about to interrupt. “I’m not blaming you in the slightest. But Flavia rang and invited me for a drink. In the circumstances, I could hardly refuse.”

“In what circumstances?”’

“She had taken the trouble to find out that I was here. Which means that I am a marked woman. And I don’t want to waste police time, so I thought it best to reassure her that I am here merely for a holiday. Then she can devote herself to catching real thieves.”

“You are a real thief.”

“Was, dear. Was. There is a big difference. I told you. I’m retired.”

“Somehow I find that difficult to believe …”

“Look,” she said patiently. “I am on holiday. Nothing sinister at all. I just hope that I can convince you eventually. If I can, I am sure your sanctimoniousness will evaporate and you’ll become a normal human being again.”

“Sanctimonious? Me? You turn up here out of the blue …”

“I know. You’re in shock …”

“Really?”’ asked Flavia brightly as she came in through the door with pasta and a couple of bottles of wine. “What about?”’

“With sheer pleasure at seeing me,” Mrs Verney said smoothly.

“Yes,” Flavia said. “Isn’t it nice? When I noticed she was here, I thought, how nice it would be …”

Mrs Verney smiled. “And here I am. I’m delighted to see you both again. I’m most anxious to hear all your news. How are you both? Married yet?”’

“In the autumn,” Flavia said. “That is the plan.”