Death & Restoration

18

Argyll’s section of the city was less violent, but hardly more tranquil. He didn’t know about the incipient elevation of Father Paul; nor, as yet, did Father Paul, who went into the meeting that had been hurriedly called hoping that he might be able to make out his case, yet again, for being allowed to go home. No; Argyll’s disturbance came from the bundle of documents that he was inching his way through, painfully, word by word and with frequent references to the volume of teach yourself ancient Greek that he had borrowed from the library. If what Father Charles had told him was true, rather than senile fantasy, then a lot of the bits of paper were missing. That hardly bothered him; there was enough to suggest that the general outline was accurate enough, even though proof of the identity of Brother Angelus seemed hard to come by. Practically speaking it didn’t matter, although it was tiresome.

The trouble came from the long reflective pauses that his labours forced him to make. it was a boring job that he was doing, and he was tired. The pauses, as he stared vacantly out of the window, got longer, and the thoughts that filled his mind as more conscious activity took over became more haphazard and random. And, ultimately, more provoking.

For example, he found himself considering the one little detail which, as far as he could tell, everyone else had forgotten about entirely. Which was, if none of the obvious candidates had bashed Father Charles on the head, who had? If the refuse collectors had seen no one but Burckhardt and Mary Verney leave by the church’s main door, how had it got out of the building?

He had a meditative stab at the irregular subjunctive for a while, then considered another matter. He had bought the shopping at the market that day. Now why did that occur to him, apart from the fact that he had to do the same again today? And something else. Burckhardt had a bag with him. Too small, by the sound of it, to fit the picture in. Must have been the money, and he must have left disappointed. If Father Xavier had come to the church shortly before, he must have unlocked the door. He was then attacked. Burckhardt arrived and left without the picture. Therefore the picture disappeared before the door was locked and could not … Did that stand to reason? It did, he thought. It did.

He stood up. A man can only stand so much Greek in one day, and in Argyll’s case the limit was about two lines of the stuff. He’d have another go at Father Charles. He could read it to him, if he was in his right mind. If not, then who knew what he might tell him today? Might conceivably tell him where Atlantis is. Or the lost Treasure of the Templars. Besides, there was no one else around. Everyone had scurried into the library with earnest looks on their faces and had not yet emerged.

Father Charles was not only aware, he seemed in better form than before, even pleased to have a visitor. He took the proffered manuscript with a light smile.

“Do they not teach Greek in English schools?” he asked with surprise.

“A bit rusty,” Argyll explained.

“Oh. What have you learned so far?”

It was like an exam and, as the old man clearly had no remembrance of what he had said the previous day, Argyll responded in a traditional manner. He cheated, and laid out a brief summary of the conversation.

“It sounds unlikely, but I wondered whether this monk, this Brother Angelus, was some high dignitary of the eastern empire. And that he brought the icon with him.”

Father Charles’s eyes twinkled. “Very good, sir. Very good. I’m impressed. He was, as you say, a high dignitary, whose identity is unknown.”

“Is it?”

The old man nodded. “It is. A very closely guarded secret at the time, and a very closely guarded secret now.”

“It was the Emperor.”

Father Charles raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that? There is no evidence.”

“Yes, there is. But you are sitting on it. You took it out of the folder.”

“Goodness, that was very clever of you.” He looked puzzled. “I really can’t imagine how you figured that out.”

Argyll decided not to tell him.

“Still, you are right. It was the Emperor.”

“So why hide the information?”

“To preserve his memory from people like you. And those other people who came nosing around. It would spoil the story, don’t you think? The image of the courageous last Emperor, falling on the walls in the midst of the battle; it is one of the great moments of our history, I always think. How sad if it had to be replaced by a tale of his sneaking on a ship, leaving his men and hiding out in a monastery for the last miserable years of his life.”

“But he was planning a counter-attack. Wasn’t he?”

“Yes. I believe so, but like most of his projects it came to nothing. His main supporter, Pope Callixtus, died and his successor was more interested in nepotism and works of art than in the safety of Christendom. Constantine—that’s the Emperor, by the way—died a year or so later. Suddenly.”

“How suddenly?”

“He was struck down by violent stomach pains one evening, after dinner. He died in great agony two days later. Personally, I think it had all the signs of poisoning. That would not have been surprising. There were a large number of people who had a vested interest in the papacy not wasting money on crusades. More for them. Besides, everyone was already negotiating deals with the Turks. Another war would not have been in the interests of the papacy, nor of Venice or Genoa. Constantine was a dreamer and an embarrassment. And he died, allowing the story of his heroism to live on.”

“And you’re making sure that happens.”

Father Charles nodded. “I am not such a vandal that I have destroyed anything. But all the essential bits of paper are well hidden. It would take months of searching to piece the story together again, even if you knew what you were looking for. Do you know what the icon is?”

“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 official 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 night. 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.

Flavia was a little perplexed by all this but, as it seemed that Argyll knew exactly what was going on, was content to stay in the background and keep quiet for fear of saying the wrong thing.

“You are sure it’s safe?” Signora Graziani said with a burst of anxiety.

“Quite sure,” he replied. “The picture will go back to its proper place and stay there now. Father Paul is determined to keep her and give her the honour she is due. Aren’t you, Father Paul?”

Father Paul nodded.

“I’m so glad,” she repeated. “When I heard what was to happen I said, “This is not right. This is a bad man, to do such a thing.””

“You were cleaning, and overheard? is that it?”

“Of course. Wednesdays I get there early, because I have to work in the market at eight. I had just prayed and was getting my bucket, when I heard Father Charles—such a good, kind person, poor soul. He was almost in tears, pleading with the superior not to sell the picture. He said the order had to guard her. Foolish, of course; everybody knows it is the other way around and that she guards them. But Father Xavier said it was too late and said, very cruelly, that Father Charles was a superstitious and sentimental old man.”

She looked momentarily terrified, lest Argyll impute evil thoughts. “I prayed to My Lady to defend herself, and offered what help was needed, as my family has always done. And she told me I had to stop this man. She told me; I had no choice, you see.”

“I hit him, with my broom. I didn’t mean to hurt him, really. But my hand was guided, and he fell and hit his head on the stone steps. That wasn’t me, you see. I scarcely hurt him at all. It was her. When she chastises, she can be very severe. She was out of her normal place on the altar and looked so forlorn and lost. And I knew, it was almost as if someone told me, that I had to hide her away until she was safe.”

“So you took her home?” Flavia asked. Signora Graziani looked shocked.

“Oh, no. She must never leave the building. I wrapped her in a plastic bag and put her in my little room across the courtyard. Where I keep all my cleaning equipment. In a large empty packet of soap powder.”

“And you left Father Xavier …?”

“I did, and I’m sorry for it. I didn’t realize he was so hurt. But I left for a while, to tell the people at the market I couldn’t work today, then came back. I was just going to make sure he was all right …”

“Thank you,” Argyll said. “You have done your duty, as you were ordered.”

“I have,” she said with satisfaction. “I do believe I have. We have served her faithfully for as long as I know. What else could I have done?”

“Nothing,” Father Paul said. “You did exactly the right thing. You kept your word better than we did.

“I will put it back myself,” he continued. “And we will have a mass tomorrow to celebrate. I hope very much you will come, signora.”

She brushed away a tear from her eye, and bobbed her head in gratitude.

“Thank you so much, Father.”

“Bloody hell,” Flavia said angrily once they had left the apartment and the door had shut. “You mean to tell me this whole thing was caused by a stupid old woman with delusions …?”

“That’s one way of looking at it. Personally, I believe her.”

“Believe what?”

“That a member of her family has been charged with looking after that picture for ever and a day. Or at least since the servant Gratian left the monastery when his master died. It’s what? Twenty generations? A blink of the eye for this city. An old neighbourhood. Quite possible.”

“Jonathan …”

“There’s a family in the city called the Tolomei, you know. Claims it goes back to the first Ptolemy, illegitimate half-brother of Alexander the Great. Nearly seventy generations, that. It’s possible for a family to have stayed more or less in the same neighbourhood for a few hundred years. Perfectly possible. Assuming they survived the sack of Rome in the 1520’s, not much else has happened in Rome since. If it was charged with enough importance, there is no reason why the family practice shouldn’t continue as the name of Gratian slowly got italianized into Graziani. It’s just very rare to have some sort of independent confirmation. Not rational and police-like enough for you?”

“No.”

“Thought not. But effective enough to find the icon, nonetheless.”

“Assuming it’s there.”

“It’ll be there. How are you going to deal with its reappearance?”

Father Paul shrugged. “I can’t say where it was, because that would involve explaining how it got there, which would be a pity. So maybe the best thing would be just to put it back.”

“And I will have to make out a report,” Flavia said.

“Oh,” Father Paul said with disappointment. “Do you have to?”

“Of course I have to. We can’t just have the thing turn up.”

“Why not?” Argyll asked.

“What do you think, why not?”

“Well, if you make out a report, then you also have to say that Signora Graziani stole it, that Xavier had planned to sell it illegally, that the order had got itself up to the eyes in debt. Lots of scandal, just as Father Paul here is taking over, poor fellow. Then whoever shot Charanis might come back for the real thing. Whereas if we quietly put it back, and were as surprised as anyone that it was there tomorrow morning, then you could forget about the whole thing. Apart, of course, from putting it around that it was probably a copy to replace the lost original or a piece of tiresome absent-mindedness on the part of the monastery. Then everybody would be happy and you could have the weekend off and we could go away for a few days.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes while Flavia turned this over in her mind. “I’m not happy.”

“If I were asking you to surrender a great success that would bring credit on the department, then I would never dream of suggesting it. But it’s really just a scruffy painting that went missing for a few days. No big deal, really. Then you could make out that the Charanis business was nothing to do with your department at all.”

“Well …”

“Why don’t you ask Bottando when he comes back tomorrow morning? Get him to decide.”

She thought again. “Oh, very well. It’s got to go somewhere, I suppose.”

“It was there?” Bottando asked.

“In a packet of washing powder. Non-biological. Quite undamaged. What do we do now?”

“I think your Jonathan has the right idea,” Bottando said, swinging in his chair as he listened to Flavia finish her account of the previous evening. “Minimize our involvement. There is a time, you will discover, to advertise our activities, and a time to keep your head down. Let’s keep it all as undramatic as possible, shall we?”

“Undramatic?” Flavia said incredulously. “I’ve just had Father Paul on the phone. That icon’s reappearance has triggered a major religious revival. It was bad enough before, but when it turned up overnight, the entire neighbourhood went crazy. Father Paul ordered the doors opened and a mass celebrated and they had two hundred people in there. Standing room only. More people than they’ve had since the cholera epidemic in the nineteenth century.”

“Not a police matter,” Bottando said mildly. “I have always been of the opinion that people get the miracles they deserve. As these things go, this is a perfectly agreeable one. Besides, it will make them look after it more carefully. is Jonathan right about what this thing is?”

She nodded. “Possibly. I haven’t seen any of the evidence and you know how he gets carried away sometimes. But it is perfectly possible.”

“In that case it will be very much better if it is kept out of circulation. Better that it should work miracles in Rome than around the Black Sea. So leave it be. Are the carabinieri content? They’re not going to cause a squall?”

“The man responsible is dead, so they’re happy to close the book.”

“That’s good. I’m glad. Now, more important matters; have you decided what you are going to do?”

Flavia took a deep breath, and nodded.

“And?”

“I’ll stay here and run this place.”

Bottando beamed. “I’m so glad. I would have hated to hand over to anyone else. You’ll do wonderfully. By far the best person.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Oh, yes. You just have to learn a few tricks of the policing business. Like lying, cheating, that sort of thing. I’ll be around, after all. You can consult me whenever you want. After all, I will still be nominally in charge.”

And he smiled fondly at her. “Thank you,” he said.

Flavia grinned back. “Thank you. Would it be setting the wrong tone if I started by taking the weekend off?”

“You can do whatever you want.”

“Advice?”

“I think it would set the tone perfectly. Go away and refresh yourself. As long as you have a really good time.”

And she left, shaking his hand, then giving him a kiss on the cheek as well. She could have sworn there was a slight moisture in his eye as she left.

Because Flavia had been in a hurry to get to the office to see Bottando, she’d left the apartment early. Because of that, she’d missed the post. Because of that, she missed the last detail as well.

Argyll, in contrast, caught it all, mainly because of his idle habits and insistence on greeting each new day in a slow and methodical fashion. Up, coffee, shower, coffee, newspaper, coffee, toast. After the second coffee he went out to get the paper and collected the mail on the way back in. Two bills, one circular and a thick white envelope in an unfamiliar hand. Being a believer in getting the bad news out of the way first, he opened this last. Inside was a key and a short note with the heading Rome Airport.

Argyll read it through twice, thought it over, and ended by grinning broadly. He had a strong suspicion that the woman had planned to take the money herself, but her hurried exit from Rome made it impossible to collect. So she had turned necessity into graciousness. Quite neat. He looked at his watch, and started up. It was twenty-five to eleven. He might just make it with a bit of luck and if he didn’t wait to tell Flavia.

He walked out of the apartment to give final proof to Father Paul that miracles do indeed happen.