Death and Restoration

by Iain Pears

  “Yes. The Hodigitria.”

  Again Father Charles indicated his approval. It was strange, Argyll thought. Like talking to two entirely different people.

  “A leap of the imagination on your part, and very impressive, I must say. Yes. That is what it is. Painted by St Luke himself, and left by the Emperor in the monastery under the guardianship of his servant Gratian and his family. He gave instructions that it should never leave the walls of the monastery unless it returned in state to a Christian Constantinople. And cursed be he who disregards that charge. The Emperor himself swore to destroy anyone who laid impious hands on it, and got his servant to swear the same.”

  And then, with a leap of the imagination which was real this time, rather than fake, Argyll knew exactly what had happened. It was so clear and obvious, that he was slightly surprised he had not figured it out before.

  “You were in that church that morning, weren’t you? When Father Xavier was attacked?”’

  He nodded. “It is my habit, when I am well, to pass an hour in contemplation early in the morning, before the others get up. That morning I was indeed well enough.”

  “So you saw what happened?”’

  He smiled, then shook his head. “Not a thing.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Yes,” he agreed equably. “I am.”

  “Did you take the icon?”’

  “Of course not. She doesn’t need me to look after her.”

  Argyll looked at him steadily, and Father Charles gestured around the almost bare room. “You may search if you wish.”

  “No,” Argyll said. “I don’t think I will.”

  “She is safe, you see. She is under divine protection as laid down by the Emperor and nobody can harm her. So there is no reason for the police to concern themselves any longer.” He looked at Argyll, in no doubt that he would understand. Argyll nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Argyll walked thoughtfully back to the archive room so he could tidy up and put away the documents he’d no longer be needing. Caravaggio would just have to wait until next week. At the foot of the stairs that led up to Father Charles’s room, standing in the open doorway and staring across the courtyard, he saw a gloomy-looking Father Paul. He looked terribly tired, as though he’d aged thirty years in the past few days. Argyll coughed slightly; Father Paul turned, then stood politely out of the way.

  “Cheer up,” Argyll said, when he had seen a bit more of that despondent expression. “Things can’t be that bad.”

  “They can, Mr Argyll,” he replied slowly. “They really can.”

  “Not allowing you to go back home, eh? Sorry to hear that.”

  “No, they’re not. Ever.”

  “Surely in another year …?”’

  “We had a council meeting. Father Xavier sent a message he was stepping down.”

  “Reasonable. It will take a long time for him to be on his feet again.”

  “Yes. And they elected a successor.”

  “Ah. Who’s the lucky man, then? Can’t say I envy him.”

  “It is myself.”

  “Oh.” Argyll peered with genuine concern at the man’s face and realized the pained look wasn’t merely a conventional disguise for satisfied ambition. “Oh, dear. That must have been a bit of a shock.”

  Father Paul looked at him sadly.

  “Can’t you say no? Say you’re too young?”’

  “I did.”

  “Too inexperienced?”’

  “I tried that as well.”

  “Married with three children and a drinking problem?”’ Father Paul smiled. Only faintly, but it was a start. “I didn’t think of that. But I doubt it would have served me. You see, we are under vows of obedience. We cannot refuse.”

  “How long is this job for?”’

  “It is a life sentence. Or until infirmity renders you unable to discharge your duties.”

  “You look terribly healthy to me.”

  He nodded.

  “You really don’t want the job?”’

  “I can think of nothing I want less, Mr Argyll.” Argyll saw that he was close to tears. “I want to go home. There is so much to be done there. This is not my place at all. Every day in Rome is a torment.”

  “Who was it said the only people who should be given power are those who don’t want it?”’ He thought. “Can’t remember. But I think you will be a wonderful superior. It may not have been very kind of them, but for the sake of the order I doubt they could possibly have done better. It was an inspired choice.”

  Another twitch. “I fear you are wrong.”

  “Listen,” Argyll said kindly. “You know Flavia?”’ Father Paul nodded.

  “She’s been offered the job of running the Art Theft Department. She’s terrified at the idea, and has been in a bad mood for days, especially as she thinks I don’t want her to take it because she will be working even harder than she does now. It’s a lot of responsibility, plenty of trouble when mistakes happen and she will always be compared to her predecessor. But she will be very good at it, however frightened she is.”

  “You think she should take it?”’

  “I do. She’ll be miserable otherwise. And she knows, really, she can do it well. And so do you. You both need practice, that’s all. Bottando knows what he is doing. And so do the people who put you up for this job.”

  Father Paul smiled wanly. “That’s kind of you. But they need a politician and an accountant, not someone like me.”

  “You can hire those. What do you need an accountant for, anyway?”’

  “Father Xavier, it seems, had lost a great deal of money on rather foolish ventures.”

  “Ah. I see. So you’re in the hole. How much?”’

  “A substantial amount.”

  “Why don’t you sell something else? Like that Caravaggio. It shouldn’t be there, anyway. Even Menzies thinks it looks silly.”

  “Considering what happened last time …”

  “Very different. This time you should have a proper intermediary, acting with a reputable institution. One with a lot of free wall space. You’d get a fair amount for it.”

  “How much?”’

  “That depends. It’s really only attributed to the great man. But, if it can be pinned down, you’re talking about several million dollars. If not, then you’re still likely to get a couple of hundred thousand. It’s not one of his best, and would require work to establish its credentials.”

  He had grabbed Father Paul’s interest, there was no doubt about that. But then the priest’s shoulders sagged again. “We need the money now, Mr Argyll. Within a week. It must take longer than that to sell a picture.”

  Argyll nodded. “I don’t know that I can help you there. I could make discreet enquiries for you, if you like.”

  “You?”’

  “Oh, yes. I used to be a dealer.”

  Father Paul thought carefully. “No harm in that, I suppose. Although I’m afraid the council is in a recalcitrant mood. I doubt they’ll agree to anything concerning pictures after last time.”

  “Better get the icon back then.”

  Father Paul laughed. “That, I fear, would be something of a miracle.”

  ““Oh, ye of little faith,”” Argyll said. “I always wanted to say that to a priest. Miracles do happen, you know.”

  “They are rarely there when you want them.”

  “I have the same trouble with taxis. But they do turn up.”

  “I don’t know whether we deserve one.”

  “Do you have to earn them?”’

  “Are you teaching me theology, Mr Argyll?”’ the priest said with another ghost of a smile.

  “Oh, no. Just reminding you that you shouldn’t give up hope. You’ve barely started. What would you do if the icon came back? Sell that too?”’

  He shook his head fervently. “No. She would be returned to her proper place. And the doors would be opened again.”

  “Is that an officia
l decision?”’

  He thought, then smiled. “Yes. Why not? My first command.”

  “Good. Could you spare me half an hour or so this evening? About nine?”’

  When Argyll got home half an hour later, he found Flavia slumped in the armchair with a stiff drink in her hand. She looked exhausted, and moody.

  “How did it go?”’

  “Worse than you can possibly imagine.”

  “You didn’t get him? Oh, Flavia, I am sorry.”

  “We got him.”

  “What’s the problem?”’

  “He’s dead. Somebody shot him. It was terrible. In cold blood, right in front of my eyes.”

  “Who?”’

  She shook her head, and took another gulp of whisky. “Damned if I know. All I know is that it was professional. Very calm, unhurried and effective. Just walked up and walked away. The damnable thing about it was that they even paused to take the icon as well. Makes me look like a total idiot. I can’t do this job. I’m going to tell Bottando tomorrow. They’ll have to bring in an outsider. I’m not up to it.”

  “Nonsense,” he said.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is. This isn’t your fault. Heaven only knows why he was shot. Nothing to do with you.”

  “Mary Verney got away as well.”

  “So? If you’d been persecuted in the way she’d been, you’d leave the country as well. It’s not as if she stole anything. Except for what you more or less told her to take. You have to think Bottando-ish here. How would he deal with this?”’

  She sipped her drink and thought. “He’d go into full damage limitation mode. He’d ascribe the attack on Father Xavier to Charanis and say the shooting was drugs related. Some nonsense like that. And he would also point out that it would be a help if we had the icon back.”

  “And so it would be,” Argyll said, pleased that she seemed to be coming out of the depths. “I do believe I can help you there. In fact, before Bottando goes public with the idea of Charanis being the one who attacked Father Xavier, you might want to know what really happened.”

  “You know?”’

  “I figured it out this afternoon. Nothing like an archive for aiding the mental processes.”

  “So? Tell me.”

  “No.”

  “Jonathan …”

  “On one condition. Two conditions, in fact.”

  She sighed. “And they are?”’

  “One, you stop this self-pitying nonsense about not taking up Bottando’s offer. You are far the best person to run that department and you know it.”

  “You said a sensible person would go for the money.”

  “A sensible person would. You are not a sensible person. I know you. I’d rather see you occasionally when you’re content than all the time when you’re ill-tempered and miserable. Which you will be if you spend your time doing a job you think is worthless. You’d be a rotten bureaucrat. Even filling out expenses forms makes you bad-tempered. So stay where you are.”

  She looked at him fondly, then leant over and kissed the top of his head. “You are sweet.”

  “It’s one of my better qualities. So, such as it is, that’s my advice.”

  “I don’t know whether you’re right.”

  “I’m always right.”

  “The second condition?”’

  “That when I complain about living out my life in lonely solitude you adopt a suitably understanding attitude and move heaven and earth to take some time off. Starting now.”

  “Now?”’

  “Yes. I want to go away for the weekend.”

  “I can’t …” She stopped and considered.

  “Make up your mind.”

  “All right. We go away for the weekend.”

  “Splendid.”

  “Now tell me where the icon is. When did you figure this out?”’

  “This afternoon. Through a combination of skill, intelligence and shopping. And a tip-off from a source.”

  “Who?”’

  Argyll grinned. “Constantinos XI Paleologos Dragases, Emperor of Byzantium, Noblest soul, God’s vicegerent on earth, heir to Augustus and Constantine.”

  Flavia cocked her head and looked disapproving. “Not now, Jonathan. I know you’re trying to cheer me up …”

  “I mean it. I’ve been having long and fascinating conversations with a Greek Emperor who’s been dead half a millennium. Do you want the full story?”’

  He had, of course, promised Father Charles not to say, but he reckoned that a small exception was justifiable. She needed cheering up, and they were going to get married, after all. What was hers was his, and so on. So he told her about Father Charles’s periodic wobbles.

  “Now, what he was doing was merely taking everything he knew about the history of the monastery and funnelling it through his dementia. As far as I could check, everything he told me was true. I couldn’t check it all, of course, as he wouldn’t let me see most of the documents. What I could fitted perfectly.”

  “Why has no one else mentioned this? I mean, if he goes around thinking he’s an Emperor, wouldn’t one of the brothers have told you?”’

  “I don’t think he does. I think he was jolted into it by shock. The shock of seeing Father Xavier attacked. He’s an old-time priest; believes in the old routine of getting up at dawn and praying. The middle of the night, sometimes. I’m certain he was in the church that morning, when Father Xavier came in. He denied it, and then told me he was lying.”

  “He attacked him?”’

  “No. He was just in the church when Father Xavier arrived, unlocked the door, and took the icon out of its frame.”

  “Who did attack him?”’

  “Constantine charged his servant Gratian to look after it and make sure it never left until Constantinople was Christian again. So we ask the servant. Simple. And obvious when you remember market day.”

  Flavia snorted. “I think you’ve become as crazy as he is. And what’s market day got to do with it?”’

  “The local market operates on a Wednesday and a Friday. Father Xavier was attacked on a Wednesday.”

  “So?”’

  Argyll grinned and threw her jacket over. “Figure it out yourself on the way. It’s a nice evening for a walk.”

  In that, at least, Argyll was right. It was one of those soft, warm Roman evenings when everything is all but perfect, at just the right moment between the heat of the day and the cold of the night. When the air had a golden glow which was beautiful, however much it might have been due to exhaust fumes, and when even the low sound of the traffic and the tooting of horns was restful and reassuring. The restaurants were full and overspilling on to the streets, the tourists were happy and the restaurateurs happier still. From the open windows of the apartments down the narrow streets came the sounds of television and eating and conversation. Adolescents on little scooters puttered past, trying to look as though they were driving Harley Davidsons. And for the rest, they leant against walls, or walked up and down, arm-in-arm, talking quietly then bursting into loud greetings as friends appeared.

  Despite everything, and despite the fact that they were not merely passing the evening in restful idleness, Flavia and Argyll walked arm-in-arm as well, their pace slowing and becoming more tranquil as the city wrought its irresistible magic on them yet again. It was the sort of evening that made the cares of the day seem unimportant, no matter how terrible they really were. It was, in a word, what made an overcrowded, noisy and smelly city into one of the most magical places on earth, and ensured that both of them would fight desperately never to leave it.

  They walked past the little throng of vigil keepers still camped out on the steps of the church, noting that, if any thing, the crowd had grown slightly. Some Argyll recognized; others were couples just sitting, drawn by the crowd that was already there, and some were long-distance students who decided that the old rule of safety in numbers made this a good place to unroll their sleeping bags and settle down for the nig
ht. Somebody—Argyll suspected the cafe owner across the street—had confiscated some of the round black oil lamps, very much like cartoon bombs, still used for illuminating roadworks, and placed them on every second step, giving the whole scene a mysterious, almost medieval air, as the flickering flames cast soft shadows over the figures sitting between them.

  “Impressive, don’t you think?”’ Father Paul said after they found him and Argyll led the way back into the street. “There’s more of them every day. They come with prayers, and food.”

  “Food?”’

  “Old custom, I’m told. More southern than Roman, but it seems to survive here. If you ask a saint for something, you bring a present in return. Food, or money, sometimes even clothes.”

  “What do you do with it?”’ Flavia asked as they’d looked enough and turned to walk down the street.

  “Give it to the poor, what else? Some of us are shocked, but I have no intention of discouraging it. Where are we going?”’

  “Nowhere. We’ve arrived. It’s in here, I think,” Argyll replied. They were a few hundred yards down the road. It was a ugly run-down block, old and disintegrating. The main door should have had an intercom, but it had long since stopped working. Instead, the door was roughly propped open with a brick. Argyll checked the names on the buttons. “Third floor.”

  The lift didn’t seem to be working either, so they walked up, then along the narrow corridor of the floor, until he peered at a bell, then pressed it. To make sure, he knocked firmly on the door as well.

  The television inside stopped abruptly, and was replaced by the sound of a child crying. Then the door opened.

  “Hello,” Argyll said gently. “We’ve come for your Lady. She’s perfectly safe now.”

  Signora Graziani nodded, then opened the door. “I’m so glad,” she said. “Do come in.”

  Flavia gave Argyll a strange look, then followed him in. Father Paul, quite impassive, brought up the rear. The little living room was cramped and overstuffed with television, washing and grandchildren; the furniture was old and battered, the walls covered with crucifixes and religious pictures.