by Iain Pears
He had, after all, something to work on. Previously, all he had known about the icon was that it was old and eastern. Now, from Fostiropoulos via Flavia, he had a bit more focus. Byzantine icons. Those travelling scholars and exiles the records had referred to so elliptically; they were the place to start, he felt sure, especially as the reference to the plague the painting fended off placed its arrival in the middle fifteenth century.
Constantinople falls to the Ottoman empire, and those who get away on western ships do so at the last moment. They bring what they can with them. Many are given pensions by the pope, or sympathetic monarchs in the west, guilty at not having gone to the aid of the Byzantines before it was too late. Some plan to launch a counteroffensive against the infidel, and travel the world, begging for help. others realize it is all over, that all hope died when wave after wave of Turks swept through breaches and brought two thousand years of Roman history to a violent end. These souls live out their lives as best they can, teaching if they cannot abandon the Orthodox faith, or entering monasteries if they can. They could at least console themselves in their exile that it all ended courageously, and that the last emperor, Constantine, had lived and died in the finest traditions of Rome, leading his dwindling band of troops until he was cut down by the enemy, and his body so dismembered it was never identified.
It was a gripping and poignant story, and Argyll felt a faint ripple of pleasure at the prospect of getting to grips with even the smallest fragment of it. Some of these lost and shocked exiles came to the monastery of San Giovanni. He was prepared to bet that one of them brought the icon as well. But so what? Many of these people brought lots of booty with them; some of them almost shameful amounts, the boats stuffed with valuables when they could have brought out citizens who were left behind. What was one picture amongst hundreds? How did it connect the end of the second Rome, and those who wanted to raise the third back to its traditional place?
The vigil had grown greater overnight. The number of flowers and prayers tagged to the door had grown, so that scarcely any of the old wood could be seen for as high as an arm could reach. Instead of a small handful of people encamped outside the door of the church, there was now a couple of dozen, and the sleeping bags suggested they were serious. A surprising number of them were young, as well. Yesterday nearly all had been old women, brought by sentiment and a feeling that yet another part of their universe had been forcibly taken away from them. Now ten or fifteen were young, some with the intense air of theology students, others drifting Europeans in search of something and hoping to find it on the steps of this old monastery. Argyll talked to them for a few moments; one seemed conventional in religion, another talked vaguely but intensely about the Great Mother. Two at least had thought it was a good place to spend the night. All appeared to have passed by and sat down for reasons which even they did not understand. They seemed perfectly tranquil and certain about it all, but Argyll felt very uneasy. He noticed Signora Graziani sitting on her own, and said hello to her. She smiled at him, and seemed uninterested when he said that the police were still at work. She didn’t appear to think it was necessary for the police to do anything, but was grateful for their efforts.
A little unnerved, Argyll went into the monastery, to find that the members of the order were even more jittery than he was. They had divided into two camps; one group regarded the show of piety on the steps as a nuisance that would have to be endured until it faded away of its own accord. The others felt that the whole business was an absurd display of sentimentalism and were inclined to employ more positive action to shoo people away. Only Father Paul, in fact, seemed perfectly tranquil and even quite pleased at what was going on outside.
“It’s real,” he said softly as he stood by the gate and placidly regarded the group on the steps outside. “This is how great movements have started, from simple, popular piety. Do you know, I think I am the only person here to have considered the possibility that this might be the work of God? Don’t you think that is strange?”’
“I suppose it is. I don’t really know. I was brought up an Anglican; I’ve never really had much to do with religion.”
Father Paul smiled at what he took to be a joke, closed the door and made sure that Argyll had everything he wanted.
“I suggested that maybe the doors of the church should be flung open, to allow people inside in case it rains,” he said as he prepared to go off. “The idea was turned down for fear of disturbing Mr Menzies.” He shook his head and left Argyll to his labours.
The file was just as thick, and almost as impenetrable; with the sort of intense concentration that ultimately produces a raging headache, Argyll laboured in silence, translating, reading, thinking and noting. At least he made progress. in 1454, the monastery admitted two people; both, irritatingly if predictably, took new names for the occasion—Brother Felix and Brother Angelus—and neither was referred to by any other name. But, given the date, and the fact that there was a note that baptism was especially waived for them, it was reasonable to assume that they were fresh off the boat from the ruins of Constantinople, especially as one was in late middle age, and the other was described as a widower.
So, two new monks, and it would surely have been unusual for them not to have made the usual contribution to the order’s coffers when admitted. Where, Argyll thought, was the ledger of deeds and goods? And had they brought that icon, anyway? He leaned back in his chair and tapped his teeth with the end of his pencil, then smiled broadly. Like a crossword puzzle, he thought. Obvious when you know the answer. He bent over and crossed Brother Felix from the list. No point worrying about him. The picture had been brought by an angel, and here was Brother Angel himself, in the right place at the right moment. You could almost hear the wings flapping.
So, Brother Angel, he thought. Where did you get this fine piece of work? Did you pick it up on the way to the port, looting it from some church as it went up in flames and you dodged through the back streets to avoid the enemy soldiers? Was it an old family heirloom you’d sent on ahead, realizing disaster was looming? Did you steal it even from one of your fellow exiles so you could buy your way into a comfortable monastery when you reached journey’s end? What sort of person were you? Priest, nobleman or simple subject?
All good questions, which the documents in front of him did not answer. He didn’t even know who had arranged the collection. A strange assemblage it was, as well, different sorts of papers, dating from the fifteenth to the eighteenth centuries, brought together without rhyme or reason. But some body, and not too long ago, had collected them. Father Charles, perhaps, before he’d taken to running the order. If it had been him, he had then locked them all away in this special file, and allowed no one to see them. There seemed little point; there was nothing even remotely terrible, or even interesting, so far.
He eyed the next brown paper folder warily; perhaps in here? Somehow he hoped not; seventy-five miscellaneous pages of Latin in varieties of bad handwriting. It could take him weeks to get through that, if he was being careful. He really should have paid more attention during his Latin lessons. How was he to know it would ever come in useful, after all? He flipped through the pages, hoping that by some miracle there would be passages in Italian to make his life easier, and groaned as he found exactly the opposite. Greek, for heaven’s sake. Ten pages in Greek. Life is very unfair, sometimes.
It was no good. He simply couldn’t do it. He stared moodily at the pages again, then shook himself. Nothing for it. He’d just have to hope that Father Charles was operational this morning. And willing to help.
The Gemelli hospital, where all the best religious illnesses are treated, was a mixture of the antiquated in architecture and the advanced in equipment. Merely because the nurses were nuns did not mean they were any less ferocious than their counterparts in more secular institutions; the sick threaten to disrupt the smooth running of the hospital, and visitors were a lower form of pond life whose mere existence was an affront to anyone seriously i
nterested in health care. Getting in to see Father Xavier was, therefore, slightly more difficult than Flavia had anticipated; by the time she had battled her way through three floors of obstruction to Father Xavier’s floor, she was feeling both punch-drunk and irritated. At least he was finally conscious.
The last stage was easier, though not because of the nurses in charge; rather, the priest Father Jean had sent down to watch over the superior came forward and offered his protection; he held very much greater authority than a mere member of the police could ever have.
“Thank you,” Flavia said gratefully when the last nurse had pulled in her fangs and retreated.
“They are very protective, I find,” he said mildly. “And you are the third visitor today. They are concerned he may be tired out too easily.”
“Who else has been?”’
“Father Paul, to see how he is doing. And another man from the police. That is why the nurses were cross, I think. They expect you to coordinate things better …”
“Somebody else from the police …? Who?”’
“I don’t know. A very kind gentleman, very gentle indeed with Father Xavier.”
Flavia’s irritation was growing apace. It must have been one of Alberto’s minions-probably his sidekick called Francesco and she thought she had a clear agreement that questioning the old priest would be her job. Alberto hadn’t even wanted to send anyone. He was quite within his rights to change his mind, of course, but he could have told her in advance. That was only fair.
“Late forties, stout, balding, permanent sweat, slightly smelly?”’ she said, knowing that her description of her colleague would be recognized.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Not at all. He was in his thirties, I’d say. Very well-dressed, but a lot of stubble. But a very assured air about him, you know. Looked unusually chic for a policeman, in my view. But, of course, I’m not Italian myself …”
Flavia handed him a photograph of Mikis Charanis.
“Yes. That’s him.”
Flavia closed her eyes in despair as the details sank in. “When was he here?”’
“About fifteen minutes ago. That’s when he left. He was only here for ten minutes.”
“And have you seen Father Xavier since?”’
“No. I just sat out here …”
Flavia walked quickly to the door, brushed aside the remaining nurse guarding it and walked straight into the room, hoping desperately that her worst nightmares were not about to come true.
Father Xavier peered at her with mild interest from his bed. “Good morning, signorina,” he said, as alive and as well as could be expected in the circumstances. Certainly, he had not acquired a bullet in the brain recently. And for that, Flavia was profoundly grateful. The fact that it was mere luck, that Charanis could quite easily have killed the man had he been minded to do so, did not make her feel any better at all. Damn it, wasn’t Alberto meant to have put a man on the door?
She sat down heavily on the only chair available, and breathed deeply as she recovered herself. No point, she decided, in causing unnecessary alarm, or advertising your incompetence.
“I understand you have just had a visit from a colleague in a rival department,” she said with as much of a smile as she could manage. “I’m with the Art Squad, investigating the theft of your icon. Perhaps you could just tell me what you told him? That way I can stop bothering you.”
“By all means. All he wanted to know was what happened, and where the icon was. Which, alas, I could not tell him.”
Flavia frowned. “He asked you where it was?”’
“Yes.” Father Xavier smiled. “I see you feel that is your job, not his. Not that it matters. I can’t tell either of you. I was in the church, to pray, and that was the last I remember.”
“You didn’t see your attacker?”’
He shook his head. “No. He must have come up from behind.”
“And was the icon in its place? Did you notice it?”’ He shook his head. “I didn’t look. I’m afraid I’m not much of a help to either of you.”
“And you were in the church to pray.”
“Yes.”
“Is that usual? I mean, do you do that often?”’
“I am a priest. Of course.”
“At six in the morning?”’
“When I was a mere novice, signorina, we had to get up at three as well as at five. I like to continue that old way, even though I don’t think it right any more to impose it on anyone else.”
“I see. And while you were praying, did you hear anyone? See anyone? Speak to anyone?”’
“No.”
“Nothing unusual at all?”’
“No.”
Flavia nodded. “Father, it pains me to say so, but I’m afraid you are not only a liar, you are a bad one.”
“Your colleague did not have the effrontery to say so.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But I do, I’m afraid. You were in that church to meet Burckhardt. Even though your order had voted not to sell anything, you decided to go ahead anyway because you were desperate to raise money to cover your losses at your stockbrokers. You rang him, and agreed to meet him at six in the morning. You went to the church, took the key, and unlocked the main door so he could come in. Then you waited for him to turn up. That is perfectly clear; so much so that you needn’t even bother to confirm it. There can be no other explanation.”
She stopped and looked at him, to see whether she had hit home. His total silence convinced her she was absolutely right. It had been perfectly obvious, anyway. She let him stew for a while before continuing with a new idea that had just popped into her head.
“And to avoid trouble with your order, you tried to organize things so that it looked like a robbery. You were the person who left the anonymous tip-off saying there was going to be a theft.
“Now,” she said, before he could waste his breath with a denial, “your relations with your order are not my concern, thank goodness. I don’t have a clue whether you had the right to do it or not. And for the sake of simplicity, I might even be prepared to forget about the way you wasted our time with false reports. I could file a charge on that. But we have more important things at the moment. And I want whatever help you can offer me.”
“Or else?”’
“Or else. That’s right. You note that I do you the credit of assuming that you wanted the money for the good of the order, and not to keep for yourself.”
“Of course not,” he said, almost angrily. “I have spent my entire adult life in it. I would never hurt it. Do you think I want money? For myself? I have never had any and wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway. But the order needed it. There is so much to do, and it costs a fortune. And I have been blocked time and again by that band of recalcitrant, obstructive old fools.”
“Fine. So if you care about your order that much, you had better tell me everything. Otherwise, I will make sure it is embroiled in so much distasteful scandal that they will rue the day they ever let you through their doors.”
She peered at him, to see how this went down. To her alarm, when she craned her head to look at his face, she saw a large tear running down his cheek.
“Come on,” she said softly. “Get it over with. You’ll feel better.”
She stood up and fetched some tissue, then handed them brusquely to him and waited while he dabbed his eyes, pretending not to see just as much as he pretended there was nothing wrong.
“I suppose I have to,” he began eventually. “God knows I have reproached myself enough; I can hardly pretend I have been anything but a stupid old man. About two years ago, soon after I became the head of the order, I received a letter from a company in Milan, making an extraordinary offer. That is, if we gave them the equivalent of a quarter of a million dollars, they would guarantee to double it within five years.”
Flavia nodded absent-mindedly, then paused, thought, and stared at him.
“You didn’t give them it, did you?”’ she asked incredulously.
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Father Xavier nodded. “It seemed too good an opportunity. You see, with the money, I would be able to fund the new mission in Africa without disturbing anything else. Even Father Jean would not have been able to disapprove.”
“It didn’t occur to you that there might be something fishy with anyone who offers such a thing? Risky?”’
He shook his head sadly. “They gave absolute guarantees. And said it was an offer they were only making to a few select investors.”
Flavia shook her head sadly. One born every minute.
“Last month I got a letter saying that, due to unforeseen circumstances, the progress of the investment had been slower than anticipated. I made enquiries, of course, and discovered that according to the contract I could not get back even the money that remained.”
“Who knew about this?”’
“No one.”
“You didn’t put it before the council, ask their permission, check with any outside advisors?”’
He shook his head. “No. And before you say it, I know now I was a complete fool.”
“In that case I won’t say it. So, you gave these people a quarter of a million dollars. Exactly how much have they lost?”’
He sighed heavily. “Nearly all. They are reluctant to tell me.”
“I bet they are.”
“And about then I got a letter from Signor Burckhardt, offering to buy the icon. For nearly enough to make good the loss.”
“Good Lord! That’s an absurd amount. Why was he prepared to pay that much?”’
“He said he wanted to make sure we would accept, and didn’t want to waste time in foolish negotiations. Of course, he didn’t bank on Father Jean.”
Flavia thought. What dealer would offer nearly a quarter of a million when there was a reasonable chance it could be had for a fraction of that amount?