Death and Restoration (9 page)

She walked off with the priest so she could telephone Bottando, and Argyll watched her go, rather abandoned, sitting on a pew. It always gave him something of a shock, watching her at work. She was so very calm and good at it. While he had felt almost weak at the knees at the sight of the blood, Flavia had shown no reaction at all, once the paleness caused by the initial shock had passed. In fact, he had even noticed her stifle a yawn at one point.

For his part, he needed a drink, early though it was. So he walked out of the building and down the road to the nearest bar. A gaggle of locals, men having their coffee and roll before going off to work, eyed him curiously.

“Ambulance at the monastery, I see,” one said conversationally.

“And police,” agreed another. “I know those number plates.”

“You wouldn’t know what it was about?”’ added a third, looking at Argyll.

“Well …” he began.

“Body being taken out? What’s been going on?”’

“I think there has been a theft. The superior was attacked. He’s still alive, though.”

A lot of tutting and shaking of heads at this. The way of the world, what are we coming to? Still, what do you expect?

“What they take, then?”’ said one of the more jovial ones.

“Oh, not much, as far as they know,” he said reassuringly. “Only a picture. They didn’t even take the valuable one. They lifted a little Madonna instead.”

One of the men put his coffee cup down on the counter and looked Argyll firmly in the eye.

“A Madonna? Not My Lady?”’

“A little icon.” Argyll gestured to indicate the size. “Very dirty.”

“In the side chapel?”’

“That’s the one, I think.”

There was a lot of muttering at this, and Argyll noticed one of the men surreptitiously pull out a handkerchief from his jacket and dab his eye.

“Oh, no,” one of the others cried. “Surely not?”’

As is usual in such cases, Argyll glanced at the barman to get an indication of what exactly was going on. He, he thought, would be reliable. A youngish man, with fashionably cut hair and the sort of casual air of someone who had never been troubled by a sombre thought in his life. He also had turned grim-faced, and was drying a beer glass with an unusual intensity.

“The bastards,” this man said. “The bastards.”

A chord had been struck. The cheerful atmosphere of the bar dissolved under the impact of Argyll’s words like an ice cream in the July sun. In its place was genuine anger and, he thought, real distress. Almost worry.

“I’m sorry to bring bad news,” he said, trying to back pedal from his insouciant approach of a few seconds ago and adopt a more fitting demeanour. “I didn’t realize you would mind so much. No one ever goes in there, do they?”’

“It was locked. By that man.”

“But still …”

“She was there. That’s what counted.”

“I see.” Then he saw, with profound relief, the reassuring figure of Father Paul come through the door. Could he come back? Signorina di Stefano wanted to talk to him.

“Was Father Xavier in the chapel all night, do you think?”’ he asked the priest as they walked back to the monastery.

Father Paul shrugged. “I really don’t know, Mr Argyll. I really don’t know. It was my job to do the rounds and make sure everything was locked up, and I didn’t notice anything wrong then.”

“When was that?”’

“Just after eleven. We have evening prayers, we are allowed an hour to ourselves, and the lights go off at ten. Then the person on duty goes round and checks everything is closed. It was something introduced after the last burglary.”

“And you saw nothing?”’

A shake of the head.

There were five cars parked outside the monastery, which Argyll assumed contained all those specialists who emerge from under stones on these occasions. Flavia was standing in the courtyard, arguing fiercely with Alberto.

“Look, I don’t want to argue with you,” she was saying, clearly not telling the truth at all. “It’s not my concern whether this is investigated by you or by me.” Another blatant fib. “I was asked to come here about a possible theft, and I proposed to find out what was going on. I don’t want to take on anything else if I can help it …”

Extraordinary how she could string together so many untruths and look so convincing. The other man was grumbling, but seemed prepared to retreat and let other people fight for his department’s honour. They agreed that the entire matter should be passed on to their respective superiors and, that little bit of necessary posturing over, seemed quite content to resume normal relations.

“Jonathan!” She called him over. “You’ll have to give a statement, you know. This is the man who’ll be taking it.”

Argyll nodded. “Fine. Although it’ll be short and less than helpful. Do you want it now?”’

Alberto shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. We’ll let the experts do their stuff and clear out. Then everything might get a little bit calmer.”

“Waiting around all day?”’

“I’m afraid so.”

“Would it matter if I waited somewhere else? I was only going to be here for an hour or so, and then I’m meant to be delivering a lecture.”

Alberto puffed and blew but, what are friends for? Flavia vouched for his good behaviour and he was let out with a promise that he come back immediately afterwards. He wasn’t entirely certain whether he felt glad or not.

By the time he returned, a certain amount of progress had been made. The first information from the hospital said that Father Xavier was still alive, if only barely, and in intensive care. He had obviously been hit on the head, and was lucky to be alive at all. But he was unconscious, and liable to stay that way for some time. What was more, no blunt instrument of any shape or variety was in the area of the attack. Not with blood on, anyway.

So the police, both branches of it acting in harmony for once, began the task of asking questions and taking statements.

Menzies was useless, even when he had been weaned off his own problems and persuaded to concentrate on what, to the police at least, were more important matters.

He had left about six, gone home, changed and gone to a reception at which he had hoped to collar several influential members of the Beni Artistici. Said members had not been there, so he’d left early, eaten in a restaurant and gone home. He produced the bill from the restaurant, agreed readily that his movements were unaccounted for from the hours of half past ten to eight in the morning, when he’d gone for a coffee in the bar round the corner from his apartment, but seemed very unconcerned about the fact.

“If you can find me a good reason for assaulting Father Xavier, I’d be very interested to hear it. This affair is obviously an attack on me.”

Flavia looked puzzled. How on earth could he conclude that?

“Be reasonable,” he snapped. “I am being attacked left and right, and by people who are completely unscrupulous. Did you see that scurrilous article this morning? It’s a disgrace. For which I hold you responsible. You obviously fed a story to the newspaper out of sheer xenophobic malice.”

“I assure you I did nothing of the sort. Are you suggesting I also attacked Xavier?”’ Flavia asked stiffly.

“The people behind this did,” he proceeded illogically. “Clearly they came into the church at night to damage the painting I’m restoring. Father Xavier surprised them and they attacked him. It’s obvious.”

“And the icon?”’

Menzies waved his hand dismissively. “Second-rate rubbish. Taken to put you off the scent. So you’d think it was a burglary and not pursue the real culprits. I tell you, this is to stop me getting the Farnesina job. And I intend to make sure that doesn’t happen. I will hold you personally responsible …”

“Are you suggesting …?”’

“I am suggesting that the very fact that I am sitting here accounting for my movements will be all over the newspapers tomorrow. I’ve no doubt you will ring up your newspaper friends the moment you have the opportunity. No doubt they pay you well for this sort of malicious gossip.”

“I think I resent that.”

“I don’t care one way or the other. I want a full statement from you that you have no suspicions of me whatsoever, and that this was part of a campaign by my enemies against me.”

“Do you?”’

“And in the meantime,” he went on, levering his bulk out of the chair, “I will go to the embassy. I’m a personal friend of the ambassador, and he’ll want to hear about this. Do you have any idea how much money generous people in my country pour into conservation in Italy? Have you any idea?”’

Without waiting for an answer, he stumped out, looking very much in combative mood.

Flavia sighed a little.

“Going to be one of those cases,” she said. “Feel it in my bones.”

Father Paul was next in line, and had an even more commanding appearance as he moved into the room and sat down in front of them. He was sober and serious and upset but not at all frightened or cautious, unlike almost everyone else that Flavia ever interviewed.

Once the preliminaries were over, they had established that he was thirty-seven, from the Cameroon, a priest and had been brought to Rome to study at the Gregorian University.

“It’s part of a programme to unify the church at the grass roots,” he explained. “I come here, priests from Italy go to Africa. So we can study conditions and appreciate the meaning of cultural differences at first hand.”

“Has it worked? In your case?”’

He looked uncertain. “I would have preferred to have been sent to an inner-city parish where I could have done some real work, rather than sitting in a library,” he said. “But of course I am happy to obey the directions I am given.”

“And you want to go back?”’

“Of course. I hope to return fairly soon. Or had hoped to.”

“Why the change?”’

“It depends on getting the permission of the superior general. He had refused my request, unfortunately …”

“And now?”’

Father Paul smiled. “And now, when he recovers, he will refuse it again.”

“And if he doesn’t recover?”’

“Then I will withdraw my request, lest it be thought I have taken advantage of this tragedy. But I am convinced he will get better.”

“Faith?”’

“Nothing so elevated. I trained for a while in medicine before I found my vocation. He is badly hurt, but not fatally, I think.”

Pretty impenetrable there, Flavia thought. Not even so much as a hint of indignation at her implication. “How long does it take to elect a new superior? Or do you appoint a deputy?”’

Father Paul shrugged. “I’m not certain. This is uncharted territory. I think that Father Jean, as the oldest member, takes over for the time being; he used to be the official deputy when Father Charles ruled us.”

“Oh. Now, last night, you went for your walk …”

“About ten o’clock. I walked down the street, around one or two blocks, and came back at half past. I let myself in with the key, then locked and bolted the main door. Then checked the other side doors, which were all locked as they should be, then the library block, making sure the building was empty, the windows closed and the door locked when I left. The accommodation wing is always open, because of the risk of fire.”

“And you went into the church?”’

“Yes. I switched on all the lights, checked quickly and locked the door when I left.”

“And how many keys are there?”’

“Lots. Everyone living here has one, of course. And Mr Menzies, Signora Graziani, the man who does the gardening, the nuns who come in and cook for us, and so on.”

“And the church?”’

“The entrance key fits the door from the courtyard.”

“So Father Xavier could have gone into the church without having to ask anyone for a key.”

“Of course.”

“There’s no other way into it?”’

“There’s a door on to the street. But that has been closed for the last three years. It was used by ordinary people who wanted to come in to pray. There were not many any more, I’m afraid, and it was a practice that was disapproved of.”

“Why?”’

“The local parish church didn’t like it, and the icon was rather against the spirit of the times. The local priest of the parish is a very modern man. When the burglars struck a few years back, it was felt that this was a good time for change. We mended our fences with the parish and obeyed police strictures about security. And Father Xavier felt that as so few people used the church any more, it would not be noticed.”

“I see,” said Flavia. “And was it?”’

“There was a surprising amount of disquiet. It’s still very much a neighbourhood around here, with people who’ve been in the quarter for generations, and they rather regarded that Madonna as their patroness and protector. They never paid any attention to it while the church was open, of course, but they were upset when it was closed. Young girls used to come before they got married, and even the most hardened of boys found themselves in front of her before examinations.”

“I see. Now, you get up when?”’

“At half past five. Normally there is a service, then an hour of meditation before breakfast. Usually, that’s when the church is opened. But because of Mr Menzies making such a mess in there, we’ve been using the library recently.”

“So the church wasn’t opened until nine.”

“That’s right. Either Signora Graziani, or Mr Menzies, opens it up.”

“Tell us about the signora.”

Father Paul shrugged. “I know little about her. You’d have to ask Father Jean, I think. She works on a food stall on market days. When she does she comes early to clean. Every day, rain or shine; it’s some sort of vow, I believe. She is pious in a way which is rare nowadays. Probably always rare, in fact.”

Like Father Paul, Father Jean provided a brief biographical sketch, and told them that he was in effect the librarian of the community, and had stopped acting as deputy superior when Father Charles had stepped down three years previously.

“I would have retired, as that is theoretically now possible,” he said with a faint smile. “But alas, permission was denied me.”

“How old are you?”’

“Seventy-four.”

“Too young, eh?”’

“No, it’s because there are so few of us left. The average age of the order is about sixty now. There are no vocations any more. When I was young, there was competition to get in; the order offered useful work and an unparalleled education. Now the state provides the education, and no one believes in the work. So they need me.”