Death and Restoration (11 page)

“No. That’s kind. But I have to get back to San Giovanni.”

“Oh-ho. That’s courageous of you. Did you know Menzies is working there?”’

“I did.”

“The Also Capone of restoration? I’d be careful. There was a terribly funny article about him in the paper this morning …”

“I saw it.”

“Did you? Goodness, how I laughed. I wonder who wrote it. You saw it was anonymous, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“I’d steer clear if I were you. I wouldn’t like to be the person who supplied all that information to the press, either. He has a violent streak, has Menzies. Did you hear of the time he was addressing the art restorers’ annual bash in Toronto? About four years ago?”’

“Can’t say I did,” Argyll replied cautiously.

“Burckhardt had the temerity to question a fluid he was using. Very polite, merely in the spirit of enquiry. They came to blows, in fact, Menzies threw a glass at him.”

“During the conference?”’

“Not in the actual hall, no. That would have been entertaining. But in the bar afterwards. Very dramatic. I’m sorry I missed it, really; probably the high point of the evening. Vicious bunch, art restorers. Cut-throat, you know. They had a return match the other day. Didn’t actually hit each other, alas.”

“Oh?”’

“He was gawping at his restoring, and Menzies all but threw him out. Amazing. He told me about it at dinner. That’s why I thought of it.”

“Who did?”’

“Burckhardt.”

“Who is this Burckhardt?”’

“Burckhardt? The Burckhardt.”

Argyll shook his head.

“And I thought you were once an art dealer. Peter Burckhardt. Of Galeries Burckhardt.”

“Oh,” said Argyll humbly. “That Burckhardt.”

He told Flavia about it over the minestrone.

“Who?”’

Argyll looked at her scornfully. “And I thought you were meant to keep your finger on the pulse. The Peter Burckhardt. Only the oldest and canniest icon man in the business. He virtually sets prices. Icons are worth what he says they’re worth.”

“You know this man?”’

He shook his head. “Only by reputation. Which is very good. He’s an Alsatian, I think. French, really.”

“Where does he hang out?”’

“Paris. He operates in the Faubourg St-Honore. Has done for decades, I think.”

“And he’s in Rome.”

“Apparently. So this man I was talking to said. And had a run-in with Menzies. They had a spat a year or so ago and it still rankles. Something about fluids.”

Flavia ate a spoonful of soup and thought it over. “So we have a dealer who specializes in icons in the church a day or so ago. The order decides not to sell any of its possessions and the icon gets stolen. What does that indicate to you?”’

“That you should forget Caravaggio and think Orthodox. And ask Menzies why he didn’t mention this. And examine Peter Burckhardt’s luggage. On the other hand, he is terribly respectable. I mean seriously. It’s possible he might turn a blind eye to an icon with a dubious past; he’d have to. It’s almost impossible to get hold of any which aren’t a bit shady. But actually stealing things himself …”

Flavia nodded thoughtfully. “I wonder if he knows Mary Verney.”

“He tries to buy it, is turned down, so goes on to his reserve line of attack?”’

“That sort of thing.”

“I thought you said they hadn’t received any offers?”’

“So I did. What a pity. Nonetheless, I suppose I’d better find this man. Give me something to do. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t want you to get bored, after all. Any other progress?”’

She grinned. “Thanks to Alberto’s persistent questioning, yes. We have our culprit. A pity she’s on the run.”

Alberto smiled back, a little half-heartedly.

“Well done,” Argyll said enthusiastically. “Who was it?”’

“The Virgin Mary. We have a witness.”

“What?”’

Flavia explained. Argyll shook his head seriously.

“No. It doesn’t sound right to me. I mean, the face. You can always tell by the face. Does that painting have a violent face? It does not. I think,” Argyll said definitively, “that someone is trying to stitch her up.”

“You reckon?”’

“I do. Have you figured out what Father Xavier was doing in the chapel?”’

“Do priests need a reason? Probably keeping a late-night vigil to pray for guidance, or something. There seem to be squalls. Not a happy little order, in fact. Either that or I frightened him so much about the possible raid that he was keeping a vigil.”

“Have you considered Mary Verney here?”’

She nodded. “How could I not? But he was hit with some force, and that doesn’t really seem like her, somehow. But I may be wrong, so we’ll have her in anyway, see what she’s been up to. Where are you going now?”’

“Back to work.”

“You couldn’t get some shopping, could you? I’m not going to have a minute.”

Argyll sighed. “Do you promise to eat it this time?”’

She nodded. “Promise.”

“In that case, I suppose I could manage. As long as you don’t expect anything complicated.”

Mary Verney spent the hours before lunch looking at paintings; it was a way of calming herself down after an alarming morning. Now she had largely given up stealing them, she discovered she quite liked the things, although old habits, she found, died hard. When she came across a particularly delightful specimen, such as the small Fra Angelico she was looking at now, she was hard put to avoid checking for wiring, and wondering how securely the windows were fastened. But, as it was now three—no, nearly four—years since she had worked, such thoughts were becoming more abstract; she liked retirement and had no desire whatsoever to emerge from it. She disliked intensely those foolish people—thieves or football players, politicians or boxers—who could not believe the world could survive without them and who refused to acknowledge that they, like everyone else, were at the mercy of time. No fool like an old fool, and Mary Verney had never, ever, been a fool.

But perhaps she was turning into one. She hadn’t slept either, although she explained this by the fact that she really needed to be careful over the next few days. She needed to examine San Giovanni, but simply couldn’t run the risk of being seen there.

It was for this reason that she not only left the hotel by the back entrance, but also did so at six in the morning. Nothing to do with not being able to sleep. The principle was sound: firstly she doubted that the police would keep up an all-night vigil for her sake; secondly she had a very much greater chance of spotting someone following her when the streets were all but deserted.

On the other hand, the buses were few and far between and she didn’t want to take a taxi. So she had to walk. A lovely walk; one she would have greatly enjoyed in other circumstances, but this morning her mind wasn’t on the dawn coming up over the Forum, or the Palatine dark against the lightening sky. Another beautiful day, it seemed, but so what? She was busy. All she wanted to do was examine the street, the locks on the building, side alleys and so on. Nothing fancy or detailed. A preliminary survey only, for the moment next week when she’d have to go to work.

So, like Argyll and Flavia before her, she walked slowly up the road leading to the monastery, checking distances, mentally noting which side streets were one way, which led nowhere and which gave out on to main roads. Noted the refuse collectors up the road, and made a note to see if they always turned up at the same time. Then the monastery itself; the high wall, the carefully locked door. Round the back there was a grim little alley with only a few, small windows, and these with thick bars over them. Burglary was nothing new in Rome, it seemed. They may not have had alarms and searchlights in the sixteenth century, but they did their best. And quite effective it was too. However she was going to get this picture for that damnable man, it wasn’t going to be by athletic means. Just as well. She hated that sort of thing. Her original scheme would have to stand.

But as she walked back to the main street and walked past the monastery one last time, she began to revise her plans. Luckily she was on the opposite side of the road, otherwise she might have been seen. It wouldn’t have mattered as he didn’t know who she was, but best to keep things simple. She tucked herself away in the entrance of a block of flats and watched carefully.

He was hurrying along, dressed unremarkably but carrying over his right shoulder a brown canvas bag, which he clutched tightly to his body. Mary Verney observed this with interest, and saw with some alarm that he walked straight up the steps to the main entrance of the church itself, pushed on the door and went in. A compact man, with dark curly hair, sports jacket, glasses.

It didn’t take a great genius to realize that he was not there by chance, and that he knew the door would be open. Which it surely shouldn’t be; who leaves doors open all night these days? Mary Verney was seized with a wave of panic. Something else was beginning to go badly wrong. She felt it in her bones. If it did, then all her plans would collapse. And Mikis would carry out his threat about her granddaughter. She knew him well enough for that. She had managed to keep it at the back of her mind most of the time, but this sudden development brought it all painfully close. She walked forward quickly, crossed the road and began mounting the steps to the church. She had no idea what she was going to do in there, but she had to do something.

She was almost at the door and a few seconds later would have bumped into the man coming out again. He was pale and nervous, and looked as though he had had a bad fright. He almost ran down the steps, half tripped and dropped the bag. It fell on the hard stone with a soft thud, and he scooped it up quickly before hurrying off up the street.

She thought quickly, then decided. Something wasn’t right. She quickly walked into the church and looked around. It took a few seconds for her eyes to get used to the darkness, and then she saw a figure lying on the ground. It was an old man, a priest, with a bad wound to his head; the blood was dripping out of the cut.

He was conscious, but only barely. She kneeled down beside him. “What happened?”’

He moaned softly, and tried to shake his head. With surprising gentleness, she stopped him, cradling him gently in her hands. “What happened?”’

“The picture … He …”

“Who? Who is he?”’

“Burckhardt. He’ll …”

Then he was unconscious. She knelt down to look at him more closely, then stood up to avoid getting blood on her. “Don’t struggle or move,” she said softly as she loosened his clothing and tried to staunch the bleeding. “It’ll be all right. I’ll make sure.”

And nothing else to be done for him at the moment. She glanced up and saw the empty frame of the icon, and ran out of the church again. She was afraid she’d lost him, but after a few minutes saw his distinctive figure standing still, consulting a map.

Thank God for irrational Roman street-planning, she thought as she slowed down and took up her station a hundred yards or so behind him.

“We are nervous, aren’t we?”’ she thought. “But make up your mind. Where are you going, little man?”’

Then he was off, down the via Albina, then crossed the little park leading to the pyramid and the Porta San Paolo. Here he consulted his map again, then crossed the square into the little railway station. Mary followed at a discreet distance. It had finally clicked; should have done the minute she heard the name. Eggs and Bacon. Icons and Burckhardt. Of course.

But again, he changed his mind, came out and started walking round the back and into the Ostiense station which was already disgorging the first commuters of the day on to the streets. This time he was more decisive. He walked into the grim entrance, and straight across to the left-luggage compartments. Fumbled in his pockets for some coins, and threw his bag into one of the lockers. Shut it, removed the key, and put it in his pocket.

He found a taxi outside and she let him go; there was no point in following him any more, and walked across the road to a bar. Half an hour should do it, she thought, just to be safe. But first, a little humanitarianism. She rang for an ambulance.

Not the police and not the Art Squad; that would have been too obvious. Doing as good an impression as she could manage of a Roman accent, she reported an accident in the church of San Giovanni and rang off before they could ask any more questions. Seven-forty. Conscience salved. Time for a large, frothy cappuccino and a pastry, sitting down at the back. She was certain that in that bag, in that left-luggage compartment, lay the solution to her problem. She might even be on the plane home this afternoon.

At ten past eight she walked back to the station, straight over to the manager’s office.

“Bon jorno,” she said in an execrable accent. “Ho un problem. Difficulty. Understand?”’ She smiled inanely as she twittered. The man on duty, used to the occasional idiocies of tourists, sighed heavily and smiled pleasantly. He was in a good mood. One more shift and he was off on holiday. It was something he’d been planning all year, and he was eager to get going. The challenge of a lifetime.

“Yes?”’

“Baggage? Left luggage. Um, Consigno? Lost the key.” She made suitable movements with her hand to indicate someone turning a key in a lock. “Big problem.” And smiled sweetly again.

The man frowned, and bit by bit they worked out between them what was the matter, he straining to understand the verbal nonsense she spouted, she trying to avoid using the Italian words she knew all too well.

“Ah. You have lost the key to your left-luggage locker. Is that it?”’

She nodded enthusiastically, took out a piece of paper and scribbled the number to hold up to him. “C37,” she said.

“What’s in it? You have to say. Otherwise how do we know it’s yours?”’

She delayed a reasonable time about understanding this, waving what she hoped would be mistaken for a plane ticket to indicate how desperately late she was for a flight. Eventually she condescended to understand and, successfully giving the impression that she was outraged at anyone doubting her honesty in the matter, waved her hands some more.

“Bag,” she said. “Case. Sack?”’