by Iain Pears
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 Men
zies 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.”
“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.”