Death and Restoration (20 page)

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. There 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 room 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.”

He came back, and Father Charles, face suffused with excitement, leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

“For the past six months, I have been negotiating the reunification of Christianity. East and west will come together again and act as one. It is a miracle; Christendom will be stronger and more powerful than ever before. I had a sign that day, in the Church of Holy Wisdom, before the walls fell. It was too late then, our contrition, but I knew my task, and I am close to completing it. Callixtus and I, we have reached agreement; he will put his whole weight behind the enterprise. And the first the infidel know of this will be when I appear once more before the walls of Constantinople, at the head of an army of French and German and even English knights. They will be overpowered and swept away.”

“And until everything is ready, you will hide here, pretending to be Brother Angelus? Is that the idea?”’

He nodded slyly. “Good, eh? With only my servant Gratian, who would suspect I would live in such reduced circum stances? Lull them into a false sense of security. And all the while my secret emissaries and those of his Holiness cross Europe, weaving a net to catch the infidel in so tightly he will never escape until he is exterminated utterly. So, now you see the need for the utmost secrecy. Do you see?”’

“Of course. But such a secret cannot last forever.”

“It won’t have to. There is little time. His Holiness is behind the plan wholeheartedly, but he is old and sick. And a faction at his court is opposed, and want to exploit my weakness. Another reason for secrecy. We must strike fast and hard.”