Death and Restoration

by Iain Pears

  Answer, obviously, one who was working to commission. Five per cent of a quarter of a million is more than five per cent of fifty thousand. Burckhardt must have had a client lined up.

  “Go on.”

  “So we had a meeting to discuss the possibility of selling some of our possessions, and Jean made sure it was turned down flat.”

  He paused to see whether this was being heard sympathetically. “I was desperate, you see. I had to get hold of some money.”

  “So you decided to sell the thing anyway.”

  “Yes. I believe it was within my competence as head of the order. I arranged for him to come to the church to pick it up. He was going to bring the money, take the icon and go. And then, I suppose, I would have reported a burglary.”

  “Just a second. What do you mean, he was going to bring the money with him? In cash?”’

  “I said I wanted the money. In cash. I’d had enough of being made a fool of.”

  It got worse and worse. Flavia by now could barely believe what she was hearing. She had heard of some stupid operations in her time, but this set new standards.

  “And then?”’ she asked. “What went wrong?”’

  “I don’t know. I went to the church just after six, unlocked the door and took the Virgin off the wall, and put it in a bag. Then I waited. And someone hit me. That’s almost the last I remember.”

  “And that was when someone took the Virgin?”’

  “No,” he said definitely.

  “How do you know?”’

  “Because she was still there. I know.”

  “How? You were unconscious.”

  “She talked to me.”

  “What?”’

  “I was dying, I know I was. And she saved me through her grace. She came to me and said, “Don’t struggle, don’t worry, it’ll be all right. I’ll make sure.” Such a soft and gentle voice; full of compassion and care. Immediately I felt suffused with a warm glow of peace.”

  The old Catholic in Flavia fought a momentary battle with the equally venerable old cynic, and decided to call it a draw. It had made Xavier cooperative; that in itself was truly something of a miracle. That didn’t mean she was prepared to accept that the icon wasn’t stolen by the man who hit him.

  “It was a miracle,” Xavier went on. “My skin goes cold just to think of it. I have acted badly, and deserve little favour, yet I am blessed with her forgiveness. Tell me, what are you going to do with me?”’

  She shook her head. “I have no idea at all. Fortunately, other people decide that. I merely find out what happened. But you are in big trouble, believe me.”

  Flavia walked from the Gemelli to the office; a long walk, right across the centre of town, taking her across the river and through the medieval quarters. By all reasonable standards it was absurd and a waste of time that could be much better spent. Stopping for twenty minutes at a quiet, back-street bar for a coffee and a glass of water was even more foolish. But she reckoned she needed time to think things through.

  And besides, she thought she needed a little celebration. Not because of any achievement on her part, certainly. She realized she had come perilously close to having another murder on her hands. But she knew that Charanis had gone into the hospital, talked to Father Xavier and left. It established that Charanis was not only still in Rome, but also, it seemed, did not have the picture. He must have thought Burckhardt had it; then killed him when he refused—or couldn’t—say where it was. And he’s still trying. What makes him think there is any chance of getting hold of it now?

  And there was the obvious point that if he didn’t have it, who the hell did? That perhaps was the central problem, and, consequently, one that had to be put aside and forgotten about for a while. Mary Verney was the prime suspect, of course, except for the fact that she was still here.

  Flavia sipped her drink, and watched the office workers and occasional tourist who had been lured down the street thinking they were on the way to somewhere, stopping frequently and looking with puzzlement at their maps, turning them upside down and then doing an about turn before heading back the way they came. Know how you feel, she thought as she paid her bill and stood up.

  One final detail awaited her on her desk which clinched it. A note from Fostiropoulos, admirably swift. The director of the Athens museum negotiating for Charanis’s pictures was concerned about one picture in particular. A Tintoretto with very dubious origins. Naturally the man hadn’t mentioned it to anyone before because he didn’t want to offend a vastly rich potential donor unfairly, but he was keen to know where it came from.

  It took Flavia only twenty minutes to find out. The picture had vanished twenty-six years ago from a castle in Austria. Just like that, no warning, no clues and never seen again. Exactly the style of Mary Verney when she was on top form. One of the ones they hadn’t found out about last year. Got her.

  Half an hour later, she had Mary Verney arrested. No politeness, no personal touch this time. Just three large policemen with a car. She told them to bundle her in the back and bring her to a cell in the basement. Don’t talk, don’t say a word. No explanations. Make it seem as grim and intimidating as possible. Frighten the life out of her.

  They did a good job of it. For all her life of crime, Mary Verney had never been in trouble with the police before. Even traffic wardens made her nervous, and the experience of the Italian police at their least charming rattled her considerably, as did the fact that she was left to stew on her own for three hours before Flavia decided the time had come for a conversation. When she walked in with a file of notes as a prop, the woman seemed properly chastened. Flavia adopted a world-weary, businesslike air. Another one to put in jail. Oh, dear.

  “Now, then,” she began after she’d sat there for several minutes reading her notes and making marks in the margins with a pencil, “I should tell you that we have enough for the magistrate to charge you on several counts. Firstly with leaving the scene of a crime. Secondly, conspiracy to commit theft, and thirdly—and most importantly—conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “Murder?”’ Mary Verney said, her head jerking up in astonishment. “What murder?”’

  “Peter Burckhardt.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “I don’t think so. We will be arguing, with evidence, that you informed one Mikis Charanis of Burckhardt’s presence in the church of San Giovanni on the morning that the icon was stolen and Father Xavier was attacked.”

  “I’d never even heard of this Charanis before.”

  “We will prove that twenty-six years ago you stole a Tintoretto for his father.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Far from being retired, as you say, you came to Rome specifically to steal that icon, either for the father or the son. I don’t care which one. Personally, I think you should have taken your own advice. You’ve lost your touch. Greed, Mrs Verney. I’m surprised at you. I would have thought you had enough sense to know when to stop. Now you’ve blown everything.”

  There was a long pause, as Mary Verney considered how right Flavia was. She always knew in her bones this was going to be a disaster, so the fact that she was sitting here, quite probably facing a hefty jail sentence, should come as no surprise. And all because of that man, whom she had liked and trusted, and who didn’t even have the courage to face her himself.

  Was there any way out? If she kept quiet, she would undoubtedly go to jail. What’s more it was unlikely Charanis would believe she would keep quiet, and so would carry out his threat. And if she told the truth? Surely the same result.

  “How long are you going to take over this?”’ Flavia asked.

  “I was wondering whether you might want to come to some accommodation.”

  “No. I don’t need to. So talk to me.”

  “The question is whether you can help me.”

  “The question is whether I am prepared to.”

  This seemed to produce a stalemate, and Flavia was not in the mood for playing games today. Ther
e had been more than enough of those already. “You seem to be wanting a deal. You give me something, I give you something. I’m not interested. I want the truth, full, whole and unabridged. I want a way of checking it. And I’m not going to offer you anything in advance at all. No promises, no deals and no assurances. Take it or leave it. I don’t know why you’re so desperate to steal this picture, and I don’t care. That’s your business. So, either get on with it, or forget it.”

  A third long pause, then Mary shook her head. “I know nothing about any icon or murder. I was walking on the Aventino that morning merely by coincidence. I haven’t stolen anything or injured anyone. I am a little old tourist. That is all I have to say.”

  Andwitha calm look very much at odds with what she felt, Mary folded her hands on her lap and gazed placidly at the policewoman sitting opposite to her.

  Flavia glared at her angrily. “I don’t believe a word of it. You’re in this up to your neck.”

  She shook her head. “How many times do I have to tell you? I do not have the icon.”

  This time Flavia lost her temper. “I know you don’t. Menzies does,” she said angrily. “He took the thing home to clean it. And won’t let us have it back until tomorrow when he’s finished. He might have told us, but he didn’t, and it’s not the point in any case. The point is that you came here to steal it and it went wrong. One man died and another was put in hospital. Now, tell me, what happened?”’

  A third shake of her head, although this time a slight glint in the eyes showed that she knew she’d won. She had kept her nerve; Flavia had gone too far. “I have nothing to say on this matter at all. Charge me or let me go.”

  Flavia slammed the file shut and strode out of the cell, then leant heavily against the cool of the concrete wall.

  “Well?”’ the man on duty asked. “What am I to do with her?”’

  “Keep her for another few hours, then let her go.” She marched back to her office to consider what she had done. Then she took a taxi to the monastery to see Dan Menzies.

  Argyll’s quest for an easy solution to his own Greek problem met an early reverse as he climbed the stairs to Father Charles’s grim little room. He met Father Paul coming down, as calm and serene as ever.

  “I’m afraid I do not feel that would be a good idea,” he said after Argyll had explained. “He is not well at the moment.”

  “I wouldn’t detain him long. But he could save me an awful lot of time. He’s given me a puzzle and as far as I can see he already knows what the answer is.”

  Father Paul shook his head. “You can try, of course. But I’m afraid the illness has overcome him again. It is difficult to get much sense out of him, and you would not be able to rely on anything you did hear. His dementia, when it comes, is overpowering.”

  “How long does it last?”’

  “It depends. Sometimes a few hours, sometimes days.”

  “I can’t wait days.”

  Father Paul looked helpless. “I’m afraid there is nothing I can say to assist you. By all means go and see him; even if he doesn’t understand I think that human company is a solace to him. I try to visit him myself whenever possible. He found me and brought me into the order, so I owe him a great deal and it is a pleasure. But I think you will get little from it.”

  “I’ll try anyway. He doesn’t get, ah, aggressive, does he?”’

  “Oh no, not at all. Not physically.”

  “He shouts? Just so I’m ready for it, you understand.”

  “He can be very frightening. He says terrible things. And sometimes …”

  “Sometimes what?”’

  “He speaks in tongues.”

  Father Paul was obviously struck by this last manifestation of the old man’s madness; Argyll found it the least alarming of all prospects.

  As long as he gives a running translation, he thought to himself as he climbed the last few stairs after telling Father Paul he’d try anyway, he can do a mime act for all I care.

  Still, dealing with madness was a slightly unnerving prospect; he had seen far too many gothic horror movies for him not to have a sense of trepidation as he knocked on the door and waited for a reply. There was none, so, after waiting a few minutes with his ear to the door, he quietly opened it, and peered in.

  It was dark again, but this time he knew where to look and, through the thin slices of light coming through the closed shutters, he saw Father Charles on his knees in front of his chair. Praying. Bad manners to interrupt someone while they are praying. He started to back out.

  Then Father Charles spoke, lifting his head, but not turning round. Greek, by the sound of it. Too fast for him, though.

  Argyll stood there, wondering what to do next, then Father Charles turned and gestured for him to come in, repeating the phrase. Argyll was relieved; not only did the old man seem sufficiently aware to realize he was there, his face had little of the madness Argyll had expected. Total serenity and calmness, in fact, his eyes half closed, his gestures slow and almost languid. He looked at Argyll, held out his hand and waited.

  Argyll walked over and took it, but the slight frown that crossed Father Charles’s face indicated something else was expected from him. He didn’t want it shaken, didn’t want to be helped up …

  With a burst of inspiration, and not a little audacity, he bent over and kissed it. Bingo. Father Charles nodded and allowed himself to be helped into his chair. He gestured for Argyll to sit down on the floor, at his feet. Argyll obeyed and watched carefully for a new clue.

  More Greek; Argyll nodded as though he understood. Then what sounded like Latin, then a language which was way outside his range. What had the man specialized in? Sanskrit? Assyrian? Hebrew? Could be any of those. Father Charles looked concerned when he realized he wasn’t getting through, and tried again. He swept through German and what sounded like Bulgarian before coming up with a sentence in French. Good enough. Argyll nodded furiously, and replied.

  “It is your duty and privilege to remain quiet,” Father Charles said with a tone of regret in his voice at having to issue the reprimand. “I may have fallen far and been forsaken, but you will give me the honours that are mine. So much was I promised.”

  “Sorry. Sir.”

  “And you will address me in the appropriate manner.”

  “Forgive me,” Argyll said contritely. “But what is that?”’

  “Your most Holy Majesty.”

  “You’re a monk,” Argyll said. “Wouldn’t “Father” be more appropriate?”’

  Father Charles paused, and peered at Argyll closely. “I see my disguise works. Who are you, young man? I recognize you. I have seen you before. And you don’t know?”’

  Not much to say to that. Argyll shook his head.

  “Yes, I am a monk, so it is said. I dress in these clothes and pretend. But that is for the world; not for me. You come from his Holiness, Callixtus?”’

  Argyll smiled. He didn’t know much about religion, but he knew who the pope was. And Callixtus he wasn’t.

  “And he never said,” Father Charles continued, sounding almost amused. “Not even to you. How very like him. If you are to be my emissary, though, you must know. Otherwise you may make an error and ruin everything. But you must swear a vow of silence, that you will never reveal anything beyond this room, not even in the direst necessity. Do you so swear?”’

  What the hell? Completely potty, but strangely touching. At least he had a considerable amount of grandeur in his madness. Argyll swore away.

  Father Charles nodded. “Know then the truth as I reveal it to your ears. I am Constantinos XI Paleologos Dragases, Emperor of Byzantium, Noblest soul, God’s vicegerent on earth, heir to Augustus and Constantine.”

  Pretty grand. Argyll gaped at him in astonishment. The Emperor Constantine smiled condescendingly. “I know. You thought me dead, yet here I sit. But how I am lost, ruler of half the earth, hiding and disguised in this place, pretending to be a monk and having to celebrate in secret, in a little back ro
om so that no one will know of my continued life. Only two or three people know it, and now you are one of them. You must keep this secret, lest all be ruined. The Emperor died on the walls of Constantinople, falling to the infidel. So the world believes, and must continue to believe until all is ready. Then he will return, sweeping down under the protection of her likeness, to restore the faith. But surprise is of the essence. A little trick, but justifiable, in the circumstances, don’t you think?”’

  Argyll nodded.

  “It will take time, of course,” the old man said thoughtfully, but with a glint of battle in his eye as he plotted in his mind. “But our situation is not as hopeless as it seems. The Venetians and Genoese will help; will have to help because of their commercial interests. George of Serbia will do the same, because he knows he is next. The knights of St John on Malta can be relied on, I think. And there is also the Morea.

  “But,” he said, leaning forward intently, “it must be done correctly, this time. Our forces are few, and we can make no mistakes. If I am to regain my throne, everyone must know what to do and when to do it. I figure a three-pronged attack. The knights land in Anatolia and pin down the forces there. George sweeps across the Balkans to the straits, and meets up with a seaborne fleet of Venetians and Genoese.”

  “And yourself, your majesty?”’ Argyll said, almost forgetting this was simple madness and half seeing the pennants on the ships ready to sail. “You must lead them.”

  Father Charles smiled, nursing his secret. “Of course. Of course. Now, I shall tell you a secret. The greatest of them all. And show you God’s goodness. Out of this disaster, this most bitter lesson, goodness shall come. Byzantium fell for a reason. It was His displeasure at our divisions. East and west, spending more time fighting each other than our common enemy.”

  He stopped, and cocked his head to one side. “Check the door, sir. I fear being overheard.”

  Argyll dutifully got up from his sitting position, joints cracking from the strain of being so uncomfortable, and peered round the door. “No one there,” he said quietly. “We’re not being overheard.”